Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
So much for hoping I’d never have to deal with Nile and her bullshit again.
3
TREASURE MAP (CLEO)
Welp.
I’m so confused I can hardly breathe.
PopPop loved his mysteries growing up. He was a master of puzzles and he made it his personal mission to send us on complex scavenger hunts along the beach, the backyard, or sometimes when we’d visit that adorable little cabin upstate.
But this?
This feels a little like finding out my adoring, whimsical grandfather pulled the legendary sword from the stone, and he’s just been sitting on it for my entire life.
My head keeps whirling well over an hour later, though it feels like ten minutes. Maybe three lifetimes.
Who knows.
His crumpled letter hangs from my hand, the ink slightly smudged from the sweat on my palms. I’ve read it so many times I can probably recite the words in my sleep, but I still don’t grasp what it’s saying.
I mean, I understand the literal message. But the reality where he left this egg for me?
I can’t.
I can’t believe he chose me over Ethan and Margot and everybody in the world who’s more qualified. He decided to give me the Hera Egg no one knew he had.
I bring the letter to my chest, inhaling it.
I swear there’s the faintest hint of his smell.
Old books and muted cologne. Leather and leaves. A lifetime of celebrations and regrets from Maine to New York to Athens and Cairo.
He called me his granddaughter, and I believed him. But if I had any doubts when inheritance time came… I wonder if this is how he’s decided to prove it.
Reading his words lets me hear him from the Great Beyond. Something I never thought I’d experience again.
My dearest Cleopatra.
Despite everything, I smile.
He’s probably the only person alive who’d call me by my full name.
Definitely the only person who didn’t make me feel ridiculous for being named after an ancient Egyptian queen.
We can thank my parents for that. A grandma on my mom’s side who shared the name was all it took to get Dad on board. He loved how pretentious it sounded and swore it made me destined for greatness.
Too bad I never fit the bill.
But now that I’m a little older and past the high school teasing, I’ve grown into it, I guess. Cleo suits me because it’s familiar.
And partly because PopPop made it more tolerable with his stories and old history books. He made me realize being a badass, strong woman is actually a bit of a humble brag.
Big shoes to fill after a queen who had Julius Caesar and Marc Anthony wrapped around her finger, but sometimes there’s a little placebo effect. Channeled energy.
Back when I didn’t believe in myself, when I thought Dad’s sad legacy was the only thing I’d inherit, I had to cling to PopPop’s confidence in me.
His acceptance for my name, my art, my troubled little existence.
I continue reading.
By now, Miss Wilkes has shown you the Hera Egg, and you’ll know the gravity of what I’ve bequeathed to you. You’ll understand why it’s vital that it doesn’t get sold off like another middling niche piece from the rest of my collection.
You must wonder how it came into my hands.
Pure happenstance.
The Hera Egg found me as a young man, on a business trip to Crete. This was decades ago, not long after the Second World War and the Greek Civil War ended. Everything was chaos, an entire continent in shambles still trying to recover.
History grabs you by the throat the second you step into a war-torn country trying to get on its feet. I can’t tell you how messy it was, how they needed fresh blood and brave money.
You’re a smart girl. I won’t bore you with details. I know you’ll look it up if you truly care.
A rumor brought me to an antiquities dealer in a small fishing town. I suppose I always had a knack for following my nose, which is exactly what I did after a long day hiking and winding through bustling markets.
The smell was a magnet. A kakavia fishermen’s stew I can still taste to this day had me breaking bread with two brothers who had a relative in the marketplace.
My gut told me I had a lead worth pursuing, and it turned out I was right. The dealer kept it in a back room, hidden in a ceramic urn.
When he laid it in front of me, I thought I’d gone blind. Even through a layer of dust, it was as bright and beautiful as a diamond from another world.
If the dealer didn’t have paperwork backing up his discovery, I would’ve believed the egg was another forgery, but I took a chance on the purchase. Intuition, you see?
I stop and smile.
It’s like he’s in the room with me, standing in front of the fire with his hands clasped, recounting his story in that slow, steady bard way he had. Like he’d carefully chosen every word in advance.