"Sir, they're gone." The young curator, very new, and obviously the sacrificial lamb the other, more senior, curators had decided to offer up.

"What's gone? Speak up!" The older man, the museum director, sat at his immense mahogany desk

"The bones, sir. The Etruscan burial. They're gone." The young man swallowed hard, and took a step back as the Director lunged up out of his chair.

"Anything else?" The Director strode toward the door.

"Two coins, sir. Silver, same burial site." The younger man trotted along at the Director's heels. Soon they came to the display case. The gold, the fibers, the weapons, everything else lay undisturbed in the case. However, the bones of the person they'd dubbed the 'Etruscan Princess' were gone.

"What do we do?" One of the older curators spoke up as the Director and younger curator approached.

"We tell the public they're being treated or cleaned, and we let them forget about the bones." The Director's jaw tightened. "The grave goods are the important part."

"Yes, sir." The group mumbled.

Several blocks away, in a van, one of the night cleaning crew, and a security guard sat, monitoring the sound that came through the bug in the young curator's glasses. They smiled, and high-fived. Behind them, wrapped reverently in a wool blanket, the remains of the ancestress awaited reburial.

Somewhere safe this time.

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