“I didn’t ask,” Tom replied, shrugging.

“Oh, that’s just great. You didn’t ask.” Chloe shook her head disbelievingly. Though the copy her fingers currently rested delicately upon was not illuminated, and was a mere five centuries old—nearly a thousand years younger than the original texts that resided in the National Museum of Ireland—it was a sacred bit of history, demanding utmost reverence and respect.

Not to be toted about the city, entrusted to the hands of a stranger.

“How much did he donate?” she asked irritably. She knew a bribe of sorts must have changed hands. One didn’t “check things out” of The Cloisters any more than one could stroll up to Trinity College and ask to borrow the Book of Kells.

“A jeweled fifteenth-century skean dhu and a priceless Damascus blade,” Tom said, smiling beatifically. “The Damascus dates to the Crusades. Both have been authenticated.”

A delicate brow rose. Awe made short work of outrage. “Wow. Really?” A skean dhu! Her fingers curled in anticipation. “Do you have them already?” Antiquities; she loved them one and all, from the single rosary bead with the entire scene of The Passion carved on it, to the Unicorn Tapestries, to the splendid collection of medieval blades.

But she especially loved all things Scottish, as they reminded her of the grandfather who’d raised her. When her parents died in a car accident, Evan MacGregor swooped in and took the broken four-year-old to a new home in Kansas. Proud of his heritage, endowed with a passionate Scots temperament, he imbued her with his love for all things Celtic. It was a dream of hers to one day journey to Glengarry, to see the town in which he’d been born, to visit the church in which he’d wed Gran, to stroll the heathery moors beneath a silvery moon. She had her passport ready, waiting for that lovely stamp; she just had to save enough money.

It might take her another year or two, especially now with the cost of living in New York, but she would get there. And she couldn’t wait. As a child she’d been lulled to sleep on countless nights by her grandfather’s soft burr, as he’d woven fantastic tales of his homeland. When he died five years ago she’d been devastated. Sometimes, alone at night in The Cloisters, she found herself talking aloud to him, knowing that—though he would have hated city life even more than she did—he would have loved her choice of career. Preserving the artifacts and the old ways.

Her eyes narrowed as Tom’s laughter shattered her reverie. He was chuckling over her swift transition from outrage to wonder. She caught herself and pasted a scowl on her face again. It wasn’t hard. A stranger was going to be touching a priceless text. Unsupervised. Who knew what might happen to it?

“Yes, I have them already, Chloe. And I didn’t ask your opinion of my methods. Your job is to manage the records—”

“Tom, I have my master’s in ancient civilizations and speak as many languages as you do. You’ve always said my opinion counts. Does it or doesn’t it?”