“And that, my dear people, is how you defend a dig site from wild dogs.”

A ripple of mumbling went through the students attending the class, which was nothing more than a couple dozen wooden chairs lined up in front of a lectern and a rolling chalkboard filled with scribbled drawings and hieroglyphs. Locked cases of broken artifacts sat along the outer walls, as well as a table filled with labeled teaching replicas of Middle Kingdom pottery.

Lording over all of this was Lowe. Several years younger than Winter, he was handsome and dashing and, like Astrid, he shared their mother’s blond hair. He was educated, well traveled, and his absurd stories were the stuff of legends.

A student raised his hand. “Will this be on the test next week, Mr. Magnusson?”

“Absolutely,” Lowe said, switching off the small light above his notes. “Don’t study anything in chapter eight about field methods. That would be a complete waste of your time.”

“But—”

Lowe gestured toward the tall, dark-haired woman standing next to him, dressed in black and strikingly attractive, if not intimidating. “And I only brought Mrs. Bacall out here for you to ogle. Disregard everything she told you about Egyptian funerary customs. Sure, she may very well be the most knowledgeable curator on this subject in the entire state, and yes, she holds a Stanford degree and a directorship at one of the most prestigious museums in the city, but you are paying gobs of cash to the university for more important matters, like drinking bathtub gin and getting rejected at petting parties.”

Soft chuckling followed. The students packed up their things and began shuffling out the door. Astrid moved aside and waited for everyone to leave. Her eyes surreptitiously tracked Bo, who was strolling down the hall and studying photographs that crammed the walls. When the last student exited, he looped around and met up with her, and they headed inside the classroom . . . only to stop short.

Astrid couldn’t tell who was the instigator, but Lowe was either pressing Hadley against the chalkboard or Hadley was pulling him against her. Either way, they had their hands all over each other in the least professional way possible.

Nothing like catching your brother with his tongue down his wife’s throat.

Astrid was simultaneously unsettled to see them act like randy animals and transfixed by their enthusiasm. She was also a little envious. Lowe said something that made Hadley laugh—a sound more intimate than Lowe’s hand, which was most certainly heading to cup Hadley’s breast.

And as she watched this unfolding, Astrid was acutely aware of Bo’s presence. She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered if he ever thought about putting his hands on Astrid like that.

She certainly had.

She chanced a quick look at Bo’s face and found his eyes titled toward hers. She looked away. Heat washed over her cheeks. Bo cleared his throat loudly.

Lowe and Hadley stopped but didn’t break apart. Hadley’s eyes just peered around Lowe’s shoulder, and when she spotted Astrid and Bo, the rest of her face followed.

“The youngest Magnusson has returned to the fold,” the black-haired curator said with a warm smile and slid away from Lowe. Astrid strode forward to meet her, eager to get away from Bo and her wild feelings.

“I missed you,” Astrid said, hugging Hadley’s slender frame.

“And not your own flesh and blood?” Lowe asked. “I’m wounded.”

Astrid hugged him, too, clinging a little longer. When their parents died, Lowe seemed to handle everything better. He had Egypt and his friends. He didn’t have Winter’s burden of being the driver in the accident—or the obligation to take over Pappa’s businesses, both legal and illegal. Lowe was the freest of the family, and Astrid always admired that. She longed for his easygoing nature and optimism. His good humor. She’d spent the last few years wishing he wasn’t so far away, always trotting off to exotic locations. When he’d settled down with Hadley and Stella, she’d hoped she’d have a little more of him more often, but then she was the one running off to college.

“Hey,” he murmured in a reassuring voice, pulling her back to study her face. “Glad to see you, too, baby sister. You look older and wiser. Far too pretty. I thought it had only been a few months. What happened to the towheaded yapper I gave piggyback rides?”

“Funny how getting older works, isn’t it?” she said with a smile.

“Ruins all of us,” he agreed, and reached beyond her to give Bo a hearty slap on the shoulder. “How’s the warehouse, Bo?”

“Still standing and sandbagged deep enough to keep out Poseidon, at least for now. Stella okay?”

“High and dry on Telegraph Hill with her nanny. She’s a little sad about the rain chasing all the parrots away, but we’ve assured her they’ll come back and that Number Five hasn’t eaten them.”

Number Five was Hadley’s lucky, death-proof black cat. He used to be Number Four until this past summer; whatever happened, they didn’t speak of it.

After small talk about their upcoming trip to Egypt (Bo was right about; Hadley practically glowed at the mention of it), the subject of the idol was raised. Astrid and Bo quickly told the story of the yacht once more. Lowe’s concern over Astrid’s well-being lessened when she told him about Velma’s tea—and then was temporarily forgotten when Bo brought out the polished turquoise figurine for their inspection.

“We think it’s solid turquoise,” Bo explained. “But we don’t know where it came from or what it’s for.”