Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos-Theo 1 (2 page)

A
S ALUCK WOULD HAVE IT
, it turned out to be another one of those nights when Father became so absorbed in his research that he forgot all about going home. It was the fourth night in a row, and for a change, it worked well with my own plans.

Just before midnight, I ventured out of the staff room into the museum. The gaslights had been turned low so that just a tiny blue bead glowed along the dark hallway at regular intervals. The feeble light from my oil lamp barely made a dent in the cavernous darkness, but I didn't let that deter me. I reached up and clutched the three protective amulets that hung around my neck. Father says I let my imagination run away with me, but the truth is, in the darkest hours of the night, if you look very closely (which I try not to) you can see the dangerous dead—the
akhu
and
mut
—rise up out of their urns and sarcophagi like a thick, choking mist. The ancient magic and words of terrible power ooze out of the arcane texts and inscribed objects. They hover in the corners and lurk in the shadows. How could I possibly venture out into that without
some
protection, I'd like to know?

Not wanting to make any noise that might draw the spirits' attention, I padded along in my stockinged feet, which were soon numb with cold.

Of course, Father had moved the wretched statue from the receiving area up to his workroom on the third floor. I hugged the wall as I crept up the polished wooden stairs, careful to avoid the ones that creaked.

No matter how quiet I was, the deep, gaping shadows around me seemed to grow larger and more forbidding. I was painfully aware of the last earthly remains, bones, coffins, and sacred relics of old, long-forgotten religions surrounding me. In the light of my oil lamp, the shadows bobbed and weaved like leering demons.

At last I reached the third floor and entered Statuary Hall. Enormous Egyptian sculptures lined the walls like ever-watchful guardians. The majestic faces of pharaohs stood side by side with mysterious sphinx heads, the smallest of which towered twenty feet high and cast harsh puddles of blackness on the floor.

I hurried past the looming statues until I reached the doorway that led into the Ancient Egypt Exhibit. I paused, bracing myself. Even though I patrolled this exhibit as often as possible, I could never be too sure what might be waiting for me in there. Magic is a tricky business, and the Egyptians were masters of it. Some spells seemed to regenerate themselves after a full moon or on specific unholy days. Others were only visible during certain seasons or when the stars and planets were aligned just so. All in all, ancient Egyptian magic is a horrid jumble of sinister possibilities, and I never take anything for granted when dealing with it.

With one fortifying breath, I made a mad dash through the room, scurrying past the exhibit cases, looking neither to the right nor the left. With one last shiver, I reached the workroom door, yanked it open, and slipped inside.

This room was dark, too, but pale, silvery moonlight shone in through the windows. And in that pale moonlight sat the statue of Bastet, an intricate, malevolent pattern of sacred words and symbols writhing across its surface like a nest of restless vipers.

Sometimes I really hate being right.

***

As I drew near the statue, I caught the symbol of Anubis, god of the underworld, as well as one for Seth, the god of chaos. There! Another symbol floated by, one I hadn't seen much but I think represented the demonic spirits of the restless dead. Any hopes I'd had of a rather small curse disappeared. I was dealing with an artifact positively steeped in vile, Egyptian black magic.

I needed a closer look, which meant I would have to pick the horrid thing up.

I glanced around the workroom. Wearing gloves wasn't protection enough when the hieroglyphs were swarming like this. The symbols had a way of trying to poke their way through the gloves and into my hands. I wasn't very keen on those words and symbols of evil power running along
my
skin, if you please.

I found an old rag on Father's worktable and wrapped it around my hand like an extra glove. Then I picked up the statue and carried it over to the window to have a better look.

The symbols slowed a bit once the statue was in my hand. I felt them probing at the rag, trying to get past the cloth barrier and worm their way into my flesh. I had to hurry.

The symbol of Apep, the serpent of chaos, floated by, followed by Mantu, the god of war. How odd. I'd never seen him on a cursed object before. There were more symbols: symbols for armies and destruction and—

There was a creak on the floorboards just outside the workroom door. Jolted into action, I scurried across the room, thrust the statue back on its shelf, and frantically searched for a hiding place. There were lots of shadowy corners, but I wanted something more substantial than that.

Spying an old packing crate in the corner, I hopped inside and covered myself as best I could with bits of packing material. I hunkered down, averted my eyes from the door, and waited.

You may wonder why I didn't look up to see the intruder. I can assure you, I wanted to. But I've lived alongside the restless, ancient spirits long enough to know that when you look at things, you focus your whole
ka,
or life force, on them, which causes their power to grow even stronger. If this nighttime visitor was of the supernatural variety, focusing my life force on it was as good as shining an oil lamp in its face.

My oil lamp! I peered through a crack in the side of the crate and saw my discarded lantern off to the side of the shelves. Luckily, the flame had gone out.

The door swung open, creaking slightly on its hinges. The footsteps paused in the doorway, as if the person or thing were surveying the room. Then the floorboards creaked again as someone—or something—stepped inside. I risked a glance through the crack again, just long enough to see a black hooded shape moving across the floor.

I wrenched my gaze away and tried to still the beating of my heart. It sounded like thunder to my ears—surely the intruder would hear it!

The footsteps came to a stop in front of the shelves, mere inches from where I was hiding. Risking another peek, I saw the large black shape studying the middle shelf, where I'd put the statue of Bastet back in its place. As my eyes swept downward again, I noticed two black shoes poking out from under the figure's long cape.

My heart calmed a bit. Supernatural beings don't wear shoes. Whatever it was—whoever it was—it must be human. Which I greatly preferred to the alternative.

Although, anyone skulking around a museum in the dead of night was probably up to no good. Except for me, of course—I had only the noblest of motives.

Slightly more confident now, I risked another glance and saw a long, black arm snake out from underneath the cloak. The movement sent a slight current of air toward me and I caught a whiff of boiled cabbage and pickled onions.

Clive Fagenbush!

Before I could sort out this puzzle, there was another squeak of the floorboards outside the workroom door. With a hiss of indrawn breath, Fagenbush snatched his empty hand back, then stepped around the shelves and flattened himself against the wall so that he was hidden from sight.

He now faced directly toward me. I scrunched down as small as I could in the crate and wished I were invisible.

The new intruder fumbled loudly with the doorknob, not even trying to be quiet. A quick, sure step came into the workroom, accompanied by a tuneless whistle.

I slumped in relief. It was only Father, on one of his midnight ramblings. He turned up the gas and flooded the workroom in soft yellow light.

Wondering if Father could see him, I glanced over at Fagenbush's hiding spot, only to find he'd disappeared.

I craned my neck, trying to see where he had gone, but he was nowhere in sight. Then I glimpsed a flutter of movement near the door as he slipped out of the workroom. Bother! He'd got clean away. But at least he hadn't conked Father over the head or discovered my whereabouts.

As I crouched in the crate, I realized I needed to come up with a plan to get my hands on that statue before someone else did. I considered taking it back to my room, but I couldn't bear the thought of those loathsome curses anywhere near me as I slept. I finally settled on hiding it that night, then returning it first thing in the morning while Father was having breakfast.

It took ages for Father to find whatever it was he was looking for, but he finally left, turning out the lights and closing the door behind him. I waited a few minutes more to let him get safely out of the way. Once my eyes readjusted to the darkness, I climbed out of the crate and went over to the shelf. Using the rag, I lifted the statuette and placed it in the crate where I'd been hiding. I tossed some packing material over it, then grabbed my oil lamp, now uselessly dark, and made my way to the door. I peeked out into the exhibit room.

The museum seemed unusually restless. The creaks and groans had grown louder and more frequent. With my hand clutched firmly around all three amulets, I raced back through the display rooms. I felt disgruntled dead things rustle as I passed, the shadows growing longer as they reached out toward me. I put on an extra burst of speed.

Now do you see why I loathe the museum at night?

"T
HEODOSIA
E
LIZABETH
T
HROCKMORTON
!"

"Hm. What?" I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Father was standing in the doorway, a ferocious scowl on his face.

"Not the sarcophagus again!" he said.

Oops. I usually try to be up and about before he is for this very reason. But when he spends the entire night in scholarly pursuit and never goes to bed, well, it's rather impossible. "Really, Father. I'm not hurting it a bit and it
is
the best way to keep out the drafts." (It was also the safest place for avoiding all the curses that swirled about the museum at night, but I could just imagine what he'd say if I told him
that
.)

"Yes, but it's a priceless artifact—"

"That is sitting alone in a closet because there's no room for it in the exhibits. Truly Father, I'm very careful. Besides, where else would you like me to sleep when I'm forced to stay here all night?"

He had the good grace to wince slightly at this. "In an armchair, maybe, or curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace in the staff sitting room. Anywhere but in a blasted sarcophagus!"

Yes, but there was no protection in those places. I simply didn't trust the power of amulets alone at night against all the black magic and troublesome spirits. Of course, I couldn't tell him
that,
either.

"But Father, I'm sure Men'naat wouldn't mind."

"Who on earth..."

"The young priestess this sarcophagus belonged to," I explained. "She was from the temple of Taweret, an Egyptian goddess and protector of children. Just think how much easier I am to protect in here!"

He sighed in exasperation, then closed the door. I could have pressed my point a bit more, but I didn't want to risk reminding him that I really should be sleeping at school, where all the other girls my age were. I did my best to avoid that topic at all costs.

I crawled over the high stone side of the sarcophagus, which took up half of my room. Well, it was more of a closet, really. But no one else ever used it, so I had it all to myself. There was just enough space for a small writing desk and an even smaller battered old washstand that Flimp, the watchman, had found for me. He'd also pounded a few nails into the wall so I had a place to hang my frocks and pinafores.

As I splashed cold water on my face, I realized I had slept through my best chance for sneaking into Father's workroom unnoticed. I really needed to get my hands on that statuette. And soon. I looked at my watch. Mother was due back in five hours and fifty-seven minutes and she was bound to have loads of new artifacts with her. It was very likely we'd have scads of new, unknown magic swirling around the museum before long. I pulled my gloves firmly into place, then stepped out to face the day.

My next opportunity came when Father left his workroom in search of a cup of tea. I usually brought it to him around this time every morning but I hadn't that day, hoping he would eventually give up and go in search of one himself. It worked.

I peeked inside the workroom. Other than artifacts from every civilization known to man spread out on the worktables in various states of disrepair, it appeared empty. I was halfway to the crate when an obnoxious voice behind me stopped me in my tracks.

"Where is it?"

I turned. Clive Fagenbush stood just to the side of the door—almost as if he'd been waiting for me. "Where is what?" I asked.

"The statue." His eyes shifted from my face to the roll of papyrus I held in my hand. He strode forward and snatched the papyrus from me.

Just as I opened my mouth to protest, a familiar voice called out, "I say, Fagenbush. What's all this about? Give Theo back her papyrus." Scowling, Nigel Bollingsworth stepped into the room.