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“I’ll see you at the altar, then?” Jessica called after him, trying to sound light.

  The artist turned and smiled, “I’m not sure what they say in these moments … good luck?”

  But Jessica did not have the courage to offer a riposte and simply contented herself with a smile before running for the stairs.

  The two bridesmaids, blonde and beautiful like Jessica, looked at each other, each one trying to find the right words. Neither one seemed to know what to say. Finally, Clara, the younger of the two, stammered:

  “Surprising!”

  For weeks, Jessica had kept her wedding dress a secret. It was the only detail of the nuptials that was not decided by Seth and she had refused to allow him to accompany her to the fittings. Clara and Beatrice had come to assume that their own outfits, highly fashionable long dresses in tulle and lace in Egyptian blue, that required long days and nights in the workshop of a famous Parisian fashion house, would give an insight into the extraordinary style of the bride. People had whispered about a mile-long train of precious lace, and a second identical dress locked in a safe. But this morning, when Jessica made her first tentative steps into the room, wearing full makeup and her wedding dress, Clara and Beatrice were…well…disappointed.

  The dress consisted of what seemed to be a single piece of silk of the most infinite delicacy, supported from her shoulders thanks to a thin thread, matching her body to perfection before ending in a small train. It was sublime and yet perfectly ordinary.

  Beatrice was still struggling to speak, “Beauty in simplicity…pure and simple. I guess I just imagined that there would be, well, more of it.”

  “Come here, sweetheart.”

  In a corner of the hotel suite sat Jessica’s aunt, Gigi. She was 80, practically blind, but had always been elegant and cheerful. A brooch depicting a colourful bird was pinned on the pale coat that concealed a frail body beneath. Gigi passed her battered old hands over Jessica’s body, touching the fabric of her fingertips.

  “You’re beautiful,” Gigi whispered with a smile.

  “One time,” said Clara to Beatrice, “I heard that an actress was given a huge diamond engagement ring, but she was also the type of girl that liked to keep things simple, so the jeweller simply set the stone inside the platinum band so that nobody could see it.”

  Beatrice made a face that made it clear she thought the idea absurd.

  “Do not tell me that there are stones stitched into the fabric? I don’t know much, but I’m pretty sure that’s not your fiancée’s style.”

  “Tut, tut, tut,” said Jessica as she walked out of the room, “Don’t you guys know anything? Tradition says that for my marriage to be happy, I have to wear something new, something old…”

  “…something borrowed and something blue!” the bridesmaids sang out in a strained chorus.

  “What you see here is my something new!” Jessica yelled from the adjoining bedroom, “But here…”

  “Don’t tell me she’s going to wear a tiara?” whispered Clara as Beatrice looked heavenwards and shook her head.

  When Jessica re-appeared Clara and Beatrice could not believe their eyes. Jessica wore an extraordinary woven necklace of gold with blue gem stones that covered all of her neck, shoulders, and décolletage. As if by magic, the dress adorned with the huge jewels had acquired a royal dimension. Jessica was no longer princess for a day, but a queen from another time.

  “A gift from Seth,” Jessica whispered, “Old, blue and borrowed … sort of. It was found in a tomb in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. It’s three thousand years old.”

  Jessica leaned towards Gigi so that her aunt could caress the oblong beads of lapis lazuli and fine golden filigree. Her face suddenly became serious and a silence settled as they all dwelled on the time that had passed and carried away many queens.

  Beatrice finally piped up, with only the slightest hint of melancholy, “I was expecting a million dollar dress. That would have been vulgar, of course, Yours is priceless. It’s beautiful.”

  Then, breaking the calm that had settled on them, they heard the bells toll in the distance. It was time.

  Everything that followed passed in a blur. The limousine ride, the Paris horns, passers by stopping to stare at the bride, and all the people who were working on the wedding whose names she could not remember but who bustled around her with precision and purpose. All too soon she was ascending the church steps, holding onto Gigi’s fragile arm – it would be her that would accompany Jessica all the way to the altar, as she had no other family.

  The doors of the great church of the Madeleine opened and the angelic voices of an invisible choir spilled out. Hundreds of pairs of famous eyes turned upon her, and there before the altar, was Seth, beaming.

  As Jessica walked into the nave, she wondered at the scale of the building, adorned as it was in blue, white and gold, made even more majestic than the hall of the Louvre by a beauty magnified by the divine.

  Under her veil, she whispered to her blind aunt, “If only you could see, it’s so beautiful…”

  Gigi’s thin hand gripped Jessica’s arm, as her heart pounded beneath the ancient necklace. Finally she was alongside Seth, his eyes sparkling. The priest began his sermon but the bride struggled to listen, intoxicated as she was by her own fate. The dream had become real.

  Her heart beat even harder when she heard the priest turn to say Seth’s name as he addressed him. She heard Seth say “I do”. She then heard her own name: Jessica, a name that was officially hers, but which her mother had never called her by. As he spoke, Jessica thought for a moment that she saw an almost imperceptible shadow cross over the priest’s face. A candle had gone out, leaving behind a ghostly helix of smoke that spiralled upwards towards the heavens. Life, love, death. Nothing else. In that moment she saw them with a terrifying clarity that took her breath away. She turned to see that Seth was staring at her and that silence had invaded the church. As seconds turned to dust, she wondered what she knew of eternal love. What was its nature? What was it, really?

  Almost simultaneously she felt, more than saw, Thaddeus’ grey eyes, illuminated by a mysterious smile. Then, in an instant, as if ascending from a great depth, the world around her, with all its splendour, luxury and gold, rushed back in and there, at the centre of it all was her prince, waiting. As all her beautiful tomorrows coalesced into focus, words finally took form in her mouth, “I do.”

  The priest smiled as a troubled look flickered across Seth’s eyes. The century-old church was briefly overtaken by murmurs and whispers. Had the bride hesitated? This bride - of all brides?

  But the mass resumed its course. Soon the suspicion that had caused a few tongues to wag was forgotten, the majority of the guests having put the slight mis-step down to innocence or nerves, something which endeared her to them even more.

  The hours that followed were even better than promised. The wedding of Jessica and Seth Pryce earned its place in the annals of high society as a truly unforgettable event. Fireworks burst into thousands of stars in the skies above Paris as limousines queued in front of the great pyramid. After the longest of nights, the last guests watched the sun rise from the terrace of the Café Marly. Finally there remained nothing of the precious nuptials except the images that the official photographer sent out at dawn to be reprinted in premier publications around the globe.

  The photos showed Jessica in her simple bride’s dress and queen’s necklace, dancing, swirling, laughing and kissing her prince, drinking in the moment like an elixir. She was there for all to see, at every stage of the evening, even until her blond hair was undone and her luminous smile radiated in all direction as the guests were saying their farewells. The last photo, bathed in a cold light, showed Jessica, barefoot in the Tuileries Gardens, nestled against the chest of Seth and dressed in his tuxedo jacket. She was gazing at her husband as they waved goodbye to Thaddeus, who had his head down, hands in his pockets, and a serene smile on his lips as he disappeared into the rising sun.

&n
bsp; But those memories would be for others. Because soon, that instant in front of the altar - that unlikely second when certainty had faltered, where a breath had been missed, allowing the angels to question the secret corners of her soul, where time had slowed enough to let them speak to her of life, love and death - this tiny instant would be the last that Jessica would remember.

  2

  Chapter 2

  Egypt, Cairo, June 18th - 28 days later

  Nasser Moswen ran, wheezing, down the halls of the Egyptian Museum of Cairo, the deafening echo of his heavy steps pregnant with malignant urgency. Some visitors had paused in their dawdling, throwing off quizzical looks: the museum was just a step away from Tahrir Square and stood amongst gutted buildings that were now nothing more than cinders. Egypt was still in the throes of revolution and barely one year before, the museum had been ransacked and its mummies decapitated.

  The small man continued to run. His mouth dry, his crimson face bathed in sweat, a mobile phone grasped in one clammy hand, he zigzagged clumsily between the ancient statues and windows smudged with dust. He had to get out of that museum. With luck, he would be at the Four Seasons hotel in twenty minutes. He swore a silent oath under his moustache and continued his crazy marathon towards the colossal door that gave out onto the street. He took the steps four at a time and sprinted for his car.

  Nothing seemed unusual in the streets of Cairo. The gatherings, ripped sidewalks and twisted pipes from clashes a year before were now part of the ordinary landscape of the Egyptian capital. It was absurd, thought Nasser. The world should have slowed down, like when one watches an accident unfold. His own life was slipping away - he was so sure of it, it made him sick. But if he did not arrive at the Four Seasons in time, it would be even worse.

  He started his battered and rusty car and sped off, foot to the floor, into the dense traffic that jammed into the neck of the 6th of October Bridge. He hooted and pounded on his steering wheel all the while pressing “Redial” on the mobile phone.

  “Four Seasons Hotel. This is Salma, how may I be of service?”

  “Has Dr. El-Shamy arrived?” screamed Nasser.

  “Room number, please?”

  “No, no, no, I called earlier. Dr. El-Shamy. He is giving a press conference in the Champollion room. It’s urgent, I must speak to him immediately!”

  “Please hold.”

  Nasser activated the loudspeaker and then held the phone between his knees so that he could use both hands to pound on the horn with renewed vigour. He passed a truck and avoided an oncoming SUV by centimetres, creating a cacophony of horns and shouting to accompany the music from the Four Season’s switchboard.

  “Sir, I am sorry but the press conference has just begun and we are not able…”

  “Look, I am Dr Nasser Moswen, assistant curator at the Egyptian Museum. I am a colleague of Dr El-Shamy, and it is of the utmost importance, I repeat, the utmost importance, that I speak to him immediately. It is an affair of national security…”

  “Beep beep beep…”

  No network coverage. In a rage, Nasser cursed and tossed the telephone onto to the ripped and torn passenger seat. But soon, the huge facade of the Four Seasons loomed up against the blue sky. He drove up onto the sidewalk and almost jammed the horn before finally coming to a screeching halt in front of the hotel entrance. He knew his way to the Champollion Room, his boss’s favourite venue for his many press conferences. As he rushed into the cavernous lobby and then shot past several hotel employees, all dressed in their signature gold and black waistcoats, he felt their disdainful looks as if his race against time had no place in this cosseted world of wealth and privilege.

  After finally reaching his destination, Nasser burst open the gilt painted doors and then stopped. Never before had he seen the room so tightly packed. Cameras on tripods lined each side of the seating area and had colonised the area immediately in front of the small podium at the front of the room. Every seat was occupied and large numbers of journalists were sitting on the floor leaning against the walls. The logos stuck to the cameras boasted of all the big international media outlets. Some of the spectators turned to Nasser, who suddenly saw himself as they must have seen him: dishevelled and accompanied by the rancid smell of sweat and fear. But he quickly forgot them: Dr El-Shamy, general secretary of the Supreme Council of Egyptian Antiquities (SCA), director of the Egyptian Museum of Cairo and premier archaeologist in the country, had stepped onto the podium.

  A murmur of admiration ran through the room as the image of a mummy appeared on the huge screen. Then silence settled. El-Shamy, a large man of indeterminate age, bent his body over the lectern. His hair was jet black, underlined by fine grey lines at the temples and all of it much too thick to be real. The black shirt and blue jeans, may have seemed too informal for the gravity of the occasion, but together with tinted glasses which hid the hollowness of his features, were carefully designed to disguise the passage of years. This was a man had learned the hard way that perception was everything. The archaeologist adjusted his piercing gaze and began to speak in his characteristic nasal monotone:

  “For ninety years, since Howard Carter first brought to light the tomb of Tutankhamen in the Valley of the Kings in 1922, there has been a tradition within media circles of insisting on claiming even the slightest find associated with Pharaonic Egypt to be “the biggest discovery since Tutankhamen”.

  “Throughout my career as a guardian of the treasures of King Tut and as a representative of Egyptian archaeology, I have personally never used this phrase, even though many of you have tried to force me into it.”

  Discrete and knowing chuckles rippled through the room.

  “But today,” continued El-Shamy, gravely, “with the discovery of Queen Nefertiti and the seventy-three items that form her funeral finery, I give you, ladies and gentlemen of the press, after a century of waiting, the sound-bite you’ve been waiting for. Yes, I can confirm that this is, indeed, the greatest discovery since Tutankhamen.”

  Journalists applauded as El-Shamy, looking even more severe than usual, posed for the photographers in front of the large picture of Nefertiti. Nasser squinted: the camera flashes caused a new wave of nausea and forced him to hesitate. His head throbbed as he searched in vain for a solution. How was he supposed to talk to El-Shamy in front of all these journalists? And what if one of the media overheard what he had to say to his boss? But before he could find the answers to his own questions, the stern voice of El-Shamy rang out once again from beneath the gilded mouldings.

  “Before I share with you the treasures that this discovery has brought to light, I want to talk a little about Nefertiti. We often forget that when the queen lived, in the eighteenth dynasty during the fourteenth century BCE, it was a period marked by profound revolution. The pharaoh Akhenaten, her husband, had abandoned the religion of the times and established a totally new religious order. This would have impacted all levels of Egyptian life and met with strong resistance from the people and the powers that reigned. The country was also experiencing major epidemics of influenza and plague, which weakened it further. When I look at the history of Egypt in the time of Akhenaten, I can’t help but see similarities with the upheavals that our country endures today. And yet, three thousand years later, do we remember his reign as one of chaos? No. Instead, we recall it as one that gave birth to unmatched excellence in the arts. But most importantly, we remember the serene grace of Nefertiti.”

  “Nefertiti is the symbol of our resilience and of our culture. From children forming their identity as citizens in front of the school blackboard, to men and women who build the Egypt of tomorrow from the debris of Tahrir Square, right through to the archaeologists who work day and night to safeguard our heritage - all Egyptians recognize her as their queen.”

  The Egyptian paused and stared at his audience like a judge staring down the accused.

  “Nefertiti represents the eternal Egypt,” he continued, hammering his words onto the ears of his listeners, �
��and yet she will never return to Egypt.”

  Slowly, as the entire Champollion room watched, Nasser approached the podium.

  3

  Chapter 3

  Cairo, Giza plateau, a few hours earlier

  Florence sighed with frustration. It was a pain to be sitting there and the impressive view of the three pyramids of Giza was no compensation at all. She had already visited the place as a tourist years ago. She was hot and her fluorescent tank top stuck to her curves. It was 6pm and yet she was sure that she could feel the sting of sunburn on the white tattooed skin of her shoulders.

  The cameraman was dozing against his tripod. The sound recordist was grumbling because he hadn’t had enough time to drink his coffee. They had rushed dinner to be there on time, but now the guide was late. The night shoot was not starting out well at all. And to think that at that very moment, Florence should have been sipping an iced tea surrounded by the cool marble of the Four Seasons lobby. Her mind turned again to that moron Andrew, but that only made her temper worse.

  Florence Mornay had pink hair, red fuchsia lips regardless of the season or reason, a sharp tongue and gave the impression of not taking anything too seriously. Her deep vowels and perfect diction combined with a slight West Country twang to suggest upper class roots from somewhere near Devon or Cornwall, but this was so out of keeping with her numerous tattoos and prolific swearing that many thought it just a ruse. They were wrong. Her full name was Florence Ottoline Desiree Mornay-Devereux. Her father, Charles, was the tenth Viscount Falmouth and frequently railed against the establishment from his seat in the House of Lords. He instilled in his children a love of work and they had all learned to reject the easy path that had been presented to them by the good fortune of a noble birth. The name Mornay-Devereux had been emblazoned upon the pages of countless encyclopaedias thanks to the glorious deeds family members had performed through the ages. Florence was the youngest of this illustrious family and because she was yet unmarried, still bore their name. But despite a doctorate in archaeology from the University of Oxford and a few minor screen credits for a couple of BBC programs, at twenty-eight years of age, she had yet to make a name for herself. She thought a documentary about Nefertiti would be her breakthrough. But she had not reckoned on the incompetent toad who had been assigned to co-direct the documentary with her, Andrew Sheets.