“Well, I’ll let you two catch up,” Humphrey said at last, finally noticing her discomfort. He smiled apologetically at her. “Must be some hors d’oeuvres somewhere.”
“Thank you again for coming,” Swann said to Humphrey as he drifted off, before turning back to Nell with an admonishing quirk of his brow.
“I know,” she sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“He cares about you a lot. In my book, that means more than how historically accurate his work is.” He touched his glass against her own, the same outrageously expensive Scotch inside his as well. “I’m glad someone was able to look out for you all those years that I couldn’t.”
Humbled, Nell returned the toast. She tried to take a sip, but all she managed was one luxurious sniff. It was hard to actually bring the rim to her lips—she felt strange drinking something that was probably worth her annual salary at Classic.
“So, where’s Felix?” Swann continued.
“Who knows. Probably at some swanky Haberson function,” she replied, and tried to ignore the sudden lurch of butterflies in her stomach.
Swann sighed. “I’d just thought, since you finally saw him again after so long, maybe you’d invite him.”
“Not a chance,” she lied. “That was seven years ago. It’s long over.”
Was it? She was sure he was not actually going to come, but all day, she’d debated whether or not to send him a message to see if he’d watched the security video yet. She really did want to know if he had—but she wasn’t sure that was the only reason she wanted to talk to him. And even more than that, she didn’t want him to think there was another reason.
Swann smiled, a little sadly. “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he said. He raised his glass again to her.
“Albert Wilson Swann, if you toast again without me, I’m going to have to take more of your precious Scotch,” a familiar voice called from behind them.
“Hurry up, then. To Dr. Young.” Swann smiled, his arm waiting in the air.
“Ms. Pérez Montilla,” Nell squeaked, all at once nervous again. She should have known it was Irene by her manner of address alone. She couldn’t think of anyone except the chair of the NYPL who could call Swann by his full name. To her, and everyone else in the Map Division, Swann was always Swann. Even her father had called him Swann, after decades of friendship.
“I told you, please, call me Irene,” Irene said, and bent slightly to give Nell a hug. “And let me introduce Claire Marie Roche, a member of the board,” she added, gesturing to the equally glamorous woman now standing on their left.
“Charmed,” Claire replied.
“Um, hello.” Nell resisted the urge to tug on the hem of her own plain dress. The church had been cold, and she’d put on her work cardigan during the service, but why hadn’t she taken off the stretched, faded old thing when they’d come into Swann’s house?
“And this is Wolff Erickson, and Julian Leuprecht, also from the board, Pete Vance from the Smithsonian, and Dr. Nozomi Ito from Stanford . . . ,” Irene added as another group approached the circle, followed by even more people.
The names and titles just kept coming, each one more intimidating than the last, but the final one surprised her most of all.
“And this is Dr. Francis Bowden,” Irene finished, indicating the newest man to join the group. “Of Harvard University’s Department of Conservation Studies.”
Francis.
The same name as the man in Ramona’s story—and the same name that had been on the envelope to her father. The one with the photograph of her family, and the second, equally baffling map of the library inside.