Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
They’ll never, ever stop. Not until he’s dead.
“Lacey? Are you all right?” Mr. Blomqvist comes to see what I’m staring at. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I flinch. For a moment I’d forgotten he was there.
“Yes. Sorry. I’m really cold suddenly. Excuse me.”
I hurry up the stairs and back into the sunlit entrance hall of the museum, and realize I didn’t even thank Mr. Blomqvist for what he showed me.
Chapter Seven
Stian
I look at the jar for several minutes, wondering what about it made Lacey so distracted. It’s a perfectly ordinary Greek vase.
Or is it?
I peer closer at the scene and see that it depicts the Fates. The gods could be vengeful, but there’s something sadistic about these women and the way they’re pursuing this wrongdoer. I know the stories. Nothing will save him but the release of death. Not repentance, not Nazar beads, not Medusa carvings.
I put the gorgoneion away and head back upstairs.
There are emails to be got through and updates from my colleagues about everything from the audio descriptions for the exhibition right down to the intensity of the downlights over the Laxos Disc. I like to be across everything before an exhibition opens. Some things deserve to be perfect.
Every now and then my gaze is drawn from my computer screen to the window, and I look without seeing the sunny day outside. Lacey’s questions have made me introspective, and I find myself thinking back over the pattern of my life, trying to pick where I’ve ever chosen the path of least resistance. I could have stayed in Sweden and worked with Scandinavian antiquities. I could have worked with Scandinavian antiquities here, also. But no, I had to emigrate to another country, learn a whole new language, and diversify my knowledge across the world’s civilizations.
Then there’s Lacey. I had a terrible first impression of her, and she was rude to me in the interview. The sensible thing would have been to send her away and hire a temp to handle admin while I searched for a permanent assistant, yet despite her being risky and unpredictable, she impressed me. She answered my questions in exactly the way I was hoping a potential assistant would, and she remained calm and firm despite how I’d shouted at her.
Four years ago, when I was thirty-five, I became director of my own museum. Lacey has been the best assistant I’ve ever had. I take risks, but only when I’m sure that they’ll pay off.
I notice that it’s nearly six o’clock, shut down my computer and head home.
That evening I’m meeting a friend at the pub on the common for a drink, but I have a few spare hours first. I change into jeans and a T-shirt and go into the garden to check on my bonsai. I rotate them between my office, the greenhouse, and this paved outdoor space to keep them healthy. All the watering happens first thing in the morning but in the evenings I like to prune, repot, and do any other complicated care they require.
My pride right now is a pink azalea in boisterous bloom. Azaleas can grow into large shrubs, but this one is twisted into an elegant slanted style, and is small and beautifully formed.
“And so very pretty,” I murmur, running a forefinger over a delicate blossom.
God. I can’t remember the last time I spoke so lovingly to a woman. My mind is still on Lacey, and I imagine speaking so indulgently to her. Maybe while she’s on her knees. At my feet. Naked, while I viciously grip her ponytail. Because sometimes you have to be fierce to get the best out of someone, in the same way I brutally pruned back this azalea. And now look at her.
“Beautiful,” I murmur to the plant.
The azalea doesn’t need my attention, so I turn to the double-trunk cherry that is overdue for a repotting and spend an hour pruning its roots and fitting it carefully into a larger pot. The next-door neighbor’s cat leaps down from the fence to land silently on the lawn, and watches me for a while with bright green eyes.
The evening is warm and breezy, the wind occasionally ruffling my hair into my eyes. This part of Greater London, on the south side of Wimbledon Common, is very peaceful.
At a quarter to eight, I wash my hands, change into a blue and white striped shirt, and walk down to the pub. Adam has secured a table out back, so I head through to the bar and order a couple of pints.
When I’m sitting down, he regales me with stories from his trip to Turkey, and I tell him about Eric’s graceless exit from my office.
“What a little shit,” Adam says with a shake of his head.
“Tell me about it,” I agree, taking a long pull on my beer. I never got a taste for the darker ales favored by the English, so I have a pint of Krušovice instead.