Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos-Theo 1 (7 page)

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.

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.