R. L. Lafevers Read online

  But now I had no idea what to do. And I didn’t dare take my eyes off Isis long enough to read the book for suggestions.

  The bespelled cat reached out and swiped me again, this time with all the furies of hell behind her. Her claws sliced through my woolen stockings and bit painfully into my shin. She arched her back and hissed, then ran to hide under the bookshelf, where she continued to make low, demonic yowls.

  I collapsed into a chair and stared at the bookshelf, then turned to look at the sleek statue of Bastet, which now sat as peaceful as you please.

  What had I just done? Poor Isis!

  Reverse it. That’s what I had to do. Reverse it.

  But … it could be undone, couldn’t it? Oh, dear.

  And what if that nasty curse had gone into me? My stomach twitched uncomfortably. Best not to think about that.

  When I was sure I could stand again, I hurried back over to the books spread out on my desk. Surely there must be a way to fix this. Just then, the clock began chiming the hour. Two o’clock! Where had the day gone? It was time to collect Mother.

  My joy at Mother’s homecoming was somewhat dampened by poor Isis’s predicament. I would have to work out what to do about Isis later. I closed the book and snatched the neutralized statuette off the table and rolled it up in an old piece of parchment so I could return it to the shelf upstairs.

  Halfway out of the room, I remembered that Father would probably be hungry. I hurried back to the table and tucked the last of the jam sandwiches into my pocket. After one last apologetic glance in Isis’s direction, I headed out the door.

  I stayed on the lookout for any signs of Fagenbush as I went. Who knows what he would do if he found me with the statue? Probably bash me over the head with it.

  I finally reached Father’s workroom and made my way through upended dinosaur bones, half-opened crates, cracked urns, and a headless marble sculpture. After I returned the statuette to its shelf, I went in search of Father. I found him at one of his worktables, trying to reconstruct a piece of clay tablet from Mum’s dig that had been in the crate with the Bastet statue. The stele was in seven different pieces, and it looked like he was having some difficulty.

  I waited patiently for him to notice me. When that didn’t happen, I cleared my throat. “Father? It’s time to pick Mother up from the station.”

  “Just as soon as I finish here,” he said, sounding as if he hadn’t really heard me at all.

  I looked out the window, where the clouds had finally joined together and formed a steady gray drizzle. “I don’t think Mum’s going to want to wait that long.”

  When he didn’t answer, I looked over his shoulder. It appeared he was trying to sort out the hieroglyphs on the pieces of clay tablet. Intrigued, I leaned in closer. I adore hieroglyphs. Some people love to draw and others have a way with music and still others love puzzles, but hieroglyphs are my favorite thing. To me, they make clear and perfect sense, as if they were the way we’re supposed to communicate. But Father seemed stumped.

  “Here you go.” I reached around his arm. “What if you put this piece here, then turn it clockwise half a turn?” There. Maybe now he’d begin to see how useful I could be!

  “Theodosia, I really don’t think you comprehend how complex this is. There is no way a mere child could understand how these pieces—”

  “Like so.” I slid the last piece into place.

  “Hmmpf.” He leaned forward to study the completed stele. “Now, be a good girl and find me a spot of lunch before we go, would you?”

  “I already thought of that.” I reached into my pocket and placed the jam sandwich on the table in front of him.

  His face brightened. “Oh! Jolly good. Thank you.” He took a bite, then grimaced. “Jam? Again?”

  My spirits fell. It was something to eat, wasn’t it? Besides, it was all I could find in the cupboard. I glanced at the clock again. Poor Mother would be wondering what on earth had happened to us.

  But Father was once again absorbed in the stele. “But let them remember, to be afraid, even after his death,” he read as the clock chimed two-thirty.

  “Come on, Father! Mother is going to be as furious as a drenched cat!”

  “Oh,” he said, looking out the window. “Is it raining?”

  A loud crack of thunder and bolt of lightning shot out of the sky and the rain turned into torrents. “Just a bit,” I said.

  Curious Goings-on at Charing Cross Station

  WE STEPPED OUT OF THE MUSEUM into a howling wind that nearly snatched my heavy winter coat right off my back. The sky was leaden with clouds, which pelted us with a furious, stinging rain. Father herded me into the growler, where we shook the worst of the water off then settled back onto the cushions. He rapped on the carriage ceiling with his cane, and we lurched away from the curb out into traffic.

  The streets were a mad snarl of carts, carriages, omnibuses, and motorcars, all vying for the right of way. People with large black umbrellas dashed across the street, trying to get out of the downpour. An omnibus swerved to avoid a pedestrian and nearly plowed into us. Our driver swore as the growler lurched wildly and sent me crashing into the side of the carriage. “Watch where yer goin’ ye muttonhead!” the driver called out.

  As I righted myself, I looked up to find Father scowling at me. “Where is your hat?” he asked. “You manage to remember your gloves often enough. Why not your blasted hat?”

  Because I don’t touch cursed objects with my head, I wanted to say. But of course I didn’t. “I hate hats. They feel like they’re squishing my head, squeezing and squeezing until my brain feels all mushed up. Like porridge in a too-small bowl.”

  Father frowned. “Really, Theodosia. You need to get a hold of that imagination of yours. One of these days you’re going to catch your death.”

  Why is it that parents only notice you long enough to scold? If you do something right, say bring them lunch or help them out with a puzzle, they act as if you’re invisible. But let one silly mistake slip by, like a forgotten hat, and they read you the riot act.

  I looked out the window and forced myself not to squirm with impatience. Mother had been gone for ages, and I couldn’t wait to see her. It was my fondest hope that she’d been so homesick, she’d swear she’d never go away again. Most mothers don’t leave their homes for months on end, but then most mums weren’t as wonderful as mine. She’s dashing and adventurous and oh-so-clever. And an American. She doesn’t pay too much attention to stuffy old conventions. Grandmother Throckmorton says I take very much after my mother. I don’t think she means that as a compliment.

  Hopefully, Mother would want to dash straight home and have one of those warm, happy family evenings that I missed so much. I was getting just a bit tired of sleeping in the sarcophagus—a night or two is an adventure, but four nights in a row is an ordeal. I was running out of clean frocks, I was dying for a proper meal, and there never seemed to be enough blankets at night.

  The cab pulled up in front of Charing Cross Station and we stumbled out onto the street. Father managed to catch me just before I landed in a nasty puddle.

  We made our way toward the station, jostled this way and that by the crowd. I felt like a billiard ball let loose on the billiard table. Afraid I’d lose Father in the crush, I grabbed the tail of his greatcoat. A path opened up mysteriously in front of him. I couldn’t be sure, but I suspect he was using his cane (gently, of course!) to encourage people to make way for us.

  After one particularly bad jostle, I felt a cold, small hand next to mine on Father’s coat. I watched, shocked, as the hand reached into Father’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. Without thinking, I reached out and clamped down on the grimy wrist.

  The wallet dropped back into Father’s pocket and the owner of the wrist gave a low squeal. “Blimey! Let me go! Let me go! Don’t call fer the p’lice, miss. I was just gonna look at it, then put it right back.” The squealer had a button nose, and two bright blue eyes peeked out of his soot-covered face.r />
  “You were not,” I hissed, not ready to bring a mob of officials down on him quite yet. After all, he looked to be an Unfortunate Soul. (Mother and Father are quite firm in their teachings that we must be kind to those less fortunate than ourselves. Still, I didn’t think that meant he should be allowed to pick Father’s pocket.)

  “Yes I was. Honest.” He wiggled frantically, tugging at his arm to get away.

  “I won’t turn you in, but you stay away from our pockets, do you hear me? Swear it.”

  “I swears it, I swears it. Now let go already. Them fingernails of yours is right sharp.”

  They weren’t really, but I had angled them to their best advantage. It wasn’t very nice, but then neither was picking pockets.

  “Swear it on your mother’s grave,” I said solemnly. Through my work at the museum I have learned that swearing on someone’s grave is very serious business.

  He rolled his eyes and heaved a great, irritated sigh. “All right already. I swear it on me mother’s grave.”

  “Very well then.” I let go of his wrist. He gave a quick nod of thanks, then, before I could blink, he melted back into the crowd.

  Just then Father glanced over his shoulder at me. “Theodosia, what are you doing back there? Stop gawking and hurry up.”

  Inside the station we hustled along to the platform where Mum was waiting for us. She was one of the few passengers still there, and she sat perched atop one of her larger trunks. There was another pile of trunks and crates next to her that looked as if it would topple over at the next strong gust of wind.

  I was so happy to see her that I wanted to run and throw my arms around her, but it had been so long since I’d seen her, I felt shy. Then she reached out and wrapped her arms around me in a wonderful hug that chased any doubts away. The soft fabric of her traveling suit under my cheek and the familiar scent of lilacs made me horribly aware of just how much I’d missed her. I opened my eyes wide and blinked rapidly to keep from embarrassing myself.

  When Mum pulled back, her eyes were a bit damp, too, and she took a minute to adjust her hat. Father had already begun surveying the luggage.

  “Good heavens, Henrietta. Just how many new frocks did you acquire in Cairo, anyway?”

  Mother laid a gloved hand on his arm. “These aren’t my clothes, you ninny. There was some severe competition over there.” She glanced meaningfully at me, which meant she didn’t want to discuss this in front of me. “I thought it best to keep some of the artifacts close by as opposed to shipping them.”

  Father beamed at her. “That’s my girl.”

  Mother got a warm look in her eye and I had to look away so I wouldn’t have to see them go all mushy.

  And it was a very good thing I did.

  The platform was mostly empty by this time. If it had been full, I’m sure I never would have noticed the man. Actually, he was trying very hard not to be noticed, which of course made him all the more noticeable. More important, the moment I laid eyes on him it felt as if an icy-footed beetle were scuttling down my back. It was the same sensation I got whenever I discovered a cursed object in the museum. The man lurking in the shadows stared at Mother like a hungry vulture.

  No. Not Mother; her trunks.

  I looked away before he realized he’d been spotted and sidled up to Mum, tugging on her skirt to get her attention. “Mother, who is that man over there? The one skulking in the shadows,” I asked, careful to keep my voice low.

  “Skulking in the shadows!” Father said in a rather too loud voice. “Really, where do you come up with these things, Theodosia?”

  I glared at him, wishing for a moment that I had let that urchin pinch his wallet. Mother put her hand on my shoulder and gave the fellow a quick glance. The moment she turned in his direction, he looked away and began studying the train schedule posted on the wall in front of him.

  “Him? I don’t know, dear. He was on the boat when we left Alexandria.”

  “Another one of your admirers, Henrietta?” Father teased.

  “Nonsense!” Mum said, flapping her hand.

  Must they carry on so?

  The cab driver was not happy when he saw all Mum’s trunks and crates. I kept a lookout for the little pickpocket, half convinced he’d try to make off with an entire trunk if given the opportunity. Finally, the driver (with Father’s help) managed to get every piece of luggage tied on and tucked in. It was a bit of a squash, but we didn’t have far to go.

  I sat right next to Mother, pressed up close due to all the luggage, which I didn’t mind. I had six long months to catch up on, after all. I let my mind focus on how wonderful it was to have her home again and actually go home for a bit. I was getting tired of dinners out of a tin. I wanted a proper bath and a cream tea, and steak and kidney pie for dinner with a scrumptious pudding afterward.

  After six long months away, surely Mother felt the same.

  For the moment, I was happy to snuggle up against her and let the two of them talk their boring political talk.

  “So, how were things over there, Henrietta?” Father asked.

  Mum settled more firmly into the cushions. “Well, the French have calmed down some. The Americans are like puppies bounding all over the place in their enthusiasm, not minding who or what they step on. And the place was absolutely crawling with Germans.”

  “Any sign of von Braggenschnott?”

  “Well, yes, actually. He’s risen to a surprising level of influence considering that he’s up to his elbows in smuggling antiquities out of the country. But I can’t complain; he came to my assistance in convincing the local officials to let me take my discoveries out of the country and bring them home to England.”

  “I don’t know, Henrietta. I don’t like having you anywhere near von Braggenschnott or men of his character.”

  Mother waved her hand in the air. “Nonsense. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Hm, yes, well. The Germans have been busy at home too. Their naval buildup has the entire Ministry uneasy. The Lord Chancellor offered them a treaty again, but Kaiser Wilhelm insists on concessions we refuse to make. Everyone’s getting nervous. They’re pretty sure he’s up to something.”

  Thoroughly bored with this conversation, I looked out the window. With a sinking heart, I noticed the growler turn away from Chesterfield Place and head down Marlborough Street toward the museum. I gave Father a questioning look. He reached out and patted my arm. “Don’t worry, Theodosia. It will only be for a bit. We’ve got to drop some of these crates off at the museum, and your mother wants to show us a few of her new discoveries.”

  A bit, my bum, I thought. I settled back against the cushions and resigned myself to spending yet another night in the museum. Which was probably just as well, since I was terribly worried about Isis. I had to find a way to reverse that spell.

  Besides, it would only be for one more day. Come tomorrow, we’d have to go home. For one, it was only a few days before Christmas and even my distracted parents emerged from their scholarly pursuits long enough to celebrate Christmas. The second reason was my younger brother, Henry. He would be coming home from school tomorrow and he hates the museum. He is so easily bored, and becomes such a dreadful pest, that by mutual consent my parents avoid having him there for any length of time.

  Of course, I should be in school as well. I went for one term and it was so horribly dull and boring. Unfortunately, I had the bad luck to get far better marks than the others, an unpardonable sin in their eyes. (If I’d any idea how unpopular that would make me, I would have flubbed the tests on purpose!) So when I came home for the holidays, I just never went back and, luckily, my parents never remembered to send me. Or, more accurately, I never reminded them. Once, when Father managed to remember on his own, I pointed out that my own studies of history, ancient languages, Greek, and hieroglyphics were far more rigorous than anything any school could come up with. He reluctantly agreed, and so we let the matter drop.

  Father had the growler
pull round the back to the loading dock. Dolge and Sweeney came out to meet us and hauled the crates and some of the trunks into the downstairs workroom and short-term storage area. Then Father instructed Dolge to hop in the growler and take the rest of Mum’s things to our house.

  “So,” Mother announced after all the fuss of unloading and seeing Dolge off, “who wants to see some new artifacts?”

  Father and I crowded around while Mum pulled a key out of her pocketbook and knelt down in front of the first trunk.

  “Oh, Alistair! It was all there, exactly as you said it would be. Your research was simply brilliant,” Mother said. As she fumbled with the lock, I was relieved to see she still had her gloves on. Father, too, I noticed, as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  I studied his face to see if there was any sign of bitterness. There didn’t appear to be, but who could have blamed him if there was?

  Long ago, when I was only two, Father, after years of painstaking research and study, discovered the likely whereabouts of the tomb of Thutmose III, a powerful pharaoh in Egypt’s Middle Dynastic Period. He and Mother made the trip to the Valley of the Kings (leaving me with my British grandmother, who I’m quite sure dressed me up in lacy frills and forced me to sit still for hours on end). Their expedition was a huge success except for the fact that they were betrayed by a colleague, and a man named Victor Loretti claimed the official discovery.

  Even worse, the British Museum, which Father was working for at the time, refused to back him and accepted the discovery as Lorretti’s.

  That’s when Father quit that stuffy old museum and came to work for the Museum of Legends and Antiquities.

  Anyway, for the last few years Father had been working on a theory about the location of Amenemhab’s tomb. Amenemhab was Thutmose Ill’s Minister of War, and some attributed the pharaoh’s great military conquests to Amenemhab’s brilliance.