Chapter Text
Darlington sat at his desk in the museum’s annex. A pile of paperwork lay to his left. An out tray sat to his right. His laptop buzzed like a jet taking flight on the blotting mat directly in front of him. It was a tiny room added to the original structure in the 1960s. The avocado green kitchen had grown on him over the last three years. It reminded him of Black Elms' kitchen in a strange way. Both spaces were late editions to the house and served as a snapshot of taste during their creation. The room’s lack HVAC continued to be a thorn in his side. The room was stuffy regardless of the swamp coolers a previous curator had installed in one of the room’s two windows. He had stripped out of his suit jacket and vest. The garments hung on a cedar wood hanger on the back of the room’s door. His sleeves had long been rolled to his elbows. The tie at his throat loosened enough to pop the top two buttons. He needed to make headway on the pile of papers if he had any hope of making his train home. There was a reception going on at Yale that evening, and Darlington was never one to miss an opportunity to gorge himself on free food and drink. He would network as well, of course. His tenure as curator was nearly at an end, which meant it was time to start looking for a new position.
A knock on the door pulled his attention from the paperwork. Pamela Dawes, researcher and collections manager for Lethe, stood in the doorway. She looked positively miserable in her dark blouse and trousers.
“What’s up Pammie?”
“Um…the new assistant curator is here. Thought you’d want to meet them before you called it a day.”
“Oh…” Darlington looked at his Outlook calendar. There wasn’t a meeting scheduled, but perhaps it was for the best. “Send them in.”
Pamela nodded; her eyes flashed with worry as she turned towards the door. She always flitted about him like a concerned Jewish mother asking if he needed anything and bringing him food.
Darlington opened a drawer of his desk and dropped his unfinished paperwork into it. Then he locked his laptop and waited. He had no idea what to expect from the assistant curator. The senior curator was never directly involved in the selection. That was left up to the museum’s board of directors. It was always someone from Yale, always someone with an interest in the unusual. Beyond that the criteria were a mystery. Darlington had been incredibly tempted to look at the resumes where Sandow had filed them on the Museum’s shared cloud but had resisted. The creeping dread that his time with the strange and wonderful Lethe collection niggled at him. It felt like just the other day he had walked through the doors of the strange Second Empire mansion in New York City. He had been greeted then by Michelle Alameddine. The thin and severe-looking woman in a mock turtleneck blouse had raised an eyebrow as she surveyed him. He'd worn his best suit for the occasion. The one his mother bought for his college graduation. Harper Arlington has fawned over him while the tailor made chalk marks for alterations and his father tried to convince him that selling Black Elm was tantamount to his future. He's introduced himself and Michelle had given him a half smile.
“Daniel Tabor Arlington the Fifth. Such a mouthful for such an eager assistant. Don't you have a nickname?”
Darlington had felt his face turn red. He'd had several nicknames throughout his life to separate him from his father, from his grandfather, but they weren't exactly professional names. Then he'd remembered what his roommates in Davenport had called him.
“You could call me Darlington if you prefer.” Michelle had smiled, and that was it. He was Darlington. Everyone but his parents called him that now.
A soft knock on his office door pulled Darlington from his reveries. A slim young woman, only a few years younger than himself, stood in the doorway. She was wearing a black long-sleeved buttonup and black pants. They looked a little worn to Darlington's eye. The knees and elbows were beginning to fade to a dark grey color.
“Come in. You must be Galaxy Stern.”
He stood and walked around his desk to greet her properly. She eyed his hand cautiously before clasping it in a clammy shake.
“Alex Stern. Only my mother calls me by my full name.”
Darlington motioned to one of the mismatched chairs that sat in front of his desk. He watched Alex choose. He like this little test of people. Which chair they chose told him a bit about the kind of person they were.
He leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossing over his chest.
“Sandow said you studied art and history of art at Yale?”
Alex nodded, playing with the cuff of her shirt. “Did you have Dr. Brandt for the Global Decorative Arts?”
Her eyes seemed to spark at the name. “Yes. I had to write a twenty-page paper on Faberge eggs for my mid-term. He is also the reason I never want to look at a tapestry again.”
Her comment had laughter bubbling from Darlington’s lips. He could vividly remember driving his roommates crazy as he drilled the meanings of different medieval tapestry symbols into his head ahead of an exam.
“Well, I have good news then. As curator of the Lethe Museum, you are in control of what we show. At least most of what we show. Have you visited before? Or would you like the personal tour?”
“This is actually my first time in New York. I didn't even know this place existed until Dean Sandow approached me about the curator position.” At least she was honest.
Darlington pulled himself upright. “Shall we begin then, Miss Stern?”
Alex stood, pulling at the arms of her shirt. He wondered idly if she was trying to hide something then filed the thought away There would be plenty of time to investigate what made Alex Stern tick later.
He started her with one of his favorite rooms at Lethe. In the center of the room was a bowl made of beaten gold. It was a big as a tractor tire and shimmered as the room’s lighting bounced off its many hammered faces. He heard a quiet gasp behind him. The sound made Darlington puff up with pride. Yes, this was the glory of the Lethe Museum.
"The Lethe Museum was founded in the early 20th century by a coalition of Ancient Eight members and some of their friends. Alex let out a noise somewhere between a cuff and a snort. Darlington just kept on going, like he did with the board members who didn’t quite understand what he was talking about.
“Originally the museum was intended to house a rotating assortment of the curiosities on loan from the societies. But that changed when Hiram Bingham the third, one of our first curators, returned from Peru."
"Where he discovered Machu Pichu. I remember," Alex interrupted.
Darlington caught the note of scorn that Alex used on the word discovered. That would be helpful later.
"Exactly. He came back with several steamers worth of treasures and gave most of the items to Yale. The rest he arranged here." Darlington stepped closer to the bowl.
"This is Hiram’s Crucible. The centerpiece of our permanent collection."
Alex stepped closer to the crucible. She squatted in an inelegant way to better examine the beaten gold.
"I thought Yale repatriated all the artifacts he brought back."
"Ah. But this was never given to Yale."
"Stolen goods..." Alex murmured, "every museum’s wet dream"
Darlington chuckled. Well, this was a bit of a surprise.
"The shelves along that wall…” Darlington pointed to the far wall. Its entire expanse was covered with custom cabinetry. “Were designed by Hiram and constructed by a master carpenter. Every nook and space was designed for a specific artifact in the permanent collection. There are strings of pearls that allegedly provide protection against evil spirits, a mirror that can capture a person's soul in its blackened glass, and more. The ultimate cabinet of curiosities so to speak.”
He didn't spend long on its contents. There would be time for them to go piece by piece another day. As he led Alex into what had once been the formal dining room with its intricate fireplace. The room was filled with a collection of dinnerware.
"It's technically called the china cupboard, but it's honestly a bit of a misnomer."
Alex stepped closer to examine fine examines of Waterford and Swarovski crystal arranged beside oddly painted China and earthenware vessels of all shapes and sizes.
"The door there is blocked, but it used to lead to the kitchen, which is now our offices."
He led Alex through the rest of the rooms pointing out his favorite pieces as they went. He would have spent more time in the rotation exhibition rooms, but their time was beginning to run short. The sun was starting to slant through the windows filling rooms with contrasting shadows and warm light. Darlington led Alex back to his office.
Pamela passed them in the main hallway, messenger bag hitting her hip with each tentative stride. She seemed a bit scared of Alex. Her eyes were wide as they darted back and forth as if looking for a way to escape. She manager to slip pasted before Darlington to give his customary farewell.
The office was noticeably more temperate when they arrived. The swamp cooler hummed loudly as they worked to beat back the sticky humidity. Darlington checked his watch. It was just after five. Alex stood there, awkwardly trying to figure out what she was supposed to do. The tip of an unpainted thumbnail was slotted between her teeth.
“Normally the curator takes the new assistant out for dinner so they can get to know each other better,” he said breaking the stale silence between them. As he talked, Darlington placed his trusty satchel on the desktop, placed his laptop, and placed several files into it. “But I have to get the train to New Haven at six, so rain check?”
Alex shrugged. Her hand fell to her side. Darlington swore he caught a glimpse of dark splotches on her skin in the brief second her forearm was visible. “You’re the boss.”
He tried to give her his most reassuring grin. “I look forward to working with you Ms. Stern.”