“I know having the journals would be useful,” I add, “but they aren’t mine to donate, I’m afraid. I inherited the sword. But the journals belong to a member of my family who would prefer not to part with them.”
“Is there any chance of a copy?” Dr. Leung asks. “Even photographs of the relevant pages?”
“Probably,” I say, “though without the originals, I know the authenticity can’t be confirmed. I’m sorry we cannot do better.”
The older curator chuckles. “We receive donations of items with a far more dubious history.”
Nicolas says, “From a time when such things were not considered plundering a culture but simply taking a souvenir.”
“Sadly, yes. But this would seem to have been legitimately found on British soil, which we hope to confirm.”
We talk for a little longer as they explain their plans for it and promise to keep me informed through Bronwyn. Then they thank us again before Dr. Leung offers to show us where the gladius would fit in their collection, if it is proven authentic.
10
Dr. Leung shows us the exhibit where the gladius would be displayed. Then she’s taking us on a wonderful private tour of the wing when I catch sight of a tricorn hat. I discreetly angle myself for a better view, and when a tour group dissipates, I see the young man’s ghost striding along the aisle.
I consider making an excuse to go after him, but we are at the end of our own little tour, and so I will be patient. I know the ghost’s destination, and if he is not still there, he will return. He is drawn to that clock, intent on stealing it and inexplicably unaware that he cannot. It is a delicious mystery, but it can wait a few moments longer.
When we finish, Dr. Leung asks whether there is anything else we would like to see, and Nicolas mentions the clock.
“We came by yesterday,” he says. “I found the story most intriguing.”
“Hmm, I’m not familiar with that particular piece, but I can see if someone working today knows more.”
Nicolas glances at me. I return a tiny headshake that says the matter is not urgent. He tells Dr. Leung not to pursue it now, and if he wishes to learn more, where might he ask? She gives us her phone number and says we need only call, and she will put us in touch with the appropriate curator.
“You spotted the ghost,” Nicolas says after we part ways. “I thought I detected a shift in your attention, but I was not certain.”
“He seemed to be heading back to the exhibit.”
“Then we know where we are going.”
We findthe ghost at the clock display. He’s casually leaning against the wall, watching a family wander through the exhibit. The children are eager to be done, but the parents seem the sort who believe they must pay homage to every room in the museum, whether they are interested in the subject or not.
We watch from a spot where the ghost cannot see us. Finally, the family moves on, and the young man slips back to the case. One furtive glance around, ensuring he is unwatched, and then he “breaks” the glass and reaches in. Once again, his fingers pass through the clock as he tries to grasp it.
“You cannot take that,” I say, coming up on his left.
He jerks upright, sees me and goes to bolt, only to spot Nicolas to his right. Nicolas lifts both hands, in a calm gesture of blocking. Nicolas cannot see the ghost, but the ghost apparently does not realize that.
“We are not trying to stop you,” I say. “We only wish to explain why you cannot seem to grasp it.”
“I can,” he says. His chin lifts. “I will.”
“How long have you been trying?”
I almost regret the question as confusion passes over his face. Confusion mingled with dread and dawning despair.
He straightens. “I will.”
“You cannot,” I say gently. “Do you not see the glass around it? Do you not wonder why the glass doesn’t break? Why you can reach in and others cannot?”
He flinches, only to throw off whatever he is feeling. “It is mine. Rightfully mine. I will take it.”
“What year is it?” I ask, as softly and compassionately as I can form words.
“1737.”