Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos-Theo 1 (6 page)

"Has the class from Master Hedgewick's School for Wayward Boys left yet?"

Nigel's face fell as he remembered the group of unruly schoolboys who had descended upon the museum earlier in the afternoon. "Oh, dear. I don't know. I suppose I should go have a look. Make sure they haven't broken anything or absconded with a legendary sword or something."

I came over and stood next to the box of figures he was looking at. "What are these?" I asked. I knew perfectly well they were shabti figures, a common part of any self-respecting Egyptian tomb. The clay and wax figures were buried with the deceased so that they could perform any manual labor the dead person was called upon to do in the afterlife.

But as I drew closer, I saw that these shabtis were different in many ways. They had a rather menacing look to them, for one thing. And each clutched a weapon of some sort in their little clay arms: spears, daggers, swords, each of them had something deadly. Most odd.

With a quick glance at Fagenbush, I asked Bollingsworth, "Are they dolls? Did the mummy children play with them?"

Fagenbush's head snapped up and he narrowed his beady little eyes at me.

"Goodness, no!" Nigel exclaimed, horrified at my ignorance. "They're quite fascinating, actually ... just a minute. I say, Clive, would you check and make sure those wayward boys aren't up to no good?"

Just as I had hoped! What First Assistant Curator would check on a bunch of bratty schoolchildren when there was a perfectly good Second Assistant Curator to do it for him?

I peered up through my eyelashes as Fagenbush glared sharp, pointy daggers at me. He'd known exactly what I was doing—getting rid of him. I gave him a sweet smile. "Thank you so much, Mr. Fagenbush. I'm ever so curious about these
dolls.
"

With a snarl, he threw down the lid he'd just managed to pry off one of the packing crates and stormed off.

"Now, Theo," Nigel began. "These figures are shabtis. They were used for—Theo? I say, Theo?"

But I was busy rifling through the packing material in the crate Fagenbush had just opened.

"Don't you want to hear about the shabtis?" Poor Bollingsworth threw me a puzzled look, but before he could figure out what I'd done, I called out, "Come look at these. I've never seen them before. Have you?"

Immediately the shabti were forgotten (thank heavens!), and Nigel hurried over to see what I'd found.

He reached down and ran his hands through the small black bits. (I
do
wish these curators would learn to wear gloves!) "Curious," he muttered.

"Aren't they?" I let them pour through my hands (which were, of course, properly covered). They were small bits of black stone—basalt and onyx, I think—and they were all very precisely shaped, although what they represented I couldn't tell.

"Grain," Mum announced as she and Father joined us at the crate. "They are all carved to look like grain. Rye, wheat, even rice. I've never seen anything like it before," she said.

"Yes, but why is it black?" I asked. "Isn't grain, well, grain-colored?"

"I don't know why they didn't carve the grain out of sandstone or soapstone or some other, lighter-colored material. Perhaps we'll learn why as we study these finds."

"Speaking of grain," I said, remembering my hunger, now that Fagenbush had been taken care of. "Can I go to the pie shop and fetch us something for dinner? I'm famished. There's been nothing to eat but jam sandwiches for the last two days."

"Oh, darling. Of course you may." Mum elbowed Father. "Alistair, you can't let her eat such rubbish all the time."

"I ... we've ... been rather busy here, Henrietta," Father stuttered, looking somewhat sheepish.

To make him feel better, I asked, "Shall I get some nice plump pasties, Father, dear? I know how fond of them you are."

He perked up immediately. "Why, yes. That would be lovely."

I held out my hand for some money. Father scrabbled around in his pockets, put a few shillings in my outstretched palm, then returned his attention to the ceremonial knife he'd just pulled out of one of Mum's trunks.

I cast a glance up at the darkening sky. If I hurried, I mean, really hurried, I could be back before dark. Probably.

I ran across the workroom and began thumping my way up the stairs.

"Don't forget your coat," Father called out after me."And your hat!"

***

The rain let up just enough that I thought I could make it to the pie shop and back before the gray clouds reconvened and began their second assault. It was cold, and the wind was still buffeting people this way and that. But it felt good to be outside, away from foul-smelling evil curses and artifacts and Clive Fagenbushes.

A few blocks from the museum, the houses and shops grew smaller and the streets more narrow. The clouds were growing dark again and I realized I'd better hurry.

It wasn't until Haddington Street that I heard the footsteps behind me. I stopped suddenly, pretending I had to rebutton my boot, and the footsteps stopped also. Slowly, I stood up, trying to think what to do. The streets weren't deserted, but there weren't very many people about. I took a few more steps, then paused to look in a nearby shop window. As I stared at bowlers and derbies, I heard the steps start up again, then stop.

I decided the best thing to do was to make a dash for the pie shop. I sped down the street, and heaved a sigh of relief when Pilkington's Pies came into view. I yanked open the door and rushed into the shop, startling poor Mrs. Pilkington. "Goodness, luv. Ye startled me. Why the hurry?"

Mrs. Pilkington was a wonderful person, plump and savory, just like the goods she sold. She always had a delicious aroma of buttery pastry and savory pie filling clinging to her, like a homey eau de toilette.

"Just starving, Mrs. Pilkington. That's all."

She gave me a knowing look. "Aye. Been keeping you cooped up in that drafty old museum too much, 'ave they?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, with feeling.

"So what'll you have for your supper tonight, luv?"

"Well, Mum's home, so I think we should get extra, just to celebrate."

"Of course you should, dear. And how lovely, yer mum's home."

I made my selections and, at the last moment, had Mrs. Pilkington keep one of the pies out for me to eat on the way home. I
was
famished. I picked up my purchases, stepped outside, and bit into the flaky meat pasty, nearly choking on it when I found myself smack up against the beastly little pickpocket I'd apprehended earlier at Charing Cross Station. "You!" I spluttered, ignoring the small shower of crumbs that escaped. Served him right for following me.

"Oy, what about me?" he asked, his sharp blue eyes watching my pie with keen interest.

"Why have you been following me? Don't lie, now."

The urchin pulled himself up to his full height, which was a good two inches shorter than me. "I never lie," he said in a huff. "And I wasn't following you, I was following the bloke that was following you."

My knees wobbled a bit. "Which bloke, er, gentleman?"

"The one wot followed ye out of the station today. You know, the swarthy-looking fellow."

I had a good idea who he meant. The fellow that had been staring at Mum's trunks. "But why?" I asked.

"I don't know. Mebbe you 'ave somefink he wants."

"No, no. I mean, why did you follow
him
?" I narrowed my eyes. "Are you looking for a reward?"

He pulled back, indignant. "'Ell no! I just figured I owed ye one, miss. You not turning me in at the station earlier and all. Sticky Will always pays his debts." He eyed my package. "Um, yer supper's gettin' cold."

I looked at the savory pie in my hand. Just minutes before it had tasted lovely. Now I couldn't bring myself to take another bite. Besides, the urchin was studying it so intently, I couldn't help but wonder when he had last eaten. "Here," I said. "Would you like it? Being followed has made me lose my appetite."

The boy's eyes lit up, but he stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled his left foot. "Well, I ain't all that hungry. But it'd be a sin to let it go to waste, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, absolutely. Probably a mortal one."

"Well in that case..." the urchin said. Then, with much eye-rolling to let me know he was doing me an enormous favor, he snatched the pasty and gobbled it up in two enormous bites.

Which gave me a smashing idea. "I'll give you another pasty if you keep following the bloke after I'm gone and see where he goes," I offered.

Again, he shuffled his feet and tried to look bored, but the effect was ruined when his stomach growled. "'Spose so. Since I got nuffin' better to do." He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Right then. Here you go." I handed him another pasty, feeling back in charge now that a bargain had been struck and the situation dealt with.

He stuffed the meat pie into his jacket. "When I finds out, should I come by yer museum?"

"Oh. Er, no." I wasn't sure Flimp, the watchman, would let him in. Besides, however would I explain him? "But I'll be at Charing Cross Station again tomorrow. Around the same time. Could we meet then?"

"See ye then," he agreed.

I watched him slip off into the shadows between the buildings. Frankly, it felt good to have someone on my side for a bit. Even if it was only a pickpocket. At least
someone
was covering my back.

I squared my shoulders and started walking down the street. I tried very hard not to think about being followed, but it was difficult. Doorways loomed like gaping maws, and the windows seemed to watch me as I passed. The streets were deserted, except for the old lamplighter who'd begun to light the lamps, which glowed feebly against the thick puddles of fog that descended upon the streets. The sludgy fog also did odd things to the sounds of the street, making the steady click of boot heels behind me all the more noticeable. I couldn't be sure, but it sounded as if they were drawing closer.

Just as I was preparing to run the rest of the way back to the museum, I heard the rattle of a carriage. I glanced over my shoulder. I knew that brougham!

I weighed my options: being followed through the streets of London by a menacing stranger or catching a lift with Grandmother Throckmorton. It shouldn't have been such a difficult choice, but then, you don't know my grandmother.

I took a step toward the carriage, waving at the driver. It took him a moment or two to recognize me but then he pulled over. When the carriage had stopped, I rapped on the door. Inside, a curtain was yanked aside to reveal the arrogant beaked nose of my grandmother.

She frowned at me, scrunching her mouth up tight as if she'd put too many lemons in her tea.

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.