Theodosia - The Serpents of Chaos

  I glanced over my shoulder. The footsteps had grown silent. Had my pursuer given up? Or was he waiting in a doorway somewhere just outside my line of vision? Would he follow Grandmother’s brougham? Would Sticky Will follow him?

  The driver jumped down from his seat. “Hello, miss,” he said as he opened the door for me.

  Grandmother poked her head out. “Well, hurry up then. You’re letting all the cold air in. You can explain yourself once you’re inside.”

  I clambered in and perched myself on the edge of the seat opposite Grandmother Throckmorton. It was never a good idea to get too comfortable around her.

  She thumped her cane on the floor of the carriage. “I demand to know what you are doing out here unchaperoned.”

  I squirmed on the seat, suddenly aware of how grubby I must look. “Father sent me round to pick up something for dinner.”

  “Unattended?” She was well and truly shocked, as I knew she would be. “And just where is your governess?”

  She had left months ago. Bored out of her mind, she’d claimed. She had been hoping for tea parties and dancing lessons, not clattering around in an old museum.

  But if Grandmother Throckmorton knew that, she’d find me a new governess by luncheon tomorrow. “She, um, went to visit a sick relative,” I said.

  Grandmother peered down her nose at me and sniffed. “Hmm. Is that mother of yours home yet from her gadding about?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Yes. Mother just returned from Egypt this afternoon.” Grandmother Throckmorton always says the most awful things about Mother. She thinks Mum is far too modern and unconventional. “She found some absolutely wonderful artifacts,” I said in her defense.

  “Hmph. Rummaging around in dusty old tombs. Can’t imagine there’s very much that’s wonderful in there.”

  I clenched my fists but didn’t rise to the bait. After all, Grandmother Throckmorton had just rescued me from my pursuer, even if she didn’t realize it.

  “When is that scamp of a brother of yours due home?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop and the footman opened the door. Staring straight ahead at no one in particular, he announced, “We’ve reached the museum, ma’am.”

  I leaped to my feet. “Thank you ever so much for the ride, ma’am.”

  “I should think so,” she said. As I scrambled down out of the carriage she called out, “I’m going to speak to your father about that governess of yours.”

  Bother.

  The Cozy Family Dinner That Wasn’t

  I MADE IT BACK TO THE MUSEUM just as darkness swallowed up the streets of London. Shivering, I climbed the front steps and slipped inside just before Flimp locked the door for the night. I thought briefly about trying to coax Mother and Father out of the workroom, then realized the fastest way to get their attention was to entice them with the smell of food.

  As I headed down the dim hallway that led to the staff rooms, a dark squalling blur shot out of the shadows. My heart leaped into my throat as the blur attached itself to my shoulder with a vicious yowl.

  I was halfway to apoplexy before I realized it was not a true demon, only Isis. I still couldn’t believe I’d botched things so badly.

  Her little heart was pounding as fast as mine was and her claws were firmly enmeshed in my coat. Her ears lay flat against her head and her eyes swirled madly in their sockets. “Isis, shh. It’s all right. Here, let’s get you a bite of sausage, shall we?” I wrestled a bit of meat out of one of the pies and held it out to her. She paused and her eyes cleared, just for a second, and I caught a glimpse of my old cat. Then the wild look was back and she hissed at me before launching herself back into the shadows, where she streaked away.

  I had to fix my cat. Soon. If I could catch her, that is. And if I could find a way to de-curse her. Was that even possible? Finding out would be my first order of business after dinner.

  I reached the staff breakfast room that we used as a family room and got busy unwrapping the food, hoping the delicious aroma would reach my parents.

  Two minutes later, Father poked his head in the door. “Back already, Theodosia?”

  Already? It felt like I’d been gone ages, what with being followed and all, but I just said, “Yes, Father.”

  “Excellent.” He came into the room and put the kettle on. “Mum’s on her way up.”

  “Was she really in a lot of danger on this trip?” The question popped out. I hadn’t even realized I’d been thinking it until it landed on the table like a flopping fish.

  Father turned to face me. “Really, Theodosia. If I had thought your mother was in true danger, I would have gone with her myself.”

  Charming! Then I would have been missing two parents!

  “Your mother knows her way around Egypt. And she could twist a German or two around that little finger of hers if she’d a mind to. However”—his face grew stern—”you shouldn’t listen in on conversations that don’t concern you. We’ll have to be more careful next time.”

  Honestly. What was I? A cab cushion? How could I not have heard their conversation? That’s why I rarely ask my parents anything—when they realize I’ve heard them they resolve to clam up whenever I’m about. I don’t know how they expect me to learn anything…

  Just then Mum walked in. “Ooh, darling! It smells wonderful in here.” She came over and kissed me on the cheek. I pressed up against her face as long as I could before she pulled away. I did have six months to catch up on, you know.

  “Thank you so much for getting us a decent supper tonight.” She began to rummage around the sideboard until she found enough plates and cutlery to set the table. Then we all three sat down to dinner. It wasn’t steak and kidney pie, and it wasn’t home, but it was family, and mostly it was lovely.

  Father bit into a plump, savory pasty and closed his eyes in appreciation.

  “So, Mum,” I asked, leaning forward. “What was it really like? Did you have to sleep in a tent this time? Did you see any live scarab beetles?”

  Father opened his eyes. “I forgot to ask you earlier: has the Egyptian independence movement gotten any worse?” he asked.

  “Well, The Consul General definitely has his hands full with the growing Egyptian nationalist movement,” Mum said around a bite of meat pie. “They’re still demanding that the British evacuate the country.”

  I sighed and began munching on my pasty while the conversation wandered back to Egyptian politics.

  Then I flinched as Father’s fist crashed down on the table. “That wouldn’t be an issue if that confounded Lord Cromer hadn’t been so bloody-minded and autocratic! It could bring our work in the Valley of the Kings to a standstill.”

  “True,” Mum agreed, not even batting an eyelash at Father’s outburst. She had nerves of steel, my mum.

  Anxious to turn the conversation to happier things, I asked, “Did you get to ride a camel this time?”

  Mum leaned across the table toward Father. “You had heard that Kamil went and formed a National Party, hadn’t you? Lots of anti-British sentiment there.”

  “Yes. Is there any substance to the rumor that they’re being funded in part by the Germans?” Father asked.

  “No one knows. But, in response, Lutfi as-Sayyid has formed a People’s Party. He’ll be a bit more cooperative but is probably still aiming toward eventual home rule.”

  I heaved another sigh of boredom. How my parents could make something as exciting as Egypt sound boring, I’ll never know.

  “I’m sorry, dear.” Mum reached over and patted my arm. “How tedious this must all be for you. Tell me, what have you been doing with yourself since I was gone?”

  Delighted that the conversation had turned to something interesting—me—I happily began telling Mother everything I’d been doing while she was away.

  After dinner I kept talking, trying to keep us all at the table so I could savor being together again. As we sat there, Mother suddenly put her hand to her cheek. “Oh
, darling! How could I have forgotten? I brought you something.”

  I perked up at that. Sometimes Mother found the most lovely presents.

  She got up from the table and rummaged around in her traveling satchel and pulled out a long, rolled-up parchment. “This is a rubbing of the tablets we found in the section of the pyramid we opened. They are Amenemhab’s secret writings on the art of war.” She squinted at the first line of hieroglyphics. “How to Cast Your Enemies into Chaos,” she read aloud, rather pleased with herself.

  “Oh, Mum! That’s wonderful. Thank you.” I reached out for the parchment and unrolled the thick paper, my eyes dancing over the rows and rows of hieroglyphs that paraded across the page.

  I threw my arms around her. “I’ll just curl up in the chair by the fire and read now, so you and Father can talk.”

  “Well, darling, your father and I need to talk business.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, I promise.”

  “Actually, Theodosia,” Father said, “your mother and I need to talk in private. Why don’t you go off to that closet of yours? You can read your new rubbing in there.”

  My shoulders drooped. “Yes, Father. If you insist.”

  “I do. Go on now.”

  I shuffled toward the door, then turned to look at them over my shoulder. “You won’t forget to come and get me when it’s time to go home, will you?”

  “Of course not, dear,” Mum said. “We won’t be long.”

  As I stepped out of the sitting room into the cold, dim hallway, I tried to remind myself that this was an excellent chance to try and get to the bottom of the Isis situation.

  I hurried through the corridors, then went downstairs to the reading room library. But when I reached out and turned the handle, it was locked. Bother! Which idiotic curator took it in his head to lock the library up at night?

  Probably that rat, Fagenbush.

  Discouraged, I went back upstairs to my room. I lit the oil lamp and climbed into the sarcophagus, making myself comfortable by pulling a blanket up under my chin. I unrolled the scroll and began to read:

  Hail, O Seth, Master of Chaos, hail Mantu, Destroyer of our enemies, hail Anat, whose terrible beauty strikes fear into the heart of our enemies, hear our pleas.

  Through Thutmose, our land’s most powerful ruler, the land’s power has grown great, our enemies bow down before us, beseech us for mercy, which flows from Thutmose…

  I was soon lost in Amenemhab’s theories of how to bring death and destruction to one’s enemies. Famine, plague, flood, locusts, pestilence—he had them all covered with curses and amulets and secret rituals designed to bring his enemies to their knees.

  After hours of reading, my eyelids began to grow heavy. I missed Isis terribly. She normally curled up at my feet, and it just wasn’t the same without her. I missed the warmth of her small furry body. The comfort of her contented purring. I tried my best not to think of her ricocheting around the museum in a cursed frenzy. However, if she was feeling demonic, at least she wasn’t feeling lonely. Or scared.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I had to remind myself that sleeping in a sarcophagus wasn’t creepy. Not really. Not if you don’t think about it…

  Besides, even if it was scary, it certainly was safer with three tons of solid stone covered with protective symbols between you and whatever spirits lurked in the museum at night.

  Fagenbush Gets an Unexpected Bath

  I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING with a fuzziness behind my eyes that let me know I hadn’t slept well. And no wonder! My dreams had been filled with images of marching Egyptian armies and other horrors of war. That Amenemhab fellow certainly was descriptive; his writings made for rather questionable bedtime reading.

  Worse yet, I was still in the sarcophagus, which meant Mother and Father never went home last night. Or they had forgotten to come and get me. That thought had me sitting bolt upright, heart pounding. They wouldn’t really forget me, would they?

  I scrambled out of bed, then poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin and splashed it on my face, washing the sleep out of my eyes and, hopefully, any clinging memories of my strange dreams. That was another thing that had kept me awake last night. The museum had been positively lively with creaks and groans, as if all the artifacts had decided to throw a party. I couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with the new collection. Finding out would be my first order of business for the day. (After making sure my parents hadn’t forgotten me!)

  Oh, dear. Make that my second order of business. My first and most important task was to locate Isis and try to set her right.

  I brushed the wrinkles out of my frock as best I could, frustrated at having to wear the same one two days in a row. Honestly, it made me feel only one step up from a street urchin. I slipped my cleanest pinafore off its nail and shrugged into it. Lastly, I buttoned up my gloves, then headed round to the sitting room, hoping for a sign of my parents, or at the very least, a bit of leftover pasties. But no such luck. No parents and no leftovers. I used the last bit of jam to make a quick sandwich. As I ate, the sound of Father’s voice drifted down the stairs from his workroom. The tightness in my chest disappeared. They hadn’t left me behind.

  On my way to the reading room, I decided to stop and pay Edgar Stilton, the Third Assistant Curator, a visit.

  In spite of being named after a cheese, Stilton is a very handy chap to have about. He is a simple man, but intelligent and honest and, for some reason, he’s like a lightning rod for the unrest in the museum. Whenever I have any doubts, I have only to pay Edgar a visit to get a reading on the museum’s current temperament. Since Stilton is the most junior curator, he tends to arrive at work earlier than the others as he has three higher-ups he needs to impress. (Although, he really shouldn’t worry about Father; he simply doesn’t notice that sort of thing.)

  When I reached the second floor, Stilton’s door was open. His office wasn’t much bigger than my closet, which was most likely another reason I felt a sort of kinship with him. His desk was stacked high with papers and scrolls and bills of lading. Even with the gaslight turned up high, the room was dim and dark feeling. I popped my head in. “Good morning.”

  He startled badly, nearly knocking his teacup to the floor. Not a good sign.

  “Oh, Miss Throckmorton, hullo.” He righted his cup and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the spilled tea off his hand.

  “Theo,” I said as I came fully into the office and sat down across from him. “Have you heard about Mother’s new findings?” I asked, not because I was particularly interested, but because I needed to watch him for a few minutes in order to get an accurate reading.

  “Yes, Bollingsworth told me a little about it on his way out last night. Smashing find.” His left shoulder twitched ever so slightly.

  “Yes, isn’t it? And she brought me a rubbing of some of the tablets they’d found. It makes for interesting reading.”

  “I should say,” Stilton said, a tic beginning just under his right eye.

  Just then, the bell sounded from the receiving dock, and Stilton jerked as if he’d been burnt. He cleared his throat. “Delivery’s here.”

  “Lovely,” I said. That meant another of Mother’s trunks had arrived. Hopefully everyone would be distracted by the new artifacts and I could spend the morning researching a cure for Isis. “I think I’ll go help them unpack.”

  I bid poor Stilton goodbye and left him jerking and twitching like an insect at the end of a pin as I hurried toward the reading room. When I reached it, whom should I see but Clive Fagenbush unlocking the door. His expression darkened when he saw me. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  I smiled sweetly at him and resolved to locate a key of my own. “I had planned to work on my studies.”

  “I don’t think so,” he sneered. “Your father told me to tell you that he wants your help in Receiving.”

  Bother. How many times I had longed for Father to ask for my help, and the one time he
did, I had something vitally important to do. Wasn’t that the way of it? Very well. I would just have to slip away at the earliest opportunity.

  When I reached the receiving area, my parents were up to their elbows in shabtis. Hundreds and hundreds of them. And every beastly one was carrying a curse.

  It took ages to unpack them. Mum and Dad were thrilled because having an entire army of shabtis would make an impressive exhibit. I thought it was tedious, especially since the curses made my eyes water and my stomach queasy. I kept glancing at the clock, wishing Henry’s train would hurry up and get here.

  Which just shows you how bored I was. No doubt by tomorrow I’d be wishing Henry’s train would take him back to school.

  Finally the shabtis were unpacked and Mother and Father became so absorbed in cataloging them that I managed to slip away.

  It was time to un-demonize my poor beloved cat.

  I’d thought about it quite a lot as I unpacked the shabtis. The first thing I would try was belling the cat, only not with a bell, but an amulet. I hoped that if Isis was wearing some protection, the curse’s effect would diminish.

  But first I had to make the wretched thing.

  I went back up to the reading room and pulled out the copy of Erasmus Bramwell’s Funerary Magic, Mummies, and Curses. I carried it into my small study and pored over it from front to back. For the first time ever, research failed me. Bramwell hadn’t a single idea. He wrote quite a lot on how to mummify a cat (something quite a lot of ancient Egyptians used to do) and how to properly mourn a cat (one must shave off one’s eyebrows) but nothing on how to exorcise a cat. Which meant I was on my own. No ancient books or scholars from centuries gone by to guide me through this one. I’d have to make something up and hope it worked.