Remembrandt
Praise for Remembrandt
Remembrandt is a clever and fast-paced young adult suspense novel. Alexandra Stewart starts a new semester at Brown University, hoping to leave behind painful memories, which is nearly impossible when her eidetic memory replays everything in movie-esque detail. Things aren’t always what they seem: her new running partner will show up in another important area of her life, her Russian professor is anything but ordinary, and Brown University holds a well-kept secret.
Robin King delivers a perfect mix of suspense and romance. The characters will pull you in for the crazy ride with their running shoes, clever puzzles, and secret identities. Alexandra’s eidetic memory will reel you in, and her double life will keep you guessing until the very end. Can’t wait for book two!
—Brooke Hargett
What a great debut novel from Robin King! The main character, Alexandra, had me hooked from the first page all the way to the last page. While studying at Brown University she steps into a world of adventure that she wasn’t looking for. With her eidetic memory, she is the perfect agent at The Company. Remembrandt is a fascinating tale of adventure, puzzles, history, art, romance and family.
Author Robin King keeps you intrigued throughout the entire book as you try to figure out the puzzles Alexandra is faced with. Will she be successful in time to save a missing Company agent, or will she be too late? You will have to read to find out! I would highly recommend this book to young adults and adults alike. I’m looking forward to the next book in the series.
—Wendy Mallatt
Loved, loved, loved this one! Suspense and romance and hunky running partners, oh my!
Let’s be honest, we’ve all dreamed of being one of those suave, oh-so-cool spies or secret agents, right? Well, with Remembrandt, you get to be! Or at least, Alexandra gets to be, and the writing is so effortless you feel like you’re right there with her. Alexandra’s crazy eidetic memory (yep, eidetic—even cooler than a photographic memory!) leads to some crazy times in crazy places. It makes me want to hop on a plane to Russia and kick some trash!
And I’ll just come right out and admit it: William is my new fictional crush. Oh, William! Where have you been all my life? And can Casey and I be real-life roommates?
Everything about this book rocks, and I already can’t wait for book two. A fabulous debut for author Robin King.
—Caitlin Jacobs
Remembrandt is a remarkable book with a captivating plot that offers a fresh flavor of mystery. With an added pinch of espionage, a dollop of suspense, and a splash of romance, this book kept me reading and loving it page after page. The element of Alexandra’s eidetic memory elevates the story to a new realm of genius, especially when there’s the business of spying to be successfully accomplished.
Robin King achieves a well-balanced book with distinctive characters, dynamic content driven by a solid plot, and scenes that blend flawlessly from one to the next. . . . I felt as though I was an unseen part of the story—watching, feeling, tasting, smelling, and hearing the story as it played out in my mind scene by scene.
One clue and one puzzle at a time, Remembrandt will be unraveled before your eyes.
—Julia King, author of Félicité Found
Remembrandt
Robin M. King
WALNUT SPRINGS PRESS
Walnut Springs Press
4110 South Highland Drive
Salt Lake City, Utah 84124
Text copyright © 2014 by Robin M. King
Cover design copyright © 2014 by Walnut Springs Press
Interior design copyright © 2014 by Walnut Springs Press
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be transmitted, stored in a database, or repro- duced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quota- tions embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, “Attention: Managing Editor,” at the address below.
Walnut Springs Press
4110 South Highland Drive
Salt Lake City, Utah 84124
Printed in the United States of America.
eISBN: 978-1-59992-949-1
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, and any resemblance to real people and events is not intentional.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Newton’s Law
Chapter 2: Roman Hot Pink
Chapter 3: What Is Truth?
Chapter 4: St. Petersburg
Chapter 5: In the Tsar’s Seat
Chapter 6: Elijah
Chapter 7: Answers
Chapter 8: The Company
Chapter 9: Training
Chapter 10: El Profesor
Chapter 11: Admission
Chapter 12: Dr. William
Chapter 13: Fight or Flight
Chapter 14: Scenes in My Head
Chapter 15: Spanish Inquisition
Chapter 16: Much Ado about Nothing
Chapter 17: The Accident
Chapter 18: Red Eye
Chapter 19: Better Left Forgotten
Chapter 20: Moscow
Chapter 21: Change of Plans
Chapter 22: Where There’s Smoke
Chapter 23: Truth at the Eye of the Storm
Chapter 24: Home
"Remembrandt" Song Lyrics
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Every book has its own behind-the-scenes tale of how it came to be. My independent side wants me to say that I wrote Remembrandt without any help, but I can’t write a book about discovering truth without telling it.
My first thanks has to go out to my beautiful writing group, Riveting Writers. Though they made me cry after our first critique session, this novel would have been a wreck without them. I’m so thankful Amy put our group together and was bold enough to point out flaws in my writing I couldn’t see. Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a sappy and cheesy Disney musical at heart. I’m grateful to Caitlin for letting me be teenagery (yes, it is a word) and cheering on the romance between William and Alexandra. I’m so grateful to Mary for joining our group, helping with ideas for the book cover, and keeping us all in line. Brooke deserves a thank you for pointing out my mistakes in the sweetest way possible and giving me the confidence to get published. Riveting Writers rocks!
A special thank you has to go out to my biggest supporter, my mom (olive juice), and to my beta readers, Wendy, Sheralyn, Jennifer, and Julia, who were willing to read the first draft of Remembrandt and never tell me how awful it was. My brother Devin deserves a relaxing day with no work for listening to me talk about my book, putting the finishing touches on the book cover, and taking my mess-of-a-book-trailer and turning it into something fabulous. Praises should be sung for my brothers, Jason and Aaron, and friend Larry, who helped me turn my “Remembrandt” song lyrics and melody into a beautiful masterpiece.
I’m so grateful for Walnut Springs Press, who discovered my story and believed in me enough to publish my book. Remembrandt would not have been possible without my editor, Linda Prince, who has a knack for taking my word babbles and turning them into something succinct and professional.
I can’t close this chapter of my writing without thanking my little humans—Henry, Elijah, Trevor, Charly, and Alana. They inspire me to go after my goals and put up with me when I tell them, “Just one more sentence.” (And, yes, each of you will get a cameo appearance in every book I write!)
Last of all, I have to thank mi amor, Jeffrey. I lucked out to find a man who is willing to sacrifice his own dreams to let me go after mine. I love that when I
told him I was writing a book, he just looked at me, without a bit of surprise, and said, “Cool.” Mi vida no serìa nada sin ti. Te amo.
And, readers, thank you for experiencing Alexandra’s story with me. I can’t wait to continue the adventure.
1
Newton's Law
Moisture from the recently watered lawn permeated my clothes as I lay face down on the ground, motionless. Blades of grass tickled at my cheek, the haylike aroma reminding me of summers back home. My chest rose and fell rapidly from the sprint up the hill, but I tried to breathe as quietly as possible. I couldn’t get caught.
I waited, counting in my head, knowing that even moving to glance at the time could give me away. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand. A myriad of footfalls echoed to my left, barely ten feet from my position. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying my borrowed black attire would hide me—that, and the rhododendron bush hovering over my back, poking its leaves into my neck.
“She should be right here,” a gruff male voice said. The jangle of keys nearly stopped my heart. Security guards—several, from the chorus of labored breathing. I held my own breath.
“There’s no way she could have run that fast. Maybe she went inside,” a quiet voice answered.
“All the doors are locked. We made sure of that hours ago.”
Thirty-two, one thousand. Thirty-three, one thousand. Thirty-four, one thousand.
My mind spun. This was way more serious than I could have imagined. It was just supposed to be an in-and-out job—a simple one. How did I get here? I exhaled slowly.
“What was that?” a panicked voice asked.
I stifled a gasp. Did they hear me?
I let my eyes open just a crack. The semi-darkness flickered once, then twice, before the entire courtyard fell black. A smile played at my lips. Somehow the team had come through.
“What happened to the lights?” a guard asked.
“Well, they didn’t all go out on their own,” another man said after several seconds. “Even the emergency lights are out in the buildings. Something serious is going on.”
“Well, I’m not going to wait around in the pitch black all night,” the first guard declared. “Let’s get back to the office and see what we can figure out.”
“He’s right. There’s nothing we can do if we can’t see.”
My mind’s eye could almost see the men’s angry faces as I heard feet shuffling away.
Sixty-three, one thousand. Sixty-four, one thousand. Sixty-five, one thousand.
I kept still until I reached one hundred. Then I tightened my grip on the black satchel and popped out from under the foliage to sprint for the statue. I didn’t have to see to know where I was going. The statue had disappeared in the darkness, but I knew exactly where the ten-foot bronze emperor stood. A few weeks of walking that courtyard had engrained the location of every bench and tree blocking my beeline to Caesar Augustus, though just one time seeing it would have been enough.
It took me only a handful of seconds to arrive at the large stone base. I almost felt guilty as I stepped on the patina of Cupid that clung to the bronze skirt of Caesar. With one black running shoe on Cupid’s head and the other on Caesar’s knee, I hoisted myself up the historic icon until my legs straddled his neck. Despite the darkness, I shook my head at the embarrassing and precarious position I had allowed myself to be put in.
“Sorry, Augustus,” I whispered in his ear before I carefully slid my body to one of his shoulders. With my back against the side of the Roman’s head, I wrapped my legs Indian style around his shoulder and under his armpit. “Maybe you’ll even thank me later.”
I reached into the satchel with my free hand and got to work. After about ten minutes, I dismounted the statue and headed back the same way I came. The lights began to flicker on just as I rounded the courtyard and I sped up, glad the satchel weighed significantly less on my sprint home.
“Alexandra? Alexandra?” My Russian professor’s voice interrupted my slumber. “Can you translate the sentence using the subjunctive?”
“Uh . . .” I slid down in my seat and tried to ignore the students’ eyes boring into the back of my head. If only I had slept a little the night before instead of sneaking around campus and climbing on top of a statue in the middle of the courtyard.
“On the bottom of page 63?” Professor Golkov clasped his wrinkled hands in front of him, making a steeple with his index fingers and rested them on his graying beard.
I translated the sentence in question without looking down at the textbook.
He eyed me curiously. “That is correct.”
I stayed awake for the rest of the lesson. My first semester at Brown University was already in motion, and though I knew it was where I should be, I still felt like an outsider, an interruption to a perfectly planned symphony, a violin out of tune. Dozing in class wasn’t helping, either.
“Alexandra, can I see you in my office?” Professor Golkov asked as I put away my textbook and notes at the end of class. I raised my head to see a few curious students look at me sympathetically and then walk out of the room.
“Uh, yeah.” I wracked my brain, trying to figure out if there was any way he knew about my mission the previous night. No, I told myself. He probably just wants to make sure I stay awake in class.
“I will be there in just a few moments,” he said. He began piling papers and books into his briefcase while a few stragglers gathered around the podium, asking him questions.
No matter what I told myself, I couldn’t help but panic. I raced out the doorway and down the hallway of the old Marston building, passing Golkov’s office, and ran down the stairs to burst into the nearest bathroom. I already felt I didn’t belong at Brown, and now my favorite professor was singling me out. This couldn’t be good.
Standing inside an open stall, I gripped the faded beige walls and took a few deep breaths. The aroma of artificial wildflowers trying to mask the stench didn’t help. I missed the fresh valley air of my hometown, Wenatchee, Washington. I wanted to jump into the brisk Columbia River waters and float away my anxieties. I wanted to hike to the top of Mount St. Helens and feel the cool mountain air against my skin. Instead, I forced myself from the bathroom and climbed the stairs to Golkov’s office.
“Hello, Professor,” I said as I entered, using my best Russian pronunciation. I tried to keep my voice cool and steady, the opposite of what I felt inside.
Professor Golkov looked up from his mahogany desk. His silver-speckled hair was longer than that of most Brown professors, and his wrinkled face had a youthful exuberance that made me forget he was at least three times my age.
“I want to discuss something with you,” he said in Russian. His voice flowed out like warm syrup, easing some of my apprehension.
“Sorry, uh, about class today,” I replied, speaking in Russian as well. “It . . . it won’t happen again.”
To keep my hands from shaking, I picked up the first thing I saw on the edge of his desk. A Rubix cube. I played with it while he spoke, glad my eyes had somewhere to focus other than his gaze.
“That isn’t exactly why I asked you to come to my office today.”
One of my hands slipped on the Rubix cube. Oh, no. He knows. Somehow, he knows.
Golkov cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask if you would be interested in some private tutoring.” I glanced up, trying not to let my shock show on my face. This is what he wanted to talk to me about? My pronunciation must be worse than I thought.
“Sure. I know I need more practice.” A nervous laugh of relief escaped my lips. I didn’t mind admitting I needed help especially now, knowing the reason I’d been called to his office. I set the cube back on his desk, finally letting my shoulders relax.
Golkov stared at me and then back at the cube, and back at me again. He raised a gray eyebrow. “How did you . . . you just solved that in less than a minute.”
“What?”
“The puzzle.” He pointed at the cube.
I looked down at it. Sure enough, he was right. All of the colored columns and rows stared back at me in perfect alignment. I hadn’t even realized I had done it.
I wasn’t a genius. I had once seen a documentary on the Hungarian inventor Erno Rubik. Part of the documentary showed the inventor himself solving the Rubix puzzle in a matter of minutes. Of course this one had been arranged differently, but the principles were the same. I chided myself for letting my brain recall the documentary. Why couldn’t I just turn this thing off?
“Guess I was lucky, huh?” I pulled the strap of my backpack higher onto my shoulder, hoping Professor Golkov believed me.
“Hmm.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “I’m free before our class each morning. Would eight o’clock work for you?” He picked up the cube and turned it over in his hands.
“Yeah, that sounds great.” I turned to leave his office, ready to rush out before I made another mistake.
“And Alexandra?”
“Uh-huh?” I stopped my quick exit and faced him, avoiding direct eye contact by keeping my eyes on the Rembrandt painting on his back wall. Something about it seemed wrong, but from where I stood, I couldn’t tell what.
“I expect that your extracurricular activities won’t get in the way of proper rest in the future?”
My stomach flipped. He knows.
I finally met Golkov’s gaze. Standing there with my mouth hanging open, I realized he knew about the prank but wasn’t going to do anything about it.
“Yes, Professor,” I choked out, then turned before he could see the confusion and humiliation displayed on my face in what had to be a deep red flush. My feet carried me from his office even quicker than they had moved the previous night.
Twenty-nine days. That’s how long I had been at Brown. Twenty-nine days since leaving Washington, the only place I had known in all my seventeen years. If my father hadn’t been offered the position as an American History professor at Brown, I would still be in Wenatchee. Still be there smelling the sweet aroma of freshly picked apples—apples my mom would bake into a pie with just the right amount of cinnamon and nutmeg. Not even a month had passed, and yet Providence was supposed to be my new home. I’d tried to make it feel that way, which was what last night had been all about. I had wanted to be a part of something at Brown besides Russian and Calculus.