I love you. I want to marry you. We'll have children and joy and hope and love. Couldn't have been me saying that, thought Annie dully. In my time, the most a girl ever says is, “You wanna go to a movie?” and the most a boy ever says is, “Yeah, okay, if I got nothin' else to do.”

“The museum is closing,” said a bored voice.

Annie looked up, jarred. For a moment, she almost recognized the man; his ancient dark features; somebody's father, somebody's murderer—he was—no. He was only a guard, sweeping through the museum at closing. And she, Annie, was only a tourist, not even a New Yorker.

She was just a silly girl in silly clothing, wearing silly hopes.

“Oh, Strat,” she said, heart bursting with grief.

And across the room—not a room, really, but a vast, glass-ceilinged case; a case large enough to hold an entire ancient temple and an entire reflecting pool and three entire classes of middle school children on a field trip—across that room, somebody heard.

“Annie?” said Strat.

CAMILLA

The unfounded accusations of a girl had no effect. Hiram Stratton, Sr., merely explained who and what she was, a paid lackey of his own, a piece of chicanery whose ticket he had paid for.

The silly and very rude words of Miss Matthews embarrassed the company. The French were appalled, as always, by the manners of American females. The Germans were amused by so dramatic a woman, built to sing opera, to stand by the Rhine and bellow songs across the water.

Hiram Stratton, Sr., shoved the girl aside and demanded of all of them—servant and scholar, expert and passerby, “Find my son. Now.”

The Americans returned to the dig and the tourists got bored. The Egyptians melted away and the British remembered that they were en route to war.

Camilla went to her tent to pack. What would become of her now? Her dream of becoming a great reporter had been silly to start with, but now she had proved herself a liar and a fake, and nobody needed a reporter with those vices. Her tears soaked into the clothing she was folding.

She had not avenged her father.

She had not done anything, really.

She no longer knew what she had been thinking of— telling Strat to run off into the desert. It was true that great heat caused a lady to hallucinate.

Well, she could do one thing: sail to Spain and talk to Katie, who knew right from wrong, action from apathy and hope from sorrow.

“Miss Matthews?” called Dr. Lightner through the flimsy tent walls. “Might we speak?”

She wiped away her tears. Men were undone by ladies' weeping and that was not fair. Oh, the scorn Dr. Lightner would face, having been tricked by a mere girl. “Of course, sir. Please come in. I am packing. I shall not abuse your hospitality another hour.”