The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (40 page)

“No, Mr. Worchansky,” I cut in. “We are interested in what you know about them. My necklace was passed down through generations, though I’m not aware of its origins. We were hoping that you might have some history on the cufflinks, which appear to be part of the same set.”

Charles remained silent, studying Worchansky carefully.

“It is knowledge that you seek?” the older man asked. “I have spent my life acquiring and learning about each piece that I own. A life’s work that you ask for as plainly as a telephone number.”

“I apologize,” I said quickly. “When it comes to—”

Whipping his cane through the air with impressive speed, Worchansky cut me off and pointed to a statue between two of the windows.

“A Michelangelo. I won it in a card game in my twenties from Viscount Mordimore.” The cane made a whizzing sound as Worchansky found his next target. “That Rembrandt painting—the dowry for my third son’s wife, Eleanora. Born on the wrong side of the blanket, she was still her father’s favorite child.” Worchansky scoffed. “And yet, he was more reticent to part with the painting than his daughter.” Another crack of the cane. “You see the bauble in that case? It has been called many names: The Heart of Lyons, The Raven’s Eye, The Diamond Noose, The Scarlet Death.” The old man stopped to catch his breath.

“You forgot the earliest moniker,” I said, seizing the opportunity. “The Sorcerer’s Prize.”

The folds of skin around Worchansky’s eyes crinkled, pleased with my knowledge of ancient artifacts.

You have no idea, old man,
I thought wryly.

“The lore alone makes its worth unattainable for most any man,” I continued.

“Cardinal Wolsey gave it to Anne Boleyn when she gave birth to her daughter,” Worchansky added conversationally, the derision wiped from his voice and replaced by intrigue.

I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I was positive he was testing me. And the fate of the items we’d come to see depended on my performance.

“The daughter, Queen Elizabeth the first, gave the necklace to Mary Queen of Scots as a goodwill gesture. Before later imprisoning her, of course,” I volleyed.

Worchansky’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, but he quickly recovered his composure. Feeling smug that I’d managed to surprise him with my trivia, I took a moment too long to realize my mistake. The questionably legitimate daughter of Henry VIII and his ill-fated second wife was still known in this time simply as ‘Queen Elizabeth’. The second Queen Elizabeth was not yet born in 1925, and wouldn’t be the heir apparent for quite some time.

“—a wedding present to the Archduchess Maria von Habsburg-Lothringen from King Louis XV,” Worchansky was saying. Evidently, he’d dismissed my remark as a mistake by an American who was confused as to how monarchs were named.

“History, of course, knows her better as Marie Antoinette,” I chimed in automatically, glancing self-assuredly towards Charles. I was acing Worchansky’s test, and a part of me wondered if my companion was impressed.

I was startled to find that the color had drained from Charles’s face, which was devoid of expression. He’d grown mute during my téte-a-téte with Worchansky. His hands were clutched in fists at his sides, gripped so tightly that his fingernails were likely digging half-moons into his palms.

Had Worchansky’s comment about money really insulted him that much?
I wondered.

In his defense, the old man had no way of knowing that Charles was exceedingly wealthy. Without the gaudy trappings of the nouveau riche, he looked like any other young man about town.

“Yes, Marie Antoinette, the Austrian who was meant to unite her country with France by marrying the dauphin,” Worchansky picked up. “Instead, she suffered the grimmest fate of all.”

“A royalist smuggled the necklace out of France after her death, because he thought it was too beautiful, too valuable, and had too much history to be destroyed by Robespierre,” I replied without missing a beat, though my attention was divided in too many ways to count.

“His name was Albert Bonneville—” Worchansky started to say.

I held up a finger.

“
Her
name was
Alberta
Bonneville,” I corrected with a triumphant grin. “She dressed as a man and helped smuggle French royalists to safety.”

Worchansky shook his head wonderingly.

“The stone changed hands many times after that, eventually ending up in mine through a private auction,” he finished the tale. “It is one of my most prized acquisitions.”

Pride shone brightly in Worchansky’s eyes as a deep sadness filled me. The thought that this man, who loved history as much as any historian on Cyrus’s payroll, would never experience some of the most turbulent, fascinating times yet to come…it broke my heart. Part of me wanted to tell him the rest of the jewel’s history, though I knew it was impossible.

Centuries from now, when your bones are dust and your soul is finally at rest, it will change hands again and again,
I thought, mentally reciting it as if he might hear and understand.
Later known as the Black Ruby of Shanghai, it will be a gift from China’s Prime Minister to American president Livia LeCroix at a global summit in Cameroon. This gesture will serve as a symbol of the Chinese-American alliance post-World War III.

Five hundred years from now, it will be one of seven enumerated items banned for retrieval by all five syndicates. It is one of the few sacred pieces that belongs within history.

“Mr. Worchansky, if I may ask, what is your point?” Charles interjected, becoming restless beside me. His words pulled me from my musings. I shot him a pointed look, a silent chastisement for his rudeness.

Worchansky’s gaze frosted over as it transferred to my sulky companion.

“My point, young man, is this: all of the objects in this room tell a story. They have history that began long before I was born, and their legacies will continue long after I die. This makes them more valuable than I can say. The cufflinks you have come for also have a story, and I have not heard it yet. Until I do, there is nothing you can offer me in exchange.”

Worchansky settled back in his chair and surveyed the room’s possessions lovingly. He’d mentioned a son earlier, but the items in that room were his real babies, his legacy.

Inhaling deeply, I made a decision. I made the offer before the logical part of my brain could stop me.

“What if I find out their story?” I asked.

The old man quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.

“I will learn where they came from, who owned them, and whatever else you like,” I continued, my desperation coming through loud and clear. “All I ask is to see them today, and for you to share any information you do have. In exchange, I promise to return with the answers you seek.”

Worchansky drew back. I feared he was going to refuse me.

Charles placed a hand between my shoulder blades, trying to quiet the anxiety inside of me. He threaded the fingers of his free hand with mine and squeezed.

“Mr. Worchansky, sir, I am sure there is some agreement we can reach,” Charles said, his tone turning deferential.

Apparently, witnessing the depths of my despair had affected him. When I met Charles’s gaze, I saw determination. He would stop at nothing to help me. He wanted answers, too. The adoption story would remain a questionable point in his history without them. Somehow, with just the appearance of a pocket watch, Charles had become as wrapped up in my quest as I was.

Worchansky’s focus remained on me.

“I am an old man, Ms. Prince. Eighty-two next month. My heart is bad. My lungs are worse. How do I know you will learn the story before I die?”

I held his gaze. “I give you my word.”

After all, even if it took my entire lifetime to learn the story, I could return to him before his death.

Silence hung in the air like the mushroom cloud after a nuclear blast. I half expected all of us, or at least Mr. Worchansky, to keel over before the old man made a decision. Finally, without saying a word, Worchansky raised his cane and brought it down upon the floor three times. The loud thumps echoed through the silent room, followed by the appearance of his butler in the doorway.

“Sir? You called for me?”

The elderly man’s face was still so maddeningly expressionless. In that moment, I fully expected him to ask for us to be escorted to the door. The inevitable parting words, “Do not come back,” would be repeated in French, German, and English to ensure comprehension. Maybe even Pig Latin.

Was my only lead truly a dead end?

Evidently, Charles shared my concern. He stood resolutely from the couch, reaching for my hand to pull me with him.

“Please bring in Tutankhamun’s case,” Worchansky said loudly. Though the words were directed to his butler, the formidable man never once broke eye contact with me. I found it more than a little ominous.

Exchanging uncertain glances, Charles and I eased back down onto the couch.

When the butler returned moments later, he carried a reddish-brown clay box in his hands. Hieroglyphs marked the sides and an image of Tutankhamun was carved into the lid. The box alone was worth a fortune in my time. Many of the syndicate’s wealthier clients collected Egyptian artifacts.

The butler presented the case to his employer, but Worchansky pointed to me. “For Ms. Prince,” he said.

“Wasn’t that found recently?” Charles asked, his voice a mix of awe and incredulity. The butler set the box in my lap, and Charles reached over to gently run his finger over the engraving on top.

“Indeed. Howard is a long-time friend of mine. He gave me this as a gift for my eightieth birthday, just after he found King Tut’s final resting place,” Worchansky replied with a wide smile. “Isn’t it just remarkable?”

My heart was in my throat, my hands trembling as I took in the Pharaoh’s box. While a small part of me wanted to examine and appreciate it, I was mostly anxious to open it and discover what lay inside.

What if the cufflinks aren’t a match? What if all of this was for nothing?

One glance at Worchansky put those fears to rest. His smile reminded me of the one Molly wore whenever she brought me back a present from one of her runs—something she knew I’d love.

Using my thumbs, I slowly lifted the lid and inhaled sharply. The deep blue stones twinkled in the light of the chandelier above, the delicate gold filigree winding an intricate pattern around it. Exactly like the locket I wore around my neck.

Removing the oversized cufflinks from the silk lining of King Tut’s box, I turned them over in my hands. The gold gleamed up at me. The large egg-shaped stones were so deep that an entire ocean swam inside. With a deep breath, I ran my finger over the back, feeling for the one thing that would make this all the more real: the five-leaf clover.

There, engraved around the post meant to be threaded through a shirtsleeve, was my proof.

“The craftsmanship is unparalleled,” Worchansky said softly. “Though I suppose you were already aware of this.”

“Yes…they match my necklace,” I breathed.

I placed both small circles in a single palm, then held them out to let the light shine upon them. The cool metal seemed to call to my tattoo, sending a tingle up my arm. If I’d needed confirmation that the cufflinks and locket belonged together, that was it.

Energy coursed through my veins, as a rush of adrenaline made my heart race. Maybe I hadn’t found the answers I was looking for, but I was one step closer to my past. I felt it with every cell in my body.

“What do you know about them?” I asked our host. “Where did they come from?”

“It was actually Trudy who selected them. She always had such a keen eye for items of intrigue.” Worchansky smiled wistfully, his thoughts clearly in another time with another woman. I gave him that moment with his Trudy, wondering if she and I would ever cross paths.

“We attended an estate auction of my great-grandfather’s first cousin,” Worchansky finally continued. “I know that he received the cufflinks from his father, but that is as far back as I have found. Though I’ve searched for their story, it seems to flow only in circles, with looping questions and cul-de-sacs of uncertainty. As you can see, the metal is bright and unblemished, despite being quite old. The compound is not something I’ve seen elsewhere, so I know there is a tale behind the pieces. It has been an anomaly to me for many years; I do hope you will find answers. Having another piece like it is quite promising.

As Worchansky pointed to my necklace, Charles surprised the hell out of me.

“Two others, actually,” he said, taking out the pocket watch.

Worchansky’s eyes grew wide.

“A third item?” he said wondrously. “How many more might there be?”

“That’s what I hope to find out,” I said with a smile. “As you said, there is doubtlessly a legend that accompanies these pieces.”

“And you will come back to share it with me?” Worchansky asked, showing the first hints of vulnerability.

“Of course,” Charles said, surprising me once again. His eyes had turned soft, a kind smile crinkling the edges. We exchanged a look. I realized that he’d come to see Worchansky as I did—an old man whose adventurous spirit was hindered by an aging body. He was someone who longed for the knowledge of history, and all the intrigue that punctuated the eras of time.