I was almost afraid to ask. Almost. "And what is this loyalty test?"
"The Trial of Nephthys." His words were clipped and short, as if it pained him to utter them.
Nephthys was the goddess of darkness and decay, the female counterpart to Seth as well as his consort. She was also thought to be the mother of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of mummification. Any ritual or trial involving her would not be pleasant.
"I was also forced to utter a negative confession."
"Like they use in the Weighing of the Heart ceremony?" That was surprising. I considered Trawley a bit of a charlatan; I hadn't realized his knowledge of Egyptian rituals ran that deep.
Stilton nodded. "'I have not betrayed my brethren,'" he repeated. "'I have not served another master, I have not uttered a falsehood. I have not acted deceitfully.' Then I was put into a man-sized box, and the lid was sealed shut." He attempted another smile. "Didn't realize I was a touch claustrophobic."
"I'm so sorry," I said, feeling as if it were all my fault.
Stilton looked up, his haunted eyes clearing a little. "It's not your fault, Theo. I had never seen that side of the supreme master before. There's something changed in him." Stilton's eyes glazed over for a moment, then he visibly pulled himself together. "Besides, there was no permanent harm done."
Which of course had me wondering what temporary harm had befallen him, but I decided I would bite my tongue off before asking. He had clearly suffered a great deal and the particulars were none of my business. Besides, I could look up the Trial of Nephthys later and read about the details then.
Not wishing to intrude on Stilton any longer, I thanked him for the buns, tucked the box under my arm, and got up to leave. When I reached the door, he stopped me.
"Miss Theo, if there is ever any way I can make it up to you, please let me know."
He was so miserable looking that I couldn't help but give him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure I'll think of something."
Then I went in search of Henry.
I found him playing with his tin soldiers in front of the grate in the family withdrawing room. I had time only to plop the box in front of him and say, "I've found out what happened to your book, Henry," when Grandmother Throckmorton's voice rang out from the foyer. "Theodosia! Madame Wilkie and I are here for your dress fitting!"
I closed my eyes and tried not to scream in frustration. Once I had my temper firmly under control, I opened my eyes again. "There is an explanation," I told Henry. "And it is not me. Do not tell Mum and Dad until we've had a chance to talk."
I left him attacking the hot cross buns and went to Grandmother.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Difficult Mourning
IT WAS WELL AND TRULY THE UGLIEST DRESS I had ever seen.
Madame Wilkie held it up for my inspection, and it was all I could do to keep from groaning in dismay.
It was plain and severe, the fabric so black it seemed to suck the very light out of the room.
"Well," Grandmother said with a thump of her cane. "Try it on. We don't have all day."
Madame Wilkie laid the monstrosity down on the settee and helped me out of the frock I was wearing; gray and black plaid, it seemed positively cheerful by comparison.
I shivered as she went to the settee to fetch the mourning gown.
"I've been debating whether the officiating reverend should read from Job or the Book of Common Prayer. Do you have an opinion?"
"Job is the book with all the trials heaped upon that poor man's head, right?" If I was remembering it correctly, it contained more curses and plagues than Thutmose III's war minister, Amenemhab's writings.
"Yes. It can be quite dramatic and invigorating."
"But isn't the whole point of a funeral to allow people to make peace with the one who has just passed on?"
Grandmother's face fell a little bit. "That is true."
"Ready, miss?"
At my nod, Madame Wilkie slipped the monstrosity over my head and tugged the thing into place.
Grandmother took one look at me and cheered up considerably. "Perfect. You look properly subdued and respectful."
What I looked was a fright. Not only was it the ugliest fabric ever, but it itched. I discreetly reached up to adjust my sleeve, using the opportunity to scratch at my wrist.
"Don't fidget," Grandmother ordered.
"If miss will just hold still," Madame Wilkie said, "I shall pin the hem in place and be done."
"I've had a brass plaque engraved for Sopcoate's casket," Grandmother continued. "It reads, 'Here Lies Admiral Sopcoate, an Unsung Hero.'"
Before I could even process the terrible mistake she was making, an idea exploded inside me, just like one of Henry's whirligigs.
Since there was no body to place in it, Sopcoate's coffin would be empty. How hard would it be to slip Tetley's body in there unnoticed and give that poor man a proper burial? Excitement fizzed in my veins at the thought of being able to lay him to rest. Plus, it would have the added benefit of keeping Tetley's mut from pestering poor Henry.
I could hardly hold still, I was so excited. In fact, I was so absorbed in trying to figure out the details of my new plan that I didn't even feel it when Madame Wilkie stuck my ankle with one of her beastly pins, and I barely even noticed when Grandmother scolded me for daydreaming.
As soon as they left, I hurried to the reading room, intent on finding everything I could about Egyptian burial rituals and ceremonies. I spent the afternoon engrossed in Erasmus Bramwell's Funerary Magic, Mummies, and Curses and Mordecai Black's A Dark Journey Through the Egyptian Underworld. Of course, I also had to consult The Rites of the Dead by Sir Roger Mortis.
I was so engrossed in my research that it took a few minutes to realize that Fagenbush had been standing in the doorway. "How long have you been there?" I asked.
"Long enough," he said. "I have a message for you."
I tried to pull my mind away from the Opening of the Mouth ceremony and focus on him, but it was hard.
"From Wigmere."
That got my full attention.
"He wants me to tell you that Will has been suspended, and if you continue to refuse to communicate through me, you will be too."
I leaped to my feet. "What did you say?"
Fagenbush took great joy in repeating his news. "Will's been suspended. And you will be too if you don't start following orders."
I stared at Fagenbush, loathing him beyond words. "You put Wigmere up to this. You can't stand it that I trust Will more than I trust you."
He took a step toward me. "Will is an ex-pickpocket. A dirty little street urchin with no sense of honor or loyalty. I have worked for the Brotherhood for eight years and lost a loved one to its mission, so of course I think I am better fit to work with Wigmere. Especially since no organization is stronger than its weakest link. In our case, that happens to be an eleven-year-old spoiled brat who has no idea what she's playing at. You're a child. Will's a child. This is no business for children."
I was so angry I was shaking. "I may well be the child here, but who is it that went tattling to Wigmere when he didn't get his way? Certainly that is more childish than anything I've done." I stormed out of the room.
My mind churning, I strode down the hallway, not sure where I was going. I could hardly believe that Wigmere would suspend Will. My stomach was in knots. What would Will do for money? Would he return to pickpocketing? I sincerely hoped not.
Not to mention that I'd been counting on Wigmere to shed some light on the meaning of the events of last night. Now I didn't even know if he had received my report before he'd suspended Will.
And so I was on my own. I had to figure out why Awi Bubu thought the tablet was so very important—and whether or not that meant it was important to us. All without Wigmere's aid.
Very well. I'd exhausted all the materials in our reading room. There was nothing left to be found on our shelves regarding the Emerald Tablet. And Wigmere's vast knowledge was unavailable to me, at leas
t for the moment. So now what?
Really, there was only one other place that might have more information. A place so off-limits and forbidden that it would have my parents gnashing their teeth if they knew: the British Museum. Its reading room, to be exact. There was a good chance it might have something that ours didn't.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Less She Spoke, the More She Heard
IT WAS SEVERAL BLOCKS TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM, but since I was spitting mad, I arrived at Great Russell Street in no time at all. Once there, I paused at the steps leading up to the entrance. I'd been lucky once, sneaking into the museum without calling attention to myself; I wasn't sure I'd be that fortunate again.
Hoping for an idea, I studied the small clusters of people on the front steps. A group of schoolgirls had just arrived, led by a tall thin woman who looked as spare and strict as a whipping rod. Most of the girls risked curious stares in my direction, no doubt wondering why I wasn't in school as they were. One of the younger ones stuck her tongue out at me.
They made their way up the stairs, and I fell into step behind them, as if I were the straggler in the group. It worked beautifully and I was able to walk in right under the porter's nose without so much as a "What are you doing here, miss?"
Once inside, I hung back in the enormous foyer while the school group headed for a flight of stairs. Though I felt a bit guilty, I was struck by how majestic the place was.
There were many corridors and stairways leading off the main hall. I took a moment to study the small signs that gave some clues as to where these hallways led: AMPHIBIAN COLLECTION, FOSSIL FISH GALLERY, READING ROOM.
I headed down the long corridor, my footsteps echoing against the stone walls and marble floors. As I drew near a large double door at the end, I began to encounter more and more gentlemen and clerks, many of whom gave me questioning looks, if not outright shocked stares. Clearly, not very many schoolgirls made their way down here. Pity.
I opened one of the heavy doors, stepped inside the reading room, and nearly gasped in awe. Books and papers rose from the floor all the way to the windows, which were nearly twelve feet up and ran the entire circumference of the room. There had to have been at least a million books in there!
There was a large round desk in the middle, and rows of reading stalls and study desks came off of it, like spokes on a carriage wheel. Truly a researcher's paradise. Indeed, most of the desks were filled with scholars. It was, I had to admit with a small sense of defeat, much grander than the reading room at the Museum of Legends and Antiquities.
I approached the center circle, where it looked like attendants were assisting visitors. One young clerk caught me hovering. His eyes widened and his mouth narrowed as he hurried over. "What are you doing here, young lady?" he asked in a library whisper.
"I'm looking for some research materials."
He recoiled slightly, as if he'd been expecting me to ask directions to the lavatory. "I'm afraid our reading room is for serious scholars only."
"What makes you think I'm not a serious scholar? I have a very important report I must write for my ... teacher."
The man leaned forward, and his face grew red. "This is not a mere library, you know, but the research archives for the greatest museum in the world. Have you a reader's ticket?"
"Er, no." I asked myself what Grandmother Throckmorton would do if faced with this same situation. I leaned forward too. "These publications aren't meant to be seen and read by British subjects then?" I asked.
He paused a moment, trying to think up an answer to that one. "Yes, but only serious, scholarly British subjects, not the riffraff."
Riffraff!
"If you wish to look at our materials, you must apply for permission and be issued a reader's ticket." He seemed very attached to that protocol, no doubt because it kept riffraff such as myself out.
"Now," he continued, "if you don't leave immediately, I shall have to call a porter to escort you out. You don't want that sort of scene, do you?"
"Of course not, but please, if you would let me look for just a moment."
He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.
I sighed in defeat. "Very well." I made my way back to the entrance, being sure to look as dejected as possible, which wasn't very difficult, frankly.
However, I had not truly given up. I had noticed that just outside the main doors to the reading room there were a number of other doors. Clerks hurried in and out of them, their arms full of books and papers. I was guessing the doors might lead to additional archives. My hand on the exit, I looked over my shoulder to find the obnoxious clerk watching me. I tossed him a wave, then opened the door and slipped down the hallway. Once there, I took the door immediately to my left.
The room was an absolute maze of groaning shelves and tiny cubicles and offices that closely resembled a rabbit war ren. I tried to make sense of the layout, but the only sort of identification were signs with numbers on them.
I didn't know what I'd been expecting. Something more helpful, perhaps. Like signs saying BOOKS ON THE EMERALD TABLET, THIS WAY!
Many of the small offices were occupied, although a few were empty. As I sneaked down the hallway, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, one of the nameplates caught my eye: THELONIUS MUNK.
Munk. Could that be any relation to Augustus Munk, founder of the Museum of Legends and Antiquities? The very gentleman who'd bought an abandoned warehouse full of very intriguing artifacts that had ended up in our museum's basement? It was too great a coincidence not to explore a little further.
I poked my head into the office, disappointed when I saw it was empty. Wondering what I should do next, I stepped back out into the hallway and nearly plowed into an old man tottering my way carrying a stack of scrolls and books.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said awkwardly as I reached out to keep him from toppling over. He was bent with age, and his skin was the color of old parchment. His frock coat was at least fifty years out of date, and he had a few tufts of hair sprouting from his ears.
He blinked twice. "Did you fall down a rabbit hole? Or come through a looking glass? I wonder."
I smiled at him. "Neither. Are you late for a very important appointment?"
The old man barked out a papery laugh. "Hardly. I think everyone's forgotten I even exist down here. Except you, so why don't you quit hovering at my door and come in so I can put these books down."
Unwilling to turn away an opportunity when it landed in my lap, I followed Thelonius Munk into the tiny, crammed office. It was full of papers and books and dust. Quite a lot of dust, actually. I sneezed.
"Bless you," the old man said, then creaked his way over to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. "Did you tell Mother I'd be late for tea?"
"I beg your pardon?"
He blinked again. "I'm sorry." He took his glasses off and cleaned them with a corner of his vest, then replaced them on the end of his nose. "What can I do for you, Alice?"
"No, no!" I almost laughed before I realized he was serious. "I'm Theodosia..." I'd been about to say Throckmorton, then realized it was probably best if I kept my last name out of this.
"You want information on the Emperor Theodosius?" He perked up, as if this pleased him greatly.
"No, no. My name is Theodosia."
He held up a hand to stop me, then opened a desk drawer and rooted around. When he drew his hand back out, he was holding a large, crooked brass trumpet. He lifted one end to his ear and thrust the wide end toward me. "Speak up now," he instructed.
"I said, My. Name. Is. Theodosia."
"Oh." His face fell. "So you don't want any information on the Emperor Theodosius?"
"I'm afraid not."
He looked quite disappointed. "No one pays enough attention to him. Very important figure in history, you know."
"I'm sure he is," I said, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "What I was actually looking for was any ancient texts that connect the Emerald Tablet with the Egypt
ian god Thoth."
His unfocused gaze sharpened on me.
"It's for a, er, school report I'm doing."
He nodded his head in approval. "Good. I've never held with the notion that girls shouldn't be as well educated as boys." He pursed his lips and stared into space for a moment. I had no idea if he was mentally reviewing the collections to see if they had what I needed or if he was taking a short nap. Just when I was sure he'd forgotten I was there, he spoke. "Is there anything else, while I'm back there?"
I swallowed. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Well, yes, actually. I am also looking for any information on something I came across handwritten in the margins of a research book. I wanted to see if there was a more official accounting of it."
"Well, what is it, Alice?" he asked, a bit testily. "I can't look it up if you don't tell me."
"The wedjadeen." When I said that, the air in the room seemed to ripple slightly, as if the word itself had disturbed something. Not good. I dearly hoped he'd heard it the first time and didn't need me to repeat it.
His eyes became glazed as he stared at the wall some more and stroked his knobby chin. "Wedja, wedja ..."I held my breath, terrified he'd repeat it. Instead, he blurted out, "The Eyes of Horus. That does sound familiar."
"Is that what it means?" I asked. "Many wedjat eyes?"
"No," he said, "not exactly. The use of the suffix -een indicates a group of men. And I have heard that before, but where?" He creaked to a standing position and shuffled out from behind his desk. "I'll be back in a jiffy," he said.
I could only wonder how long he thought a jiffy was since it took him two whole minutes to get from his desk to his office door. Still, he did think he had information for me. I sat down and vowed to wait patiently no matter how long it took.
I think I may have even napped a bit, for I found myself startled as if from sleep when I heard, "Here you go, Alice."
I began to correct him, then changed my mind. It was probably best to remain as anonymous as possible.