Mr. Devers had been a mood since the train left Calgary. I wasn't sure what had put a dark cloud over him, but he turned the pages of the morning paper with uncharacteristic severity. I gave a little sigh to tell him he was being ridiculous.
"The next time I feel inclined to associate with paleontologists, please stop me," he said, folding the paper and tossing it onto the table to cover his unfinished breakfast.
Ridiculous. "I didn't think they were that dull." They really were, but I was feeling plucky so I poked the bear. I was the only one he ever let get away with it.
"They were drier than the Alberta Badlands."
I rolled my eyes. "Comedy doesn't suit you. Besides, you're disinclined to get along with everyone we meet and we both know it."
"You certainly got along well with that Lord Carter fellow." There it was, the thorn in Mr. Dever's paw.
Lord Carter was the head paleontologist at the dig in the badlands. He was a smart man, a British expatriate, and far too friendly for Mr. Dever's taste. Even if he had been congenial, he talked of nothing but fossils. I don't know why, but I was content to let Mr. Devers think I'd actually enjoyed the attentions of Lord Carter.
I turned to the window of the dining car and searched the landscape with the hope of finding my bearings. All I could see were trees and the white blur of snowfall.
"Do you know where we are?" I asked, changing the subject and robbing my colleague of the chance to pick at me more.
He shrugged. "We went through Chicago sometime during the night. We should reach Ohio sometime tomorrow."
Tomorrow? I checked the date on the front of his paper. "Tomorrow is Christmas Eve."
"Cutting it a bit close, but we should have you home for before Christmas."
"Good. I'm ready to be off this train."
This made Mr. Devers chuckle but it wasn't enough to make him smile. I couldn't help but wonder if there was something besides Lord Carter on his mind.
"Not romanced by the luxury of locomotive travel, are we?" he asked.
I took a sip of the weak tea that had been served with our toast. "You would be singing a different tune if you had to lace your own stays with only five square feet of space to move about in."
Mr. Devers shifted nervously to my surprise. I couldn't ever remember a time where he'd been uncomfortable with me and I was always complaining about corsets. We had no secrets left between us; that had always been the nature of our relationship. The fledgling New York City Museum of Art and its eccentric curator depended on us as co-heads of acquisitions to procure every strange and elusive antiquity he required to fill his exhibits. This task often required extraordinary measures as more metropolitan museums sprang up around the world and we saw the rise of the nouveau riche who joined the competition to fill out their private collections.
"Well," he said, his eyes turned to watch the snow fall. "We will have you returned to your fiancé soon enough." He pressed his lips into a dour little frown that to my dismay made him look more handsome than he usually did. He had that Irish look: coal black hair and blue eyes like twin sapphires. When he was angry, he scowled and it made all his features sharper. In that moment, I could have sworn his cheekbones had never looked so sinful.
"He's not my fiancé."
"My apologies. Your soon-to-be fiancé," he corrected. "But I must admit that Dr. Dorothy Prunk doesn't have quite the same ring as Dr. Dorothy Sinclair. You will take his last name, won't you?"
"Don't make fun. Howard Prunk is a respectable man from a good family with all the good manners a woman could ask for."
Mr. Devers made a point of yawning with unnecessary exaggeration.
I frowned. "If you are going to be uncivil, I'll be returning to my compartment until we reach Findlay."
"Dr. Sinclair," he objected following a nervous laugh. "I'm just having a little fun."
"I'm not." I stood from our cramped little table in the dining car and turned my back on Mr. Devers. Intent on making good on my threat, I left the car without looking back.
* * *
I sat fuming in my private compartment. Mr. Devers was difficult on the regular, but he was nothing compared to my parents. The flat terrain outside my window was starting to resemble home and it made tears spring to my eyes. As I palmed them away I couldn't help but wish for the arrival of the new decade. Mr. Devers was always telling me that a new change came with the end of the Great War, but it hadn't reached Findlay, Ohio just yet.
According to my parents, so much education didn't suit a young woman who needed to be more focused on finding a husband with a secure income, nevermind that I made a livable income of my own working for the museum. It had been two years since I finished my doctorate, and ever since they had begged, pleaded, and bargained for my return to Findlay.
Then I'd met Howard Prunk this summer. His family ran a respectable glass manufacturing operation in Findlay that always seemed to be expanding. He was handsome and kind and I'd found myself encouraging his attentions. It was the first time since leaving for New York City that I could see myself returning to Ohio. But husbands usually expected their wives to stay home and run the affairs of the family. As Mrs. Prunk, I would be hosting parties, not hopping steamers to uncover priceless art and antiquities across the entire world.
When we had just arrived to Alberta, I'd received word in a letter from my mother that Howard had asked my father his permission. According to her, it was all settled. I'd had my adventures; now it was time to come home and Mr. Prunk would propose at Christmas when I returned from Alberta. I might have accepted him more readily, but the northern lights in the night sky over the Badlands made my heart beat faster than the thought of a proposal.
I was still sniffling when a gentle knock sounded at my compartment door.
"Dr. Sinclair?" Mr. Devers asked hesitantly.
"Come in."
The door slid open and Mr. Devers let himself in. He glanced around the tiny cabin. I was seated at my little table; the only place left to sit was on my bed. He remained standing.
"I've come to apologize," he said, his head lowered and his thumbs stuck in the pockets of his trousers.
"Please," I replied in a vain attempt to stop him, "there's no need."
"But there is," he insisted, as he brought up his eyes to meet mine. "I want you to know that I understand what you're going through, well, maybe... I can see you silently struggling over your decision to accept Mr. Prunk and I haven't been very sensitive to your situation. You have decided to accept him, haven't you?"
I pressed my fingers to my forehead as a dull ache blossomed in my temples. "Yes. And no... I don't know."
"I'll admit, I'm sorry for the difficulty of your situation, but I confess I won't play any part in making your decision any easier. I don't want to lose you as my partner, Dr. Sinclair."
This made me laugh. I probably should have scolded him for his impertinence, but my pride was pleased; we did work well together. Actually, I was one of a select few who could work alongside Mr. Devers. But even if I rejected Mr. Prunk's proposal our work relationship was still coming to an end. He was moving to freelance acquisitions, and I, I was possibly, maybe, potentially moving to Findlay, Ohio.
"I'm flattered," I said, a smile tugging at my lips. "But you decided not to renew your contract with the museum. Either way, we are going our separate ways after the New Year."
Mr. Devers shifted between his feet, his fingers fluttering at his sides. He gave a shallow laugh. "Dr. Sinclair, I'm trying to offer you a job."
My heart leaped into my throat. I probably looked stunned, but I'd been blindsided. He hadn't talked much at all about his plans for when he left the museum, just like I hadn't talked about the possibility of returning to Ohio.
"What sort of job are you in the position to be offering?" I asked, incredulous.
"As much as I am excited by the prospect of freelance acquisitions, I am just an archeologist. I could use an anthropologist, linguist, and art historian. If I hire you, I can get all three in one."
I wanted to laugh, but his suspicious little grin meant he was serious. As I wondered how long he'd been sitting on this idea, my brain started to run through the logistics. "How do you expect to pay me? Do you have something lined up?"
His grin widened. "I have a very promising opportunity that's been presented to me by an old school friend of mine. He's a silent film actor, but his life imitates his art in that he fancies himself a real world adventurer. The poor chap was in Morocco when he purchased what he thought was a replica Faberge Egg."
"You mean to tell me he stumbled on a lost Faberge Egg? Was it Russian?"
"Possibly. He only bought it as a joke — was going to use it in his toilet as an ashtray, but he got suspicious when his hotel room was turned over. He immediately returned to New York and had it authenticated. The trouble is, there is no record of this egg ever being made."
It was getting hard to hide my excitement. "So why does he need us — you?" I didn't catch myself before my fumble and it amused Mr. Devers to no end.
He brought a hand to the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a telegram. "He says the authentication found a second hinge and a secret compartment in the egg."
"What's in it?"
Mr. Devers tucked the paper away, his lips drawn into a smirk that meant he knew he had my attention. "Now that's privileged information, Dr. Sinclair." He patted his jacket where the telegram sat. "Information for me and my business partners, but I should be glad to share it if you accept my offer."
I wrinkled up my nose at him and rose from my seat so I could meet his gaze — though I wasn't nearly as tall as him. "I accept that you don't want to make my decision easy, but I did not expect this sort of devious behavior."
Mr. Devers feigned shock. "Devious?" He asked, seemingly incensed. "I don't have a devious bone in my body."
I shook my head. "I won't stand to be played like this." I brushed past him to slide the compartment door open. My shoulder bumped hard into Mr. Devers arm in the process. "I have enough paperwork on the bones we're transporting to fill out, so you can be on your way."
Mr. Devers gave me a knowing smile as he moved to the door. "I don't mean to upset you. I only aim to be cautious, but I suppose I could give you a few details. If you like I'll give you the afternoon to think it over and we can discuss it at dinner. How does that sound?"
I rolled my eyes and folded my arms to let him know how thoroughly I was displeased by his manipulation. Displeased but not uninterested. "I will consider it, but you won't have my answer until I know what sort of trouble I'd be getting into."
"Good," Mr. Devers said, as he backed out of my compartment. "We will discuss trouble with dinner."
* * *
As I dressed for supper my fingers fumbled with the little buttons on my dinner gown in my excitement. My afternoon had been most unproductive and I was no closer to puzzling out what I was going to decide. I checked to make sure my braid of auburn hair was pinned up into a coil at the top of my head. A few curls fell loose around my face. I didn't mind the look so I left them there.
In my favorite dress, a red crushed velvet gown with a thick black belt that cinched it at the waist, I headed for the dining car. That was the trouble with traveling first class, gowns and black coats were expected for dinner. When I arrived, cocktails were still being served. A quick scan of the car, and I found Mr. Devers at a table for two in the farthest corner. He already watched me, his lips parted into that rakish grin of his.
I made my way to the table and took the seat opposite him. "You look happy," I said. He also looked quite dashing in black and white with his dark hair, not that I'd ever admit it. "I hate it very much to see you get your way so easily, but here I am."
"And you are a vision in red," he said raising his glass to me.
The complement caught me off guard, and I found myself grinning as something fluttered in my chest. I was quick to recover, and I schooled my features into a determined scowl. "Flattery won't work here," I said, despite the strange yet familiar sensation it had brought about. "I need details! What sort of ill-fated plot are you going to get me embroiled in?"
Mr. Devers pulled out the red, leather-bound journal he kept on him at all times. Stained and rippled with water damage, the thing was stuffed full of photographs, rambling notes scribbled on cocktail napkins, ticket stubs, train tables, and the occasional drawing. He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Before he showed me what he had so carefully stowed in the journal's pages, his gaze jumped around the faces gathered in the dining car.
"We probably shouldn't do this here. You're drawing far too much attention in that dress," he said.
The thing! The thing in my chest happened again, and stronger this time, but I was more concerned with what was in his hand. "Stop stalling,' I insisted, reaching for the piece of paper.
Mr. Devers was quick to pull it out of my reach. "Move your chair around," he said, motioning for me to position myself on his right side so we could share the corner of the table.
I stood with a sigh and he helped move my chair so we could examine his sensitive documents without fear of onlookers peering over our shoulders. We reassumed our seats and he passed me what I discovered was a photograph. It was a capture of the aforementioned Faberge Egg. I couldn't attest much to its authenticity from the photograph, but from what I could see, I could make out a gold disk in the egg's center with tiny diamonds inlaid in what seemed to be a nonsensical pattern.
"Is this what they found in the secret compartment?" I asked.
Mr. Devers nodded. He traced his lower lip with his thumb. "Well... go on," he said, a playful challenge for me to figure it out myself.
I drew the image closer. " A cipher?"
His brows rose in surprise. "No, but I didn't even think of that."
I frowned and turned back to the photo.
"Focus on the center diamond," Mr. Devers suggested.
I did, and suddenly the rest of the picture slide into its right place in my mind. "These are stars," I said in a whisper.
Mr. Devers leaned in and let his arm rest on the back of my chair. " A star map to be exact," he said, his head bowed quite close to mine.
"A map to what?" My pulse was thundering in my ears. I had so many more questions that tripped over each other as I began to wonder just who had commissioned such a magnificent egg.
"That's what we're supposed to find out," Mr. Devers replied, watching me with those deep blue eyes.
I was at a loss for words. He'd hooked me, captured me, ensnared me, and I would think of nothing until I discovered the meaning of the map.
"I've got you now, Dr. Sinclair," he said with a chuckle, as he reached up to flick one of the tassels that tied my dress at my shoulders.
"I...I still have much to consider."
"You're an addict. Only instead of opium, your vice is adventure, and I have your fix," Mr. Devers said, his voice low, almost a purr. "You can spend the rest of your life tracking down dusty old paintings for the museum, but I saw the way you looked at the sandstone towers of the Badlands."
My heart still pounded as I let out a nervous laugh. "How did I look?"
"A person has a certain wildness about them once they've gotten a taste for adventure—like you will never see enough of the world's wonders to satisfy the hunger to see what's out there."
I could feel my cheeks start to warm at his analysis. "W–Wild?" I stuttered out in shock at being read so well. It was as if he had plucked my heart from my chest and seen the desires written there.
"It's a good look on you, Dr. Sinclair," he said.
Then, drawing suddenly away, he withdrew his arm from my chair and folded his hands behind his head.
I wanted to wipe the smug look off his face. "I still don't know," I said.
That did it. He raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. I won't try to influence you further. But you don't have to get off this train at Findlay," he said, taking my hand in his. "Your train ticket is good to go to New York, and if you're in this with me, we leave for England the day after Christmas. I know it would mean spending Christmas trapped on this train with your insufferable colleague, but I do hope you will."
He slipped something into my hand: a steamer ticket.
"I've already got a ticket to England for you."
"You're that confident I'll go?"
Mr. Devers smiled. "I don't want any obstacles to stand in your way."
I paused. "Thank you," I replied. Sincerely.
I didn't know what more to say so I changed the subject to his mother back in Ireland. He loved nothing more than to talk about his mother and how he missed her. Through dinner we talked about everything except work, anything but Mr. Prunk, and the peace between us lasted through the end of after-dinner drinks. Mr. Devers offered to walk me back to my drawing room, and I accepted.
There was almost too much to think about and I desperately needed the space to do it.
"I'd wish you pleasant dreams, but it seems you might have a long, sleepless night ahead of you," Mr. Devers said.
I had to chuckle at how well he knew me. "That seems most likely."
"Then I shall let you go, but first I must say something," he said, wrapping both my hands in his and holding them to his chest.
"What can you possibly have left to say?" I said as I watched our hands in such a strange, intimate posture.
"Thank you. Whatever you chose to do with your life, I will have nothing but happiness for your future and the time we spent as colleagues. Thank you for making the past five years wonderful. I know that after Cecilia I was a downright ornery and difficult, still am, but you didn't let my thorns deter you from making yourself my friend in addition to the best partner I've ever had the pleasure of working with."
Cecilia. He never talked about Cecilia. The week I'd started at the museum it was all anyone talked about—how Ronan Devers had been left at the alter. "You're welcome," I said, but his words stirred a warming in my chest that could no longer be denied. "But you really aren't as trying a colleague as you think you are."
"Oh don't go soft on me now. I still need you to keep me in line."
I shook my head. "If we go our separate ways, you'll forget me soon enough and find someone who can go toe-to-toe with you."
His grip on my hands tightened, and his gaze locked mine. A curious smile made the corners of his eyes wrinkle. "I'll never forget you—not after Chichen Itza."
I gasped as my mouth fell open. Heat flooded my cheeks. "We agreed we would never talk about Chichen Itza. You said it was forgotten."
Mr. Devers laughed, a low sound that trembled through my hands, which he still clutched to his chest. Chichen Itza. I hadn't thought about Chichen Itza in months, but we'd agreed that it had been nothing.
"No, we agreed we would never again drink tequila around each other," Mr. Devers said. "I would never have agreed to forget such a kiss, nor could I."
I couldn't breathe. A violent blush seemed to dance over every inch of my skin as I recalled the cool Mexican night. We'd discovered a piece of carved jade in the dig site and Mr. Devers and I had celebrated the find with tequila. That was when we'd shared a kiss. Even now my chest seemed to roar with feeling as I remembered how I'd pulled him into me and kissed him playfully on the lips. But without the clear-headedness of sobriety, just a peck hadn't been enough. Not for either of us. Before I knew it he had pressed me against a wall of the Maya ruins for something much deeper.
Only then did I realize, and Mr. Devers did too, how close we were standing then. We toed the edge of something neither of us understood and as a result, flew apart from each other. I moved too hastily toward my door and bumped my elbow against the frame in the process.
"Goodnight, Dr. Sinclair," Mr. Devers said, with a nervous clearing of his throat.
"Goodnight," I choked out, the words sounding strangled and thick with everything I was feeling for what he just confessed.
He nodded and headed off down the train to his own rooms, but not before throwing a look at me I could only describe as wistful as he exited the car. I watched him go, stunned as I was left alone with only my thoughts and a very big and confusing decision ahead of me.
As far as I was concerned, I had three options. First, I could accept Mr. Prunk's proposal for marriage, or I could refuse him and continue my work for the museum. And then there was my third option. I could join Mr. Devers in a freelance acquisitions partnership where I would be free to pursue any commission I desired. I fell asleep before coming to any one conclusion. I didn't see a negative option in the bunch, but as I pondered it over my cooling breakfast and lukewarm coffee, I marveled at how much was about to change. The idea of change never frightened me, but at a crossroads, I began to wonder which future I might regret five or ten years down the road. So much depended on one decision and my time to make it was getting closer as our train barreled towards Findlay.
My trunk was packed just in case this was my next stop. A porter dressed in a tidy blue uniform came through the dining car. "Next stop Findlay. Findlay, Ohio coming up."
As I left my table and moved in the direction of my compartment, dread filled my stomach.
"Last stop still Christmas," I heard the porter call from behind. "All passengers not wishing to spend Christmas aboard and travel on to New York should detrain at the next stop."
I hadn't seen Mr. Devers all morning, but I could already feel the train start to slow. Then something hit me. Something Mr. Devers had said to me. He'd said it off-hand when we'd found that Maya jade in Chichen Itza and I hadn't forgotten it. "Can you imagine the detriment to society it would have been if we'd never met?"
By then we'd already uncovered priceless antiquities with immense historical and sentimental value to their cultures. Yet we'd really only just begun to discover what we could do as a pair for archaeology and anthropology and the future of ancient art. I saw only one future where that didn't come to an end.
* * *
When the train finally came to a stop at the station in Findlay, from my window I could see Mr. Prunk waiting on the platform. He held a bundle of flowers in hand, his shoulders around his ears to fight the bitter cold. I pulled on my coat and went to meet him.
At the sight of me, his handsome features lit up into the charming smile I remembered well.
"Dr. Sinclair," he said, as he took my hand to place a kiss on it. "Where is your trunk?"
I tried my best to offer Mr. Prunk an encouraging smile. "This isn't my stop, Mr. Prunk."
The confusion spread slowly over Howard's face.
"I'm continuing on to New York," I said. "I'm sorry, but I've just very recently taken up a new partnership and we sail for London in two days."
He nodded. The smile returned to his face and he moved to wrap me in an embrace. "I can't say I'm surprised. I had a feeling your return to Findlay was too good to be true."
"If it makes you feel any better, this was one of the toughest decisions of my life."
Mr. Prunk pressed a kiss to my forehead the smiled. "That does make me feel a little better." He handed me the flowers. "Good luck in London," he added, before turning a merging into the flow of the crowd towards the exit.
* * *
My knuckles wrapped frantically on the door to Mr. Devers' private car. "Mr. Devers!" I called, unable to contain my excitement.
Before I could knock a second time, the door flew open and suddenly Mr. Devers was standing before me. His dark hair was disheveled and he'd removed his jacket to roll up the sleeves of his white shirt. He braced a hand on the door frame, his body swaying with the movement of the train. I wanted him to say something but for a moment he just looked at me.
A smile twitched at the corner of his lips. "I think you missed your stop," he said.
"Not yet I haven't," I replied.
At this, Mr. Devers wrapped me in his arms. I returned the gesture and flung my arms around his waist. We stood there in a moment I wanted to last forever, my face buried in his shoulder, his cheek against my hair.
When we finally ended our embrace, my heart was pounding. He pulled me into the private car and shut the door behind him.
"This deserves a toast, Dr. Sinclair," he said, as he scrambled about the compartment in search of a decanter and a pair of glasses.
"Agreed," I said, taking one of the two winged armchairs that flanked the table of his drawing room. "And I think now that we're partners, you may call me Dorothy, Dot if you prefer."
Mr. Devers paused his search. "Dot," he said testing out my name for himself. "Dot it is. But then you must call me Ronan."
I couldn't hold back my grin. "If you insist."
Eventually, libations and two mismatched glasses were produced. Drinks were poured, and Ronan raised his glass to mine. "To our next great adventure," he said.
"To our next great adventure."
I took a sip of what I found out was brandy, and I settled deeper into the overstuffed chair. My new partner watched me, his thumb on his lip as he considered me with his sapphire-colored gaze.
"So this star map," I began. "Any theories."
He grinned. Producing a pencil from his pocket, he pulled out his red journal to flip to a blank page. "What do you know of the lost city of Paititi?"
* * *