Then the gilded, magnificent reception room of the palace came on the screen at last, looking exactly like the postcards vendors sold all over the city.

"Boss's in. We're good to go," the oldest of the men said, then clapped the rookie on the shoulder. "We'll be in an' out before they know what hit 'em."

The mood in the air was tense but optimistic as they checked their weapons.

"Anyone but her." Prince Istvan nestled the stash of two-hundred-year-old documents back into their leather pouch, then a ziplock bag and a protective box, careful not to damage the brittle paper. He shoved the copy he was making by hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. Every time he began work on the Maltmore diary, someone or something interrupted him. His office, located deep inside the palace, was supposed to be his sanctuary. He resented this latest intrusion, even if by his own brother.

Janos lifted a one-of-a-kind, eleventh-century medicine vial and turned it over, tapping the bottom with his fingernail while eyeing the rest of the curiosities on the desk. "She's already here. How was Brazil?"

"Loud." Istvan grabbed the artifact with his white-gloved hands and set it back on its special stand. He'd trained the staff to respect his wishes and keep their hands to themselves. But nothing was sacred to his brothers, who felt free to waltz in and rifle through centuries-old tre