The Empress's Tomb (38 page)

To her eternal credit, the principal didn't blink. “Which ones?” she asked.

“Odalisque in Grisaille
and
Venus and Adonis.”

“How interesting. I had an opportunity to view the forgeries this morning. Mr. Hunt, the museum's director, is an old friend of mine. The anamorphosis in those two paintings is very impressive indeed. But I must confess. I've long been familiar with your art, Mr. Parker. In fact, I have one of your paintings at home. An early work, I believe. It was a gift from the parents of one of my pupils. I haven't been able to display it, however. It's much too sad.”

“Is it from the zoo series?” I asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. It's a painting of a rather beleaguered panda. May I ask what your inspiration was, Mr. Parker?”

“One of my parents' patients,” Kaspar admitted.

“That's why I was hoping you could help him,” I said. “He can't stay in Central Park, but he can't go home, either. His mom and dad are nuts.”

“Ananka!” Kaspar blushed.

“It's true, isn't it?” I demanded.

“I see.” When Principal Wickham raised her eyebrow, she looked like an elderly Kiki Strike. “It just so happens that I'm having lunch with a former Atalanta student today. She's a rather well-known artist, and she owns a small art academy outside of the city. She was with me this morning at the museum and judging by her reaction to your work, I believe she might be persuaded to offer you a scholarship, Mr. Parker. Would you mind waiting here while I have a word with Ananka's parents? I should be finished in a few minutes, and then, if you're not busy, perhaps you could join my friend and me for lunch.”

“See?” I whispered to Kaspar as Principal Wickham rang the buzzer. “You've just got to know when to tell the truth.”

•     •     •

“Ananka!” my mother yelped when she opened door. “Where have you been?”

“Ananka?” My father's head popped out of the living room, and then he sprinted down the hall. Both my parents smothered me with hugs, and several minutes passed before they realized that Principal Wickham was watching.

“You must have brought her home.” My mother's voice was cracking with emotion. “I can't tell you how grateful we are. Where on earth did you find her?”

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art,” the principal replied.

My father gulped as my mother's face turned to stone. “You went back there?” she growled.

“Perhaps we should talk,” Principal Wickham said calmly. “Would you mind if we have a seat?”

Like every first-time visitor to our home, Principal Wickham marveled at my parents' library. Unlike most adult visitors, however, she didn't seem nervous walking past the precariously balanced stacks of books that lined every wall.

“I can understand why Ananka hasn't been interested in her schoolwork,” she said. “Your daughter could receive a wonderful education by simply staying home.” She took a seat on the sofa and peered down at the newspapers on the coffee table.

ART HEIST FOILED BY FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD! cried the
Post.

ANCIENT MUMMY FOUND IN MANSION! shrieked the
Daily News.

My eyes lingered on a headline on the front page of the
New York Times.
VERUSHKA KOZLOVA PRESUMED DEAD, DOCTOR'S INCOMPETENCE MIGHT BE TO BLAME. I forced back a smile. The previous night I'd heard Kiki on the phone before I drifted off to sleep in my makeshift bed on Oona's floor. Apparently she'd managed to kill off Verushka and get her revenge on Dr. Pritchard with one quick call.

“Have you read today's papers?” the principal asked my parents.

“We've been a little preoccupied,” my father said.

“I think you might want to take a look.” The principal pointed to the cover of the
New York Post.
The photo showed Oona behind the podium at the gala. “Recognize anyone?”

“That's Ananka's friend!” my mother gasped. “The one who's always picking our locks!”

“Take a closer look,” the principal advised. In the background of the picture stood a geeky girl in a terrible dress. I barely recognized myself.

“Ananka?” My father looked as if he might collapse. “Is that
you?”

I waited too long to speak.

“I can't help you if you won't help yourself,” Principal Wickham warned.

“It is,” I admitted.

“That's where I found her,” the principal informed my parents. “I was a guest at the gala. Your daughter and her
friends foiled the largest art heist in the history of the Metropolitan Museum.”

My parents gaped at me as if I were a visitor from a distant planet. I knew their brains were busy reassessing everything that had happened over the past three months.

“Why don't you explain how it happened,” Principal Wickham urged me. “I'm quite curious to hear for myself.”

“Well, I guess it started with the giant squirrels …,” I began. I told them about everything. The kidnapped Taiwanese kids, Lester Liu and the hungry ghost, Kaspar's disappearance. I skipped only one part of the story—the Shadow City. Keeping one secret wasn't going to kill anyone.

“That's why you kept sneaking out of the house?” my father asked.

“And falling asleep during class?” my mother added.

“And running away?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” I said. “I apologize for lying to you, but I had to help my friends. I couldn't go to West Virginia before everything was settled.”

My father snuck a look at my mother.

“We weren't going to send you to the Borland Academy.” He sighed. “We just wanted to scare some sense into you. Your mother was convinced you were well on your way to becoming a juvenile delinquent, and to be quite honest, I didn't know what to think.”

“I—I—
all right,
that's true,” my mother said. “I'm willing to admit I was wrong. I just wish you'd confided in us. If nothing else, we might have been able to help. You're only fourteen years old, Ananka, and you have to
trust us to know what's best sometimes. And even if you
are
some kind of girl detective, I won't let you neglect your education. With all the time you've missed, I wouldn't be surprised if you fail most of your classes this semester.”

“I thought you might be concerned about that, Mrs. Fishbein,” said Principal Wickham. “That's why I came along today. Every year, I choose one promising Atalanta freshman to be my personal protégé. This year, I've chosen Ananka. Her predecessors have gone on to become some of the most accomplished women in the country. I believe your daughter may have the same potential.”

“You do?” My mother pressed one hand to her heart as if she were expecting the organ to sputter to a stop.

“I do. I also want to assure you that Ananka will be allowed to make up all the work from the classes she's missed. With a little tutoring, she should end the year with reasonable grades. In fact, she's already earned an A in one class.”

“I have?” I asked.

“Yes. In light of your remarkable discovery, Mr. Dedly has seen fit to grant you an A in your New York history class.”

“What kind of discovery?” my mother asked as if nothing could surprise her any longer.

At some point in your life, you will end up on television. Perhaps you'll be celebrated for your contributions to mankind. Or maybe you'll be captured slinking across the roof of a Monte Carlo hotel with a pocketful of stolen diamonds. Whatever the case, you'll want to be sure that you're
ready for the cameras. These days, if you embarrass yourself on television, even your grandchildren may never live it down.

To avoid a dry mouth that will leave you licking your lips like a thirsty cow, have a little something to drink before you go on camera. But make sure it's not carbonated, unless you intend to belch for your viewers. Also, you should try to eat beforehand, or your microphone may pick up the sound of your stomach rumbling. But be sure to avoid bean-based dishes.

This probably doesn't need to be told to anyone whose name isn't Britney.

If you want to shine for the cameras, do it with your personality, not your clothing or jewelry. Sparkling stones and noisy bangles will drive your camera crew nuts. Wear a brightly colored shirt and you'll look so washed-out that people will wonder if you have a life-threatening disease. And stripes and wild prints can confuse the camera and turn your outfit into an unflattering blur.

Whether you're accepting an award or pleading your innocence, you'll want to be comfortable. Wear clothes that you know fit well and flatter your figure. The last thing you want is to look bloated, lumpy, or in pain.

Television lights are hot enough to melt even the coolest characters. So take along some tissues and a powder puff if you want to avoid looking like you've been dipped in baby oil. And choose clothing that can help hide or prevent any dreaded pit stains.

This has nothing to do with vanity. Makeup on camera is a necessity if you don't want to resemble an ailing zombie. (This goes for males as well as
females.) But choose more subtle shades, and stay away from lip gloss and eye shadow that shine or sparkle—or no one will take you seriously.

Even if your heel breaks, your dress rips, or a bug flies straight into your mouth, never lose your cool. You'll just turn a mediocre TV blooper into a classic.

The package arrived one week after the showdown at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Tucked inside was a block of extra-sharp cheddar, a letter, and a picture of a mud-splattered Molly Donovan astride a fierce giant sow. One of her hands gripped a golden trophy. A banner in the background read
Borland Academy's Fifth Annual Pig Rodeo.

Dear Ananka
,

Don't get excited—it's just a second-place trophy. I've been at Borland for only a week, but I'm so happy Principal Wickham recommended it. There's a guy in my class who likes to set fires when no one's looking and a girl who thinks she's a vampire. (Really fascinating people once you get to know them.) They're the
special
ones here. Everybody's so busy with the fire alarms and bloodsucking that no one pays any attention to me at all
.

Anyway, I never got a chance to thank you in person, so I've named my pig in your honor. If she's still around next year, we should take first prize at the rodeo. If not, I'll send you some pork chops!

Molly

As happy as I was for Molly, I was sorry to lose her. Atalanta had been far too quiet since she'd been expelled. I put her cheese in the refrigerator and checked my outfit in the hall mirror. Tweed skirt, tall brown boots, and a cute little coat. I'd spent hours searching for the right outfit. Principal Wickham had said there would be newspaper and television cameras, and I had no intention of being a fashion victim twice in one week.

“You look very nice, Ananka,” my father said. He and my mother were waiting for me by the door, both dressed in their best clothes.

“Nice?” I winced.

“Your father meant to say that you've struck the perfect balance of stylish and nerdy.” My mother laughed. “Now come on, or we're going to be late.”

•     •     •

We passed our first giant squirrel at the corner of Bowery and Delancey. The charming creature with fluffy red fur and a tender expression was painted on the brick wall of a condemned building. The sign in his hands said I'LL BE BACK! The second squirrel drove past on the back of a delivery van. An adorable gray rodent, it held up a banner that read DON'T FORGET ME! By the time my parents and I reached the Lower East Side, we'd encountered more
than a dozen rodents. For days, New Yorkers had been speculating about the meaning of the squirrels' messages. Many believed that the vigilante was leaving Manhattan now that his work was done. Lester Liu's imprisonment and the destruction of his Fu-Tsang smuggling ring had stopped the flow of endangered animals into the city, and thanks to Adam Gunderson's shocking exposé of the Tasty Treasures company, there'd be no more baby cobras on the city's menus. But only the Irregulars knew the true meaning of the squirrels' signs. Kaspar had been granted a scholarship to art school. Since getting the news, he'd spent every night decorating the city as a goodbye gift for Betty.

When we reached Bialystoker Synagogue, we found people streaming into the squat stone building. Principal Wickham was waiting for me outside on the sidewalk.

“Good morning,” she greeted us. “I'm pleased to see that you brought your parents, Ananka, but where are your friends?”

“We've decided it's best if we aren't seen together in public for a little while,” I told her. “We don't want any more attention.”

“Ah,” said the principal. “Well then, perhaps you can pass along some information when you next see them. I received a call from Mr. Hunt, the director of the museum, this morning. There's been a discovery regarding the Empress's mummy.”

“We tried to be careful with her!” I blurted.

“The mummy isn't damaged. All things considered, she's in wonderful shape. No, what I meant to say is that the Empress may finally be exonerated.”

“Exonerated?” my father asked.

“She's been called a traitor for the past two thousand years. But now it seems that might not be the case at all. When the museum's experts claimed the body, they found it wrapped in a piece of fabric covered with ancient writing. It was a message that had been smuggled into the coffin by one of the Empress's servants. Apparently the poor girl didn't take to life at court and tried to escape before she could be married to the Emperor's son. She didn't commit treason; she only wanted to go home. When she was captured, the Emperor had her poisoned and buried alive. Of course the experts want further evidence, but the museum has already performed some tests on the mummy and found the presence of a toxic substance in her body.”