“Got everything out of harm’s way?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“This will never work,” she repeated as she gripped the handle harder. “You’ll kill me.”

“Then we’ll be even. Where to?”

She exhaled a long breath. “The museum.”

He nodded, showing no surprise for their destination—just popped the kickstand and glided the bike down the driveway. Not so bad. Until he headed onto the street. The pavement seemed to peel away when the motorcycle sped into the night. Cool air rustled the hairs of the mink as they raced past the mansions on Broadway.

When he turned down a road that sloped toward the Bay, she lost faith in the handle and threw her arms around Lowe’s torso, holding on for dear life. Her stomach dropped. Her heart drummed against her ribs. She pressed her cheek against his back and held on more tightly, wanting to scream for help or maybe even joy—joy? How was that possible?

But it was. An exhilarating sort of joy that bordered on madness. And even through the cantankerous roar of the engine, she could hear laughter rumbling inside his chest. He was deliciously warm and solid beneath her arms—so much so, she didn’t care about the rickety wicket of a handle uncomfortably jabbing her stomach, or the sharp scent of gasoline and motor oil wafting past her face, or her no-touching rule. Nothing mattered but the shape of him—a living, breathing anchor. And while city lights blurred along the foggy roads they traveled, she did her best to memorize how it felt to hold on to something so reassuringly sturdy.

It didn’t last long enough, because she soon recognized the familiar lawns of Golden Gate Park. And when he parked by the administrative offices, she nearly fell off the motorcycle trying to disentangle herself from him while quickly shifting her dress into place.

“Mind the engine,” he said, helping to steady her while she stood on wobbly legs. “Burns like hell if you touch it. Believe me, I know from experience.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

If he said even a single word about her clinging to him, she would wither from humiliation. But when he didn’t, she eventually answered, “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Better than ‘awful,’ I suppose. I’ll take it.”

Mildly self-conscious, she glanced around the back parking lot. Empty but for three cars belonging to security guards. “If the guards question us, let me do the talking this time,” she said. “No more crazy stories of domestic abuse and pregnancy.”

“If you insist. Now, what’s the plan? Where do you think the map’s hidden?”

She retrieved a set of keys from her coat pocket. “Right under my father’s nose. Come on. Let’s see if I’m right.”

Shadows greeted them inside the office entrance. The guards concentrated their patrol on the museum proper, only occasionally making a pass through the administrative offices. Hadley would rather avoid them completely, so best to work quickly. She led Lowe directly to her father’s office and closed the door behind them.

“You didn’t recognize anything my mother said in regards to the location of the map?” she asked, switching on her father’s desk lamp.

“Sounded like bad poetry.”

“I suppose that depends on your tastes. Father used to give my mother books for every occasion—birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas. Expensive books. First editions. And they’re right over here.” She headed to one of the bookshelves on the far side of his office, near the door that connected to hers. “He said they were an investment, that he was giving her the pleasure of the words as well as something that would increase in value over time. But I remember hearing her tell my nanny that though Father may have given them to her, they were really more for him. Not that he’s a lover of poetry, mind you. He’s just a collector.”

“These here?” Lowe’s gaze darted over the shelves. “Must be a hundred or more. They survived the Great Fire?”

“My family home was just west of the fire line. We were lucky.”

“We were in the Fillmore District at the time, so us, too.” Lowe frowned. “You’re certain your mother was referring to lines of published poetry?”

“My parents might’ve only been collectors of books, but I’ve probably read every volume in this room at least once.”

“I read a lot in Egypt,” he said. “Mostly The Argosy and Weird Tales.”

“Pulp magazines don’t count as reading.”

“What a little snob you are,” he said, slanting narrowed eyes her way. His smile told her he was teasing, but maybe he had a point.

“Regardless,” she said. “If you’d read something with an actual spine, you might’ve figured this out. Because my mother said we could find the map in ‘Seine’s cold quays, in the fields of gazing grain, on night’s Plutonian Shore, and on a painted ship.’ I recognize at least two of those lines. ‘Plutonian Shore’ is from ‘The Raven.’”

“Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Very good. I suppose Berkeley didn’t completely fail you,” she murmured, scanning the shelves in front of them.

“There,” Lowe said, pointing to the highest shelf. “Help me move this out of the way.”

Together they dragged the wingback chair in which her father smoked cigars across the floor. Once it was out of the way, Lowe’s impressive height gave him access to the top shelf. The tips of his fingers tugged out a volume. It was Poe, all right. He thumbed through it, once, twice. Tipped it sideways and fluttered it around to see if anything fell out of its pages. Nothing.