this size. The Sun King, Louis’s grandfather, used to wear it as a hat pin, but Louis had it set in a sash for the Order of the Golden Fleece. He wore it at all the ceremonial functions. Marie Antoinette used to tease him that he out-glittered the stars in the sky.” She sighed. “Ah, such happy days.”
Emmy straightened and squeezed her arm. “Come on. I’ve seen enough here. I need some food before I get into that ridiculous coffin.”
Chapter 9.
The worst thing about the British Museum plan was the sarcophagus. Emmy forced herself not to think of its previous occupant as she lay down in the cramped wooden space and glared up at Luc.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Uncomfortable.”
Her brother grinned. “Well, it wasn’t meant for live people, you know.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You only have to be in there a short while. And it’s better than that beer barrel. At least you get to lie down flat. And you’ll be transported a lot more respectfully.”
“The beer barrel didn’t once belong to a dead person,” she said. “And it smelled considerably more pleasant.”
“I’ve made you plenty of air holes. Try it.”
Emmy gave a resigned sigh and folded her hands across her chest. Luc, with Sally’s help, slid the heavy lid across her field of vision. It made a horrid grating noise. As the light was cut off, she forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose. It smelled musty, like being entombed inside a hollow tree trunk, and she was glad she’d compensated by giving herself a few additional dabs of perfume to mask the smell.
When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she realized that numerous small round holes pierced the lid; she was speckled all over with a smattering of tiny light spots. She moved, trying to see how much space she had. Her elbow bumped painfully on the side.
Luc’s muffled voice filtered through the thick wooden lid. “See? It’s a good thing you’re so small, Em. I’d never have been able to fit in there. Now push the lid off. You have to be able to move it on your own.”
Emmy wriggled and cursed, pushing sideways and upward with her palms on the underside of the lid. It was a struggle, but she managed to shift it enough to get her fingers through a gap at the side. She pushed the lid off completely and sat up. Sally gave her a round of applause, and Luc nodded approvingly.
“Perfect.”
Camille entered the kitchen and smiled at seeing Emmy sitting inside the ancient sarcophagus on top of the table. The fact that this wasn’t the strangest thing Emmy had ever been cajoled into doing was indicative of just how odd her family truly was.
“It’s time,” Camille said. “The cart is waiting in the mews. Sally, you look wonderful!”
Sally gave a sarcastic curtsey. She’d made an effort to look even more ravishing than usual, since she was meeting Henry Franks, the museum curator, for a post-work tipple in a tavern across the square from the museum. Her hair had been left partly down, and one stray lock curled enticingly over her rounded shoulder. Her milky-white bosom was shown to devastating effect in a pale blue cambric dress. A more perfect distraction would be hard to find.
Luc narrowed his eyes. “Franks had better not try anything untoward,” he growled.
Sally gave him a wide, confident grin. “I can ’andle ’im, don’t you worry.”
“The thought of you ‘handling’ him is precisely what concerns me, madam,” Luc muttered.
Sally chuckled. She stroked a light caress across his jaw and bent to press a playful kiss on his cheek. “You have nothing to worry about, my lovely.”
For a brief moment they stared at each other, and Emmy held her breath, hoping they would finally give in to their obvious mutual attraction and kiss properly, but Sally pulled back with a flustered laugh and the moment was broken.
Luc turned back to Emmy, all business. “Right. Let’s go. You should arrive just before closing time. Franks won’t have time to look at you, much as he would like to. He won’t want to be late to meet Sally.”
He winced and Emmy bit her lip to stop a smile. The thought of sending Sally out to flirt with another man while looking so delectable was clearly torture for him.
Sally had worked her magic on him too. Instead of an attractive thirty-year-old, she’d made him look much older, with greying hair, a bushy fake mustache, and grizzled sideburns. A wide-brimmed hat pulled