The man smiled. “Yes, that was my work.”
Judging from Papy’s expression, he might as well have just met the pope. “But you are so young! I am in awe that I am actually meeting you. Your grandfather’s book on Roman-era pottery is like my own personal bible.”
Amusement flashed across Theodore Gold’s face. “Actually, Theodore Gold Junior was also me. As was Theodore Senior. I do try to change my writing style each time to make the whole necessary charade a little more convincing.”
Papy just stood there gaping.
Mr. Gold laughed and patted Papy on the shoulder. “Well, I am honored to have fooled someone as well versed in the field as yourself, Monsieur Mercier.”
My completely unflappable grandfather was still rooted to his spot. “A revenant,” he said. “There is only one Theodore Gold. The whole dynasty of eminent antiquity experts is . . . one person. And you are the G. J. Caesar I have been selling pieces to for the last few decades?”
“I think I may have actually bought a piece from you before that under Theo Gold Junior’s alias, Mark Aurelius, before I passed the collection down to myself,” Theodore pointed out helpfully.
“May I sit down?” Papy asked, the color having drained from his face.
“Please,” said Mr. Gold, gesturing toward a couch. Set before it was a low table with bottles of sparkling water and a platter of mini-cheesecakes.
“I wasn’t sure if you ate on the plane,” he commented as we all sat. “Now, we have much to talk about. May I guess that the volant revenant I sense is the bardia Vincent that Jean-Baptiste mentioned?” He waited and then nodded his head. “Good. So from what I am told, you are looking for a giant thymiaterion with instructional symbols engraved into the stem.”
Bran explained about his family’s records, and retrieving the book from his bag, he read the passage aloud.
Mr. Gold looked impressed. “Incredible. It certainly is tempting to ask to see the rest of the book”—he paused as Bran shook his head—“but I realize that the information it holds must be confidential. I trust you are giving us all of the details you have on the matter?”
Bran nodded. “I’ve gone through my family’s entire records, and this is the only mention of re-embodiment.”
“Fine,” Mr. Gold said, clasping his hands together. With his timeless look and white suit, he reminded me of a young Robert Redford in the seventies version of The Great Gatsby. Or a character straight out of an Edith Wharton novel: handsome and wheaten haired, with that tanned just-stepped-off-the-yacht look that very wealthy people have.
“I understand that time is pressing,” he was saying, “and that Vincent can be called back by the traitor at any time. How long has it been since she let you go?” he asked. “Yesterday before noon,” he repeated, looking at his watch. “It’s eleven p.m. now, so in six hours or so we’ll be coming up on two days, Paris time. Well, let’s hope she doesn’t feel like yanking you back sooner. We will need all of the time we can get to decode the symbols.”
He tossed back the rest of his glass and stood. “And on that note, we should be going.”
“Where?” I asked, as we all rose from the table.
“Why, to see the thymiaterion,” he said.
“It isn’t here?” I asked, glancing around the room.
“No, I only keep a few of my favorite objects here. The world’s most complete collection of revenant-themed art happens to reside across the street.”
“At the Metropolitan Museum of Art?” asked Papy, incredulous.
“Yes, my dear man,” responded Mr. Gold with a wry grin. “At the Met.”
TWENTY-THREE
“I’VE NEVER VISITED THE MET AT MIDNIGHT,” I whispered as I followed the others to a side door, far from the main entrance’s grand stairway.
Has that been a lifelong dream? came Vincent’s words.
“A whole museum of paintings to myself, yes,” I answered. “A museum full of ancient objects at night, though, has a sky-high creep factor.” I shivered, recalling a frequent childhood nightmare in which the statues in Papy’s gallery all came alive.
Mr. Gold took out a set of keys, opened a first set of doors, led us through a second set, and then past a seated security guard. He began reaching into his pocket for ID, but the guard just nodded and waved him by.
“This way,” Mr. Gold said. We crossed a cavernous room filled with ancient pottery perched on stands and protected under glass cases. In a dark corner of the room, we piled onto an open service elevator. Our host waited for the doors to shut tight, fitted a key into the elevator’s control panel, and pressed a button for one of the subbasements.