As more chapters are added to this story, check the ROOM OF FIRE update page on Our Stories for the newest releases.
This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
1997
Lauren Gates climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor of the Carnegie Museum of Antiquities, returning hellos to the few members of staff she passed. Beth York's surely features topped the mound of books Lauren carried as the fellow student paused for a smug smile of silent one-upmanship. For a few moments, she thought Beth would speak, and no doubt needle her with being selected as Dr. Carlos Sheldon's student assistant when he had gone to Cairo last month. It wasn't the way Lauren wanted to start another summer away from classes.
Beth didn't have to speak; the self-satisfied tilt of her lips was enough, something overtly dismissive in the turn of her smile.
Lauren hurried up the walnut staircase. At least Beth had the decency to come back with a scathing sunburn.
She knew it wasn't necessarily favoritism that made the curator choose Beth over herself. After all, Beth did speak Arabic, and the trip was only to document a manuscript, not to acquire anything.
Still, it promised to make any of their future classes together interesting.
"Go on in, Lauren," the secretary said as Lauren stepped into the small office just outside Dr. Sheldon's office a moment later.
"Thanks," Lauren said, shifting her load of books.
She went into the rear office quietly as Carlos looked up from a phone conversation. He was seated at his desk, buried behind a small mountain of research, his desktop computer buried as well, as usual.
She quietly closed the door behind her. For a long moment, she watched the man's balding head nod in silent agreement to the caller, wondering exactly how old the curator actually was. Her guess was in the early seventies, unless he was excited about a medieval manuscript, in which case he could act like a sugar-driven toddler. Paleography subjects were his specialty, but she had learned he held expertise in several fields.
"What have you brought today, dear?" he asked. He set the earpiece in the general direction of the phone. "Mail?"
"That and more, Dr. Sheldon."
He gave her a spike of one eyebrow at her use of his formal title. He'd made it clear he preferred otherwise.
She knew it, but had a difficult time adhering to that casualness at the museum or during some trips.
She unloaded the thick volumes she had carried up from the basement of the Penn State Media and Resource Center two blocks away and the assorted pieces of mail onto his desk.
He took the square mailing box bearing Italian stamps first. His faded blue eyes lit up at the return address. "Ah, Marlon."
She discreetly moved the phone earpiece so it was properly cradled in the phone base on what she had heard was one of the largest desks in the museum, second only to that of Agnes Breach.
"Anything else foreign?"
She smoothed her blouse and sifted through the envelopes. "Belgium. France. Maine."
He turned the parcel over in his hands and adjusted his glasses, smiling. "Wouldn't the Exchange be irritated if they knew I always got Vistoli House of Porcelain's first casting?" He opened the box, careful not to tear the porcelain factory's gold embossed emblem of a "V" topped by a crowned rampant lion.
She stood nearby, her blue-nearly-green eyes raised to the top row of collector's plates lining the grainy oak bookcase where there was no concern of the strong afternoon sun draining their kiln-fired colors. Over the years, Carlos had accumulated plates of various shapes and materials. Among her favorite were the terracotta plates that gave the impression of ornate mosaic tiling arranged to form profiles and animals.
She frowned at one plate. "I didn't much like the Prodigal Son edition he sent you, but the Virtuous Woman series was nice." She looked back to Carlos.
He was studying a short note accompanying the plate.
She leaned over the desk to see the plate front, pulling her brunette waves of hair out of her face. The circle of ivory alabaster he held was decorated with a bas-relief of the same, depicting Madonna and the Christ-child as they gazed heavenward in the manger.
She frowned at the design, eyes resting on the very fat-looking donkey.
He set the plate on the desk.
"I don't think that's Vistoli's most promising artist." She was about to say more, when he reached for the miniature, sword-shaped letter opener and held it to the plate. "Carlos!"
The curator stuck the metal implement at the bottom of the plate's donkey and hit the end with a pewter paperweight. The alabaster belly of the animal popped off, revealing a large cabochon of darker color inside.
She moved around the desk to get a better look as he cracked the whitewash off the small item.
"Read the letter," he said simply.
She picked up the paper, her interest still on the oval he gently tapped with the letter opener until he looked to her expectantly.
"'Dearest Friend,'" she read. "'Not much of a casting, I agree, but Mary is not the only creature bearing. Travels in France brought us this piece. Is this what it looks like? Will arrange your invitation. God Speed. Marlon.'"
Beneath Carlos' fingers, the oval was beginning to take a shine as he softly rubbed it. She recognized it for what it was after a moment. The resin exuding a sunset glow was unmistakable. Her Aunt Helen had given her a pair of earrings of similar color and substance.
He turned the piece, catching the late afternoon sun as it absorbed a deep cognac luster.
"He didn't fire the plate," he said needlessly, sniffing the oval. "But it smells . . . acidic." He looked to her, smiling at her fascination held by the large cap of contained brilliance. "What do you know about amber?" As she started to speak, he added, "And don't bring up dinosaurs and DNA."
She shrugged, surprised he was so familiar with the blockbuster dinosaur movie released a few years ago. She looked back to the amber. "It's a fossilized tree resin. I've never seen a piece that large so clear before, Carlos."
"No, but I'd wager this piece is worth far more than any containing bits of ants and gnats."
"Why did Marlon Vistoli have to smuggle it—?"
"We don't use the term smuggle, my dear," he said without edge.
"Right."
"Let me see that letter from France."
She handed him the piece of mail, her mind a flurry of detached thoughts. Carlos was elusive in his descriptions, at best, but she couldn't think of any connection between amber and Italy. Or France. Even ancient Europe's Amber Route was farther north toward the Baltic countries. As her reasoning came to a halt, he sat back in his chair, examining the amber methodically and glancing at the letter.
"Have you any training in illuminations specifically, Lauren?"
She felt the weight of disappointment sink in her as it had other times when she knew he was going to choose an assistant other than herself. "Only what we covered in extant autographs, and what I've learned with you," she admitted. Her junior year of museology and conservator classes were a smattering of the essential studies the museum insisted made for a well-rounded curator-in-training. The rest of her study-load was history, archaeology, languages, and organization heavies.
"But you speak French."
"Passing fair, but not well." She took a deep breath and prepared herself for extreme honesty. "Patricia is fluent in—"
"Patricia is out of the program," he finished curtly, not looking at her. "She exhibits characteristics unbecoming an assistant. Her scholarship is being revoked."
She nodded, feeling her chances inch up a notch. "Drew Canton knows illuminations better—"
"She's on loan to the Smithsonian for the Ross Tapestry." He stood up, rereading the letter. "Vistoli advises me to take a look at some medieval illuminations at an auction outside Ribeauville, but I believe more is there than old manuscripts." He handed her the amber. "Take this down to Gallop and tell him I want the chemical results back by early Monday.
"And," he said as her finger traced the oval's satiny smoothness, "cancel your plans for the next three weeks."
Future chapters in this story will appear here.
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Although this story is fiction, the Amber Chamber did exist. It occupied a room in the Catherine Palace in Russia until the Nazi siege of 1941. It was reassembled in a Königsberg castle, after which it disappeared in the British bombing of 1944. Swallowed in time and lost to the chaos of wartime history, to the time of this writing, no trace has been found of the original Amber Chamber. This story is based on research and rumor, and does not reflect any effort to locate the Amber Chamber.
#treasure #amber #AmberRoom #AmberChamber #mystery #WorldWarTwo #WorldWarII #LostArtwork #history
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