The stately, hallowed halls of the British Museum were cool and hushed, and vacant—precisely the way he enjoyed it. “Laurentian Wilburforce Cranston!” The shouted name echoed around him, bouncing off the gilt-framed portraits of England’s former monarchs, who suddenly appeared to glare with disapproval at such a disturbance in their august midst. The mere shock of hearing his given name, which he never allowed spoken, brought him to an abrupt halt. It had been years since anyone had dared to speak it, much less shout it out in this vulgar way. The nine syllables, enunciated just so, reminded him of Eton, where he’d bloodied more than a few noses over just such a taunt. Both Leticia and Lawrence looked up at him wonderingly. He gave each nearly identical face a reassuring nod before turning to confront the source of such an outrage. Seated on a stone bench directly under a life-size portrait of Queen Elizabeth was a stiff-backed, silver-haired woman swathed in stark black.
