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in the world."
    "We make pretty good ones," Marcus said. "If you dip just one half in the dye real carefully, and then let it dry, and put the other half in another color—"
    Claude held his hand up. "Wait, my man," he said. "I have no doubt that you make fine Easter eggs in your kitchen. But you must envision that I am talking now about crystal eggs, silver eggs, golden eggs—eggs encrusted with jewels: pearls, rubies, emeralds—"
    "Diamonds?" I asked.
    "Of
course
diamonds," Claude said. "The entire egg a work of art, an oval veritably encrusted with priceless gems. And inside the egg—"
    Marcus made a face. "Egg yolk."
    "No, no. Inside the egg, a hollow: a whole tiny world; and you can look in through one end and see it there, shimmering. A whole miniature ballet, perhaps: dancers on their toes, dressed like swans, twirling around a glittering lake—"
    "I hate ballet," Marcus groaned.
    "Well then, picture this: in another, a battlefield! An entire miniature army, complete with cannons, horsemen, generals; even, sad to say, the wounded and dead lying on the snow-covered ground."
    "How could you get all that into an
egg
?" Marcus asked skeptically.
    Claude shrugged. "That was the secret of the man who made them. If it had been easy, everyone would have made them. But they couldn't. Only this one man—and his secret died with him. Very few of these Russian eggs still exist, and they are guarded by armed guards."
    His voice became a whisper, and he stroked the box in his hands. "As far as I know, I am the only person who has ever been able to smuggle them across the border successfully. Others have tried, of course, and failed. Their fates were horrifying."
    I realized that I was chewing on my thumbnail, an old habit that I had been trying to curb.
    "What happened to them?" Marcus asked, his eyes wide. Marcus loved hearing about horrible fates.
    Claude didn't answer. He simply shook his head.
    "Show us," I begged. "Open the box, Uncle Claude."
    Now he smiled. "We must abide by the royal tradition," he said. "They must be hidden, and you must search."
    "Oh,
Claude
," I groaned.
    "When?" Marcus asked. "When will you hide them?"
    "While you sleep. Tonight."
    Mother was calling from the kitchen. "Louise! Marcus! Come and help me set up the dyes, would you? Stephie will be up soon and we'll dye the eggs."
    "Well," I sighed, glancing again at the box. "I still wish you'd give them to us right now." I tried to look mournful, winsome, and worthy.
    But Claude shook his head. "It's the rules, Louisamanda," he said. "The best gifts are the ones you must search for. I'm really quite amazed that your mother hasn't taught you that."
    We rose reluctantly and headed for the door. "You won't forget, will you, Uncle Claude?" Marcus asked. "After we're asleep tonight, you won't forget to hide them?"
    Claude popped the green Life Saver into his mouth and grinned. "Never fear," he replied. "
Pas de peur,
" he added. "That's French."

    "I think maybe he
is
a fraud, like Tom and Father said," Marcus muttered as we got ready for bed that night. "Don't you?"
    "No," I said decisively. "He's just a—"I hesitated, not at all sure how I wanted to describe our
uncle; the conversation I had overheard between Claude and Mother had puzzled me without changing my feelings toward him. "He's a dream-chaser," I said, finally.
    Marcus made a face. "Look," he said. "Father said that Claude is down-and-out. He doesn't have any money. So why would he be carrying around a box full of jewels? Why didn't he sell them, if they're worth all that money, like he says?"
    "Because he meant them for
us\
He brought them all the way out of Russia at the risk of his life, for us. You don't trade something like that for groceries or to pay the rent." Suddenly I remembered something. "Marcus! Remember when Mrs. Bostwick died?"
    "Yeah." Marcus looked at me. "Yeah, I do. Is it the same, do you think?"
    Mrs. Bostwick had lived down the street, a few houses