J.T. Osbourne

“Petrykin left the room again, and after a few seconds Green could hear him washing his hands in the kitchen sink. He returned a few seconds later drying his hands on a towel. In his pocket was a pair of latex gloves. Green smiled as Petrykin put them on. He too had a box of gloves ready and waiting in his kitchen. Habit of the profession, he thought. Petrykin took out the book and the sheet of folded up paper from the package. "So, Stuart, this was hidden in the lining here?" Petrykin mimed the removal of the page from the book. "Exactly." "Okay, let me look at this book first." Green watched the master go to work, inspecting the volume from every angle. It didn't take long before he reached a verdict. "It looks to be from the correct period, certainly. Sixteenth century. And that's the Tsar's seal, I'm positive, unless it's a forgery..." Petrykin looked inside the book. "Greek. My Greek isn't what it should be—too much football when I should have been studying—but it’s of the right period. The workmanship suggests a very expensive book, but not too fancy. To be read, rather than admired. Do you know what it says?" Green shook his head. "Until today I only had a few photographed pages, which I sent to be translated.” "Constantin?" Petrykin asked. "Yes, actually, but he never got back to me. I imagine he's busy." "Not busy so much as troubled. The university is after him," Petrykin lamented. "Really?" Petrykin nodded gravely and made the universal gesture of tipping a bottle toward one’s mouth. "He sucks his thumb?" Green joked. Petrykin faked a smile. "Ha, ha," he said. "We should get him this book—no, a copy, he cannot be trusted at the moment. Is he the only Greek person we know in the whole world?" Petrykin wondered, annoyed. "Could be," Green lamented. "Okay, we will take the book to the copy place and copy some of it. If it's promising, we copy the rest.”
― JT Osbourne, The Lost Library of the Tsar

“The Dig Site Matrouh Governorate, Egypt From the ages of eight to fourteen, Brook rarely saw her father. He made brief stopovers in the States two or three times a year, week-long whirlwind affairs with much of the time spent with Brook's mother in the bedroom, and a little with Brook and her little brother. Mostly, Brook remembered his non-stop patter during these times; excited recounts of the civilizations he'd discovered, the walls and chambers and treasures; gold and riches from the northern plains of Turkey to the Andes in Peru. Both Brook and her mother found themselves thoroughly caught up in the excitement of having Cale home, as well as the thrill of his work and the energy he brought into their humble home in the suburbs of the nation's capital. He told stories—tall tales, it turned out—about the travels of the ancients”
― J.T. Osbourne, The Lost Tomb of Cleopatra