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to face the chance that they—and the world as they knew it—were doomed.

    Worse for Aaron, and so much worse for Rosamund, her Sir Lancelot was no fair knight. He was one of the Others, and whatever he wanted with Rosamund and her prophecies, Aaron knew it could not be good.

    Rosamund Hall had become a leading performer in a legend unfolding before her very eyes, and she didn’t even realize it.

    “So you’re not superstitious?” Aaron asked.

    “My father was a man concerned with facts.”

    “I asked about you , not your father.”

    “I’ve never seen any reason to believe the prophecies were anything but humbug.” Rosamund sounded regretful.

    “Is that what your father called them? Humbug?” Aaron could hear old Dr. Hall saying that.

    “The delusions of a weak and pitiful mind.”

    Aaron could hear Dr. Hall saying that, too. “Your father didn’t believe the Chosen Ones had ever existed?”

    “He never discussed that particular legend with me, but no.” She glanced at the tablet on the table. “Did I answer your question?”

    “Not exactly.”

    “That’s good.” She adjusted the lighted magnifying glass over a glyph.

    He’d lost her interest. “Listen—”

    She glanced up, clearly startled to see him there. “Oh. Did I answer your question?”

    “You already asked . . . Never mind. Listen, about Lance Mathews—”

    Rosamund jumped like he’d stuck a pin in her. “That reminds me! On your way out, would you ask Jessica to make sure she calls me at five? I have to leave early.”

    Something about her mushy smile put him on alert. “Five isn’t early.”

    “I forget to leave sometimes.”

    “Don’t you get locked in?”

    “Sometimes. But my father left a lot of work unfinished, and this . . . this is . . . just think, my mother ’s work, just waiting for me to delve into . . .” She waved a hand over the tablet, and as if they’d caught her, she leaned toward them again, spellbound.

    This girl was a wreck. “Why do you need to leave early?”

    “To get ready for my date.”

    Shit . “Tonight. With Lance Mathews.”

    She straightened her shoulders and stared at him . . . through her glasses, which were perched on the end of her nose. “Why not?”

    “Tonight I was hoping you could come with me to see my friend’s library. Irving is ninety-three years old and has this incredibly impressive collection of antique manuscripts and artifacts. But he needs someone who understands what he’s got, someone who can help him out.”

    “I don’t do appraisals.” She managed to sound snooty and insulted.

    “It’s been appraised—world-class stuff.” He baited the hook. “The Smithsonian would be proud to add his collection to theirs.”

    “Really.” Clearly, she didn’t believe him.

    “I’m not an authority like you, or him”—a lie; he knew more about valuable antiquities than almost anyone in the world—“but Irving has had the money and the contacts to build his collection. I’ve seen Egyptian scrolls, European illuminated prayer books, Tibetan prayer wheels, early Incan quipu—”

    Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

    He finished with the assurance, “All bought legitimately or given to him by friends.”

    She was right to be skeptical. The market for finding, stealing, and selling antiquities was huge and lucrative, and the scholars who actually worked in the field lamented the loss of important data. The pieces couldn’t be studied if they were moved from the excavation sites in the jungle or the desert into private libraries and personal museums by thieves willing to risk danger and death for a profit.

    And some collectors would do anything to complete their collections, including stealing from each other, from public museums, or even from the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library. . . .

    “Actually, Irving is the one who was wondering about the prophecies, and since I knew Dr. Hall was one of the world’s foremost experts . . . and he