The Prince Next Door. Sue Civil-Brown

late prince’s line that was not yet defunct. Then they followed the catacombs along that branch and came to me. They naturally believe, given the way the catacombs are laid out, that I’m descended from that long-ago prince, and am his only surviving male heir.”

      “And you disagree.”

      “Certainly I disagree. Is my entire future to be determined by a handful of Masolimians crawling through a network of crypts with flashlights and a ball of twine?”

      “Well, when you put it that way…”

      “What’s more, they’ve made no allowance for the fact that one or more walls might have been broken through by nature or accident. They may well have followed an entirely wrong course!”

      “That’s possible.”

      “Of course it’s possible,” he said. “In fact, it’s likely, considering how far back they had to go. We’re talking about the fifteenth century here.”

      Serena nodded, fascinated. “That is a long time back.”

      “Long enough for something to have become bollixed. I’m hoping to prove that with as little ado as possible.”

      “But how? Aren’t the crypts a map themselves? The only map? Isn’t that why the genetics company wants the contract?”

      He nodded and sipped coffee. “But I did my homework, you see. There is a seventeenth-century map of the entire network of catacombs. And it’s here. Well, it’s in St. Petersburg. Five miles from here.”

      “Where?” Coffee forgotten, she leaned forward, as expectant as a child on Christmas morning.

      “In storage at the Kristoff Museum.”

      “I’ve been there. It’s quite a place, but don’t they show mostly artifacts from old civilizations?”

      He too was leaning forward, looking less urbane and far more intense. “A private collector has made a conditional donation. It’s a hodgepodge of works of art and artifacts collected from around the globe.”

      “Well then.” Serena straightened. “All you have to do is ask to see the map.”

      He shook his head. “I wish it were that easy.” Rising, he began to pace the room. “The museum won’t let me see any part of the collection, because the donation is conditioned on the collection being seen by no one until the donor dies.”

      “Why would someone do that?”

      He gave her a wry look. “Oh, I suppose because the provenance of some of the articles is in doubt.”

      “What do you mean?”

      He lifted a hand. “Some of it is stolen.”

      “Oh. Oh! But…” Now Serena was standing. “From museums?”

      “Probably not. Would you like a croissant or something?”

      “No, thank you.”

      He nodded and resumed pacing. “First of all, a lot of artwork disappeared during and immediately after World War II. Someone who stole any of those items would not want to be identified while alive. Then there’s another whole category of theft, having to do with archaeological artifacts. Most countries have made it illegal for such items to be in the hands of private collectors, and certainly illegal for them to be removed from their country of origin. This collection could well contain some of those items.”

      Serena nodded. “So the museum will lose the collection if it lets you view anything at all.”

      “Precisely. And I attempted to get permission from the collector directly, just to see the painting of Princess Rotunda, but he refused.”

      Serena blinked. “Princess Rotunda? For real?”

      He smiled. “For real.”

      “Good grief, the poor woman!”

      “Indeed.”

      She shook her head. “But why would you want to see the portrait of a princess? I thought you wanted to see a map.”

      “I do. But the map is overlaid on the Princess’s portrait.”

      “What?”

      He spread his hands and shrugged, looking suddenly very Gallic. “Apparently someone was short on materials for making the map. Or perhaps it was done purposefully. No one knows for sure. The stories I’ve been able to dig up conflict in all but one essential element—the map of the catacombs as they existed in the midseventeenth century is painted over her portrait like a spiderweb.”