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“Molly, mi amor ? Are you okay?”

I know where I am, and I know what’s happening all around me. People jostle and push. And then there he is—my beloved Juan Manuel. But they’re pulling him away, lights and cameras in his face.

What’s happening? My head is spinning. I’m tired and weak. And someone is calling me, not out there, but from beyond.

You are never alone. You always have me.

I follow Gran’s voice, closing my eyes and sinking into the cozy darkness, safe and familiar— home sweet home.

I remember now, how it came to this. This morning, Juan and I left our apartment and made our way on foot to the Regency Grand Hotel, but once we arrived, a low-voltage jolt in the pit of my stomach made my shoebox tremble in my hands.

“Are you okay?” Juan asked.

“A tad nervous,” I replied. “I always get this way when we host a big event at the hotel. But all is well,” I said, to convince myself and reassure him.

We both stood for a moment, taking in the splendor of the Regency Grand.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Juan said.

“She is,” I replied. The hotel is a timeless treasure. Surrounded by crass billboards and brutalist office towers, it remains an elegant dame, a five-star, Art Deco jewel with red-carpeted steps leading to a gleaming brass portico and shiny revolving doors.

My entire professional life has taken place inside that hotel. I’ve grown within her walls, learned to be a room maid, and more than that, too. A year ago, our hotel manager, Mr.Snow, officially promoted me to a newly expanded role, making an important addendum to my extensive duties. I became Head Maid & Special Events Manager, in charge of private bookings—including today’s in the hotel’s Grand Tearoom.

I say this at the risk of being stricken down for overweening pride, but even now, after a whole year has passed with me in charge of the tearoom, I puff up a bit every time I think about how far I’ve come. Me—from Molly the Maid to Molly the Head Maid & Special Events Manager. There are times when my job is demanding and when I get overwhelmed by the workload, but I am happy. And at long last, I belong.

Juan has also climbed the competitive hotel hierarchy. Beginning as a dishwasher, he’s earned himself the esteemed role of Head of Pastry in the kitchen downstairs. Beyond overseeing breads, desserts, and baking, he’s in charge of high tea, which means not only will we be joined in matrimony in a few weeks’ time, but we are conjoined by our job functions, too. I love that man with my whole heart, and I cannot wait to be his wife.

Juan knows just how to put the “Special” in all “Special Events.” When the tearoom is full of expectant VIPs, I’ll ring the bell, and voilà —a tuxedo-clad army of penguin-like waiters marches in single file, carrying in their hands triple-tier tea trays replete with all manner of delicacies made by Juan and his kitchen staff—cucumber finger sandwiches with the crusts removed, heart-shaped macarons in rainbow colors, and Juan’s signature marzipan menagerie, one-bite wonders he calls “marzipanimals.”

“Earth to Molly. Are you sure you’re ready for this event?”

I got lost in my memory again, but Juan has always brought me back to the present—the only place where life truly exists.

“Look! It’s Mr.Preston,” he said.

Standing on the red-carpeted stairs of the hotel, chatting with the new young doorman, was the elderly man who for decades served as the revered doorman of our hotel. But Mr.Preston holds another title nearer and dearer to my heart, one that my gran kept a secret from me to the day she died. I was shocked when Mr.Preston revealed the truth a few years ago—that he wasn’t just a colleague but my flesh-and-blood grandfather.

When Gran and Mr.Preston were young, they fell in love, but Gran’s family did not approve of the union, even less so when they discovered Gran was pregnant out of wedlock. She had the baby—my mother, now estranged from me—but Gran lost touch with her old beau, Mr.Preston. Then they reconnected years later, but by that time, he was happily married to his lovely wife, Mary. According to Mr.Preston, Gran and he remained friends to the day she died.

It’s strange that I know so little about my gran’s past. Sometimes she seems like the biggest mystery of all. Who was her family? How did she grow up? Did she have a loving mother or grandmother, someone who taught her right from wrong? It’s a cruel fact of life that wisdom comes with age, which is why I now regret not pressing harder for answers while Gran was still alive. Whenever I asked her about her childhood, she changed the topic. It’s all water under the bridge, she used to say. Now let’s talk about you.

This morning, as I watched my gran-dad on the steps of the Regency Grand, it occurred to me that he’s the only living link to my past.

Gran-dad spotted Juan and me in front of the hotel and waved. His hair, a bit tousled as always, has turned snowy-owl white.

Juan and I rushed over to greet him, and he threw his arms wide.

“Gran-dad!” I said as he enveloped both Juan and me in a massive hug.

“I’m still not used to seeing you on these stairs without your doorman’s greatcoat and cap,” Juan said.

“Retirement has its perks,” he replied, “but I do miss this place. And I miss seeing you two every day.”

Gran-dad comes to our apartment every Sunday without fail. Juan cooks a delicious meal that we enjoy en famille, but I sometimes think Gran-dad might be lonely. He’s been a widower for so long—Mary died years before Gran—and his daughter, Charlotte, practices law far away. Lately, after Sunday dinner, the three of us sit on our threadbare sofa and tune in to the latest episode of Hidden Treasures. Gran-dad loves the show as much as Juan and I do, and he regularly amazes us with his encyclopedic knowledge of arts and antiquities.

“I’ll bet my right arm that’s a Tiffany vase,” he said just last week. Lo and behold, Brown proved him right.

“How do you know so much about old things?” Juan inquired.

“Takes one to know one,” he quipped. “Plus, I wasn’t always a boor, you know. As a young man, let’s just say I had access to a wealth of experiences.”

My ears pricked up immediately. “What do you mean?” I asked, but Gran-dad was suddenly riveted by the TV show and did not reply.

As I studied him on the steps of the hotel this morning, I noticed he held a leather-bound book under his arm.

“Is that for Brown and Beagle to appraise?” I asked.

“Indeed. Mr.Snow said I could pop by for the day’s big event, and I brought an old J. D. Grimthorpe novel, signed. It’s not a first edition, but it might be worth something. I see you’ve brought some goodies, too.”

“I have,” I said as I tapped the lid of my shoebox.

Just then, Speedy, the young doorman Mr.Preston had trained to take over his job, bounded down the stairs to greet us. Spindly as a sapling, he somehow manages to heft three or four suitcases at a time though there’s barely a muscle on him. When I first met him, I insisted on calling him by his given name, Peter, but he corrected me insistently.

“I’m fly and I’m flash, and I like to dash,” he said. “Call me Speedy. Everyone does.”

And so, unorthodox though it is, I respect Speedy’s wishes. Speedy is always tripping over his greatcoat, which hangs off him, and his cap is so big it threatens to fall right off his head. He certainly does not have Mr.Preston’s gravitas, but he makes up for it by doing the doorman’s job with a surfeit of youthful—if somewhat gangly—enthusiasm.

“Yo, yo!” he said to the three of us this morning as he bobbed in our faces like an eager gopher. “Bruh and Bagel just got here. Walked right up these steps five minutes ago!”

“Brown and Beagle,” I corrected.

“Like I said, they’ve arrived. And see that posse? That’s the camera crew. There’s the gaffer. He shines light on stuff to make it look better than it does in real life.”

Speedy, a tech wizard who loves music and movies, has been taking night classes in video production. He wants to work in the film industry one day, so having a TV shoot at the hotel is a dream come true for him.

“See the long-pole lady?” he said. “Boom operator. I’m still learning, but one day I’m gonna be a major film asphyxianado.”

“Aficionado,” I said.

“Like I said.”

Keeping up with Speedy’s hummingbird pace makes me dizzy, and there are times when his mouth does not match the pace of his brain, something I’m still learning to forgive.

“We’d better get in there,” I said.

“Lots to do this morning,” Juan added.

The three of us left Speedy and revolved into the busy lobby. Oh, how I adore that lobby, with its tangy scent of lemon polish mixed with a fine mélange of guest perfumes. The grand staircase in the middle of the main floor is an Art Deco pièce de résistance. The serpentine brass handrails spiral gracefully to the terrace, where voyeurs can survey the bustling scene below—bellhops and valets crisscrossing the marble floor with luggage in tow, and guests huddled together on the dark emerald settees, their secrets absorbed into the deep plush velvet.

Several months ago, Juan came walking down that very staircase, and in front of the entire staff of the Regency Grand, he proposed to me, slipping onto my finger a ring that once belonged to my gran. A simple gold band with a little heart in the middle held between two tiny hands, that ring is with me always, a reminder not only of my engagement day but of the woman who taught me that love is everything.

“I’m off to the kitchens, mi amor. I must check the marzipanimals. I made enough to fill Noah’s ark.”

“Will you come back for the preshow appraisal?” Mr.Preston asked. “It starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Juan replied. “Molly’s about to learn an important lesson.”

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“That sometimes a teacup is just a teacup,” he replied with a wink.

“My gran’s things will always have value to me,” I said.

“And that’s why I love you,” Juan pronounced as he blew me a kiss goodbye. “See you both in there.”

Juan hurried toward the stairs leading to the dank basement kitchen.

Gran-dad and I took in the lobby, a buzzing hive of activity. The settee area was cordoned off—a makeshift holding pen for the live audience waiting to enter the tearoom. Behind those maroon ropes, hordes of Brown and Beagle groupies—affectionately known as “Bee-lievers”—milled about with Bee & Bee VIP lanyards strung around their necks, holding in their hands treasures they hoped were real. My dear friend Angela, bartender at the Social, our hotel bar and grill, was attempting to maintain order at the corral’s entry point, but if her fiery hair was a barometer of her mood (and it always is), she was losing control entirely.

“Hair in a tizzy means Angela’s busy,” Mr.Preston whispered, reading my mind.

“Look what the maid dragged in,” Angela said the moment she laid eyes on Mr.Preston.

“It’s lovely to see you, Angela,” Gran-dad said. “But why are you manning the lobby?”

“The Social is closed today—Mr.Snow’s orders—so he’s assigned me to crowd control. And it’s not going well.”

“So I see,” said Mr.Preston as white-haired ladies sans lanyards ducked under the ropes of the exclusive holding area.

“Everyone is excited that Brown and Beagle are here,” I said.

“Molly, these fans are lunatics,” Angela replied. “See those two?” She pointed to a couple in the crowd. The man held an oversize jar in his hands.

“He claims he’s got Napoleon’s toilet paper in there.”

“I’m sorry?” Mr.Preston exclaimed.

“He swears the fine French lace in that jar was used to wipe the emperor’s royal arse. He tried to sell it to me!”

“For how much?” I asked.

“You’re missing the point,” Angela replied. “There’s only one authentic thing in that jar.”

“What?” I asked.

“The shite, Molly,” Angela answered.

“How do you know the lace wasn’t Napoleon’s?” I countered. “You’re not a world-renowned antiquities appraiser.”

“She’s right,” said my gran-dad. “With Brown and Beagle, you never know what might have value.”

“You’re as bonkers as they are,” Angela said, pointing a thumb at the throng of Bee-lievers gathered behind her.

“See you in the tearoom?” I said.

“Wouldn’t miss it for all the junk in the world,” Angela replied.

“I’ll stay here to help Angela,” said Mr.Preston.

“Much appreciated,” Angela replied. “Later, Molly.”

I took my leave and trundled down the long corridor leading to the tearoom. The space was as I left it the night before, each of the forty round tables crisply laid with white linens, a napkin folded into a graceful crane for each place setting, and every bit of Regency Grand silver polished to perfection. What was different was the stage at the front of the room, where the film crew was taping down electrical cords and setting up a display table between three high-backed thrones—on one side, two thrones for the hit show’s famous hosts and on the other, a third for the guest.

Mr.Snow stood in front of the stage as the lights beat down on him. He was conversing with a man in a rumpled T-shirt who was carrying a clipboard and wearing a baseball cap with a badge on it that said IRONIC in big, yellow letters. Mr.Snow, dressed in an elegant three-piece suit, nodded as he listened to instructions.

He spotted me and waved me over. “Thank goodness you’re here, Molly. The TV crew arrived far earlier than expected, and as I think you’ll find, they’re terrifically eager to begin.”

“But it’s only eight a.m . Filming starts at ten,” I said. “We’ve got staff appraisals first.”

“Actually, we’ve already begun filming,” the man in the ironic baseball cap said. “The best shots are happy accidents.”

“In my experience, accidents are rarely happy,” I replied.

“Molly, this is Steve,” said Mr.Snow, “the showrunner for Hidden Treasures. ”

“Honored to meet you,” I replied, offering a circumspect curtsy. I fully expected Steve to tip his ball cap, or better yet remove it completely, but I was afforded no such courtesy.

“What do you do here?” Steve asked.

“Head Maid and Special Events Manager, at your service,” I replied. “Normally, you would not have to ask such a question because I’d be properly attired in my maid uniform, with my name tag pinned adroitly above my heart for ease of identification. But alas, no one was expecting your crew quite so early this morning.”

“Right,” said Steve. “So, can we get the audience and staff in here, split? We’re ready to shoot.”

“Wait, you’re filming staff appraisals?” I asked.

“Like I said, we film everything,” said Steve. “All participants need to sign the appearance waiver. You wanna meet the Bees, you gotta sign on the dotted line,” he said as he tapped the stack of waivers on his clipboard.

From the look on Mr.Snow’s face, I could see he was as surprised as I was by this news. “Very well,” he said with a sniff. “Molly, alert the staff downstairs, and I’ll tell Angela.”

Steve nodded and left us. I dialed Juan immediately.

“This is Juan, the love of your life,” he answered. “How can I be of assistance?”

“They’re filming now. Tell your staff to come up posthaste.”

“What?” he replied. “We’re not ready.”

“I know,” I said. “But come up anyhow. And, Juan?” I added, “Can you grab my name tag from my locker?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. And goodbye.”

No sooner had I slipped my phone into my pocket than a wood-paneled door leading to the greenroom opened beside the stage. Brown and Beagle— the Baxley Brown and the Thomas Beagle—walked out. The second I laid eyes on the stars, I felt weak in the knees and my heart clapped excitedly in my chest. It was them! It was really, truly them, and in person the celebrity couple was jaw-droppingly magnificent.

They were dressed in their trademark velvet waistcoats—Brown’s scarlet, and Beagle’s royal blue. Brown was brawny and wide-shouldered, a very tall Prince Charming, with blond locks falling churlishly around his angelic face, a twinkle in his curious blue eyes. He looked even more handsomely chiseled IRL (as Juan would say) than he did on TV. Beagle was his physical opposite, a diminutive man, low to the ground like his canine namesake, but perfectly proportioned and no less dashing than his husband. He had wavy, dark hair and discerning eyes. He reminded me of that pop star who sang about raspberry berets and who changed his name to a symbol, which in my mind is even more perplexing than a man with a name like Peter choosing to go by Speedy.

As Beagle surveyed the room, his eagle-eyed gaze fell on me, and he bowed slightly in my direction. I couldn’t believe it. I would have reciprocated with a curtsy, but I feared loosening my knees might bring me to a delirious faint in the middle of the floor.

Familiar faces appeared at the entrance. There was Angela and my gran-dad, and trailing behind them, the VIP studio audience of Bee-lievers, carrying their precious objets in hand or wheeling larger items on trolleys. They streamed into the room and took their seats at the white-linened tables.

Next, in came Juan, heading straight for me. He was dressed in clean chef whites and his jaunty chef’s cap. “Your name tag, mi amor, ” he said. “May I?” He pinned it on my left side, right above my heart.

“Make sure it’s on straight,” I insisted.

“Do you think I don’t know you?” he replied. “Done.”

He then led valets and bellhops, maids and waiters, laundry staff and receptionists, into the room, their treasures in tow. I marched over to my co-workers and asked them to form a neat line that snaked from the stage-right stairs all the way to the back of the room. Various clipboard-toting crew members expedited the signing of waivers with mind-boggling efficiency.

With my shoebox in hand, I headed to the front of the line, where Mr.Snow was standing beside Speedy, who was bobbing up and down so much, I felt seasick.

“I’ll go up first to quell everyone’s nerves,” Mr.Snow said. “Then it’s you, Speedy—and please, don’t talk over the hosts. After that, it’s your turn, Molly. Good?”

I managed a curt nod, but my mouth was suddenly dry.

“Have you ever met a star?” Speedy asked me. “I’ve never met a star. We’re gonna meet the stars!”

“Quiet on set, everyone!” Steve called out as he loped to the front of the stage. “Welcome to Hidden Treasures, where Brown and Beagle find lost works of art, changing history and lives in a single moment. Cameras are rolling, and this might just be your lucky day. You never know what Brown and Beagle will find on… Hidden Treasures !”

He started clapping then, coaxing the audience to do the same. Onstage behind him, the two dapper costars blew kisses to the crowd. Then as the applause faded, they seated themselves on their thrones.

“Most of the time, we don’t find long-lost treasure,” Steve warned the audience, “but that’s not the point.”

“The point is to take the mystery out of history,” crooned Brown.

“And to dazzle and delight!” Beagle said as he flashed his bejeweled jazz hands, which elicited ooh s from the crowd. “Don’t be shy up here, folks. Remember, we appraise you as much as your treasure.”

“Camera’s rolling. First up!” Steve said as he pointed to Mr.Snow.

Mr.Snow walked up the stage stairs and took his seat across from the two expert appraisers. Under the strong lights, he started melting like soft-serve ice cream in the sun. He mopped his forehead with his pocket square, but the small cloth was insufficient for the task.

“Sir, I think you forgot something,” Brown said.

Mr.Snow looked with confusion from one Bee to the other. “I’m sorry?” he said.

“Your treasure. Or are you so precious you decided not to bring one?”

A hearty chuckle echoed through the crowd.

“My treasure is in my pocket,” Mr.Snow said.

“My, my, any takers?” Brown quipped as he sat up straight in his chair, more regal and taller than ever.

The audience laughed, and the hosts waited comfortably, basking in the glow of their witty repartee. As I stood to one side, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Mr.Snow. It’s no fun to be laughed at. Still, this is what the Bees do on their show—they say outrageous things, and the crowd laps it up every time.

“Pull it out, sir. Let’s have a look,” Beagle mused as he rubbed his small hands together with glee.

Mr.Snow reached into his breast pocket and removed his pocket watch, a beautiful antique timepiece, pure silver with a crystal face. He detached it from a watch chain that I’d given him for Christmas the year before.

“Ah!” said Brown as he cradled the watch in the palm of his large hand. “Folks, this here is an American-made timepiece crafted by the Waltham Watch Company.”

“Which is good news and bad,” added Beagle as he leaned in for a closer look. “The frame is a replacement, but the watch itself is original.”

“And this specimen is in decent shape, only a few scratches,” said Brown. “However, Waltham was among the first American companies to mass-produce watches.”

“Which means,” said Beagle, “that this one, even in fine condition, is worth only around two hundred dollars.”

“It was my grandfather’s,” said Mr.Snow. “It’s an heirloom to me.”

“Sentimental value, but not a treasure,” Brown pronounced. “Shall we get this man off the stage before he drowns in his own sweat?”

The crowd cackled.

“Next up!” Steve called.

“Here goes nothing,” Speedy said as he bounded up the steps like an adolescent antelope and took a seat on the guest throne. He held out one closed fist, waiting for the Bees to say something.

“What have you got for us, young lad?” asked Brown.

“So my cousin, right?” Speedy began. “He’s like one of those metal detector dudes? He trolls beaches looking for lost gold and crap. Oh crap, I just said ‘crap’! Am I allowed to say ‘crap’ on TV?”

“Bit late to ask,” Brown drawled, and the crowd chuckled.

“So, my cousin,” said Speedy. “He finds this coin, right? And it’s buried deep in the sand. And he freaks out when he digs it up and shows me. And all these girls in bikinis run over, and now they’re all screaming, too, and we’re jumping up and down on the beach, and—”

“What’s at the sharp end of a pencil?” Beagle asked, interrupting.

Speedy was quietly thinking, perhaps for the first time in his life. “The point?” he eventually replied.

“Exactly!” said Beagle. “Now get to yours. We don’t have all day.”

“The point is I’ve got a Roman coin in my hand.” He opened his fist to reveal a round object so tarnished it was hard to make out any features on it until he flipped it over. “Look. There’s one of them emperor dudes.”

He held the blackened coin as the camera zoomed in.

Beagle addressed the crowd. “What do you think, folks? Hidden treasure or hopeless hoax?”

The image of the coin was blown up on a monitor to the side of the stage. The crowd suddenly burst out laughing.

Brown pointed out what was obvious to everyone watching the screen. “That’s no Roman emperor,” he said. “That’s Queen Elizabeth.”

“And see there?” added Beagle. “The date might have been your first clue.”

“Oh. Right. 1980. But that’s, like, vintage,” Speedy said. “It’s gotta be worth something, no?”

“It is,” said Brown, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Most definitely,” agreed Beagle as he crossed his arms. “It’s worth a penny.”

The crowd heaved with mirth as Speedy was escorted off the stage.

“You’re up,” I heard as Steve Ferris-wheeled his arms, prompting me to the stage. My feet were glued to the spot, but I dislodged them and settled myself on the guest throne, legs pressed together, shoebox squarely placed on top. I could hardly breathe as I stared at the two stars—one big, bold, and bright, the other small, dark, and dashing. They twinkled in front of me as their ultra-white smiles caught the glare of the lights.

Sometimes a smile is not a smile.

“So you’re Molly the Maid,” said Brown, his apple cheeks curving down to a chiseled jawline.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Your name tag was my first clue,” Brown replied as the crowd laughed.

“So you’re in charge of special events and you’re a maid here at this hotel?” Beagle inquired.

“That’s right. I love my job. My gran always said if you choose the right job, you’ll never work a day in your life.”

“So true. I’ve never worked a day in my life,” Beagle said as he preened his glossy, dark curls.

“Descended from nobility, you’re a most regal Beagle,” Brown quipped.

“I’ve been called worse things,” said Beagle with a shrug.

“Molly, as a hotel maid, you must see so many things behind all those closed doors. Tell us, what treasures have you stumbled across in your time here?” Brown asked.

“Once, I found the diamond wedding ring of a dead tycoon in my vacuum cleaner, and let me assure you, that was quite a surprise. Another time, I stumbled across a guest’s snake coiled on a chair in the lobby, but while exotic and valuable, I wouldn’t exactly call that serpent a treasure. Oh, and I regularly find untouched turn-down chocolates left behind in guests’ rooms, the kind wrapped in gold foil and placed on your pillow? Believe it or not, not everyone likes them.”

“Who doesn’t like chocolates?” Brown said.

“Especially when wrapped in gold foil!” Beagle added as he slapped his knee.

Suddenly, the audience’s laughter was so shrill I could hardly think. I looked out at a sea of jeering faces and wide-open mouths.

“Are they laughing with me or at me?” I asked the Bees.

“Oh, isn’t she just darling ?” Brown drawled, his blue eyes sparkling.

“ She’s the treasure,” Beagle replied, and suddenly both stars were clapping—for me! The entire audience joined them, and I had no idea why.

“Molly the Magnificent Maid,” Brown said. “Are you ready to show us the contents of your little ol’ shoebox?”

“Yes,” I said. I removed the lid and placed the box on the table in front of me. “I’ve brought a few things that belonged to my gran. I wish she could be here today to meet you.”

“Why didn’t you bring her?” Beagle asked.

“Because she’s dead,” I replied.

Beagle’s eyes grew two sizes. “An excellent excuse,” he concluded.

“There you have it, folks. Molly tells it like it is,” Brown said.

Beagle leaned forward, peering into my shoebox. “My, my, what do I spy with my appraiser’s keen eye…”

“Well, well, what have we here?” Brown added as he donned a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses from the breast pocket of his scarlet waistcoat.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Bax?” said Beagle.

“I am, but I’m not quite believing it,” Brown replied as he slowly shook his blond head.

“If you’re looking at my gran’s favorite teacup, it’s fine bone china, Royal Standard, and these are pure silver souvenir spoons, and a Swarovski crystal swan…” I explained.

“Yes, all trinkets,” Beagle pronounced with a wave of his delicate, jewel-encrusted hand. “Worthless.”

“Not to me,” I said. “I also brought that old skeleton key that I’d love to know more about. My gran claimed it was the key to her heart.”

“The key to her diary is more like it,” said Brown. “Edwardian-style diaries were often kept under lock and key to protect the secrets of the well-to-do ladies who wrote in them.”

“But my gran was a maid, just like me.”

“Do you have her diary?”

“I don’t believe she ever kept one,” I said.

“Then her secrets died with her,” said Brown.

“Yes,” I said. “They most certainly did.”

“But, Molly,” said Beagle, “you’ve managed to point out everything in that box except the one item that’s actually caught our eye. Brown, you’re seeing this, too, yes?”

“I definitely am,” Brown replied, and as I watched, he covered his mouth with his hand in an expression that, if I’m not mistaken, might best be classified as “utter disbelief.” Brown reached into the box and gingerly removed the ornamental golden egg sitting on its delicate bow-legged pedestal. He held it carefully in the palm of his hand. The camera zoomed in for a close-up, the lights catching the egg’s sparkling jewels and the Bees’ rounded eyes.

“My word,” Beagle said as he leaned back in his chair. “Molly, you have brought us a most unusual item.”

“I didn’t mean to waste your time,” I said. “It was actually my fiancé’s idea to bring that silly egg here. It was given to me by a gardener who worked at a mansion my gran used to clean when she was a maid. I’ve been warned it’s a bit of junk, but no matter. It has sentimental value.”

“Good golly, Miss Molly. I wouldn’t jump to conclusions so quickly. I’m not so sure that’s a bit of junk,” said Brown.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Thomas,” said Brown. “What’s your assessment of the jewels?”

Beagle removed a jeweler’s loupe from the pocket of his indigo jacket. He held the magnifier over his small right eye, which grew several sizes under the loupe as he examined the egg proffered in his husband’s flat palm. “Jewels intact,” he said. “Free of inclusions. All cuts and markings characteristic of the period.”

Beagle brought the loupe down and stared meaningfully at his husband, though what exactly that look meant, I could not have said. “Bax,” said Beagle. “The gold pedestal.”

“Yes, I know,” said Brown. “Pure gold, through and through, twenty-four karat, the detailing unmistakable. In all my years as an antiquities appraiser, I never dared to dream I’d see such a thing with my own eyes.”

Both men paused and the audience drew a breath.

“Forgive me,” I said, clearing my throat. I was suddenly aware of the tension in the room. “I’ve been told I have a habit of missing obvious clues, but for goodness’ sake, will someone please explain exactly what is going on here?”

“Molly,” said Brown as, with exceptional care, he placed the egg on the display table between us. “I’m afraid Thomas and I are in a bit of a state of shock.”

“We are,” echoed Beagle, his mouth a tight line.

Baxley took off his glasses and returned them to his scarlet breast pocket. “What you have in that box is a bona fide, jewel-encrusted, one-of-a-kind prototype made by the famed St.Petersburg jewelers who once served the Russian tsars.”

I followed the words, but their meaning was lost on me. It was as though the two men were suddenly Charlie Brown adults blathering in a language I didn’t understand.

“Once upon a time, Molly, the Russian royals gave precious Easter eggs as gifts,” said Beagle. “They hired a very special design house to craft their imperial treasures, and for well over a hundred years, rumors have swirled about the prototype egg that started it all, the only closed egg ever designed, resting on an iconic gold pedestal, the original egg that inspired all those made after it.”

I was certain I was missing something, that as usual I was failing to comprehend the obvious. I decided to voice what was on my mind. “ All that glitters isn’t gold. That’s what my gran used to say.”

“And she was right,” said Brown. “But not when it comes to this egg. Each of the quatrefoils on it are inlaid with the rarest rubies, pearls, emeralds, and rose-cut diamonds.”

“And the pedestal base is pure gold, with cabriolet feet,” added Beagle. “There’s only one house in the world that ever detailed them like that.”

“The House of Fabergé,” Brown said.

“We called the egg the Fabergé—Gran and me. But it was a joke,” I said.

“This is no joke,” Beagle said somberly as he slipped his jeweler’s loupe into his blue velvet pocket. “The specimen of fine art you’ve brought today is not only rare, it’s a hidden treasure, unique in all the world.”

“I would estimate its minimum worth at five million dollars,” Brown added.

Both men’s faces blurred in front of me. Gasps and shouts rang through the crowd. Cameras zoomed in on my face, and questions were hurled my way.

“Molly, you’re a multimillionaire!”

“Molly, can you hear us?”

“Molly, mi amor. Are you okay?”

I couldn’t answer. Gold stars unfurled at the edges of my vision. Jewels and quatrefoils danced and jeered.

Then, suddenly, my world faded to black.