Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos-Theo 1 (9 page)

"Street urchins?"

"Oh, shut up. I do too have friends." I did. Really. Sticky Will was my ally, wasn't he? Or was he just a pickpocket hoping for another pasty? Oh, who needs friends anyway? "Where are Mother and Father?"

"Getting my luggage. They told me to run on ahead and see if I could find you."

Behind him, I saw my parents making their way through the crowd, along with a porter juggling Henry's luggage. "How many days' break do you get this winter?" I asked.

"Three weeks," Henry said. "And if you're snotty to me, I'll make sure they put
you
on a train to school when they send me back."

The cad.

***

After we picked Henry up from the train station we went directly home to our house on Chesterfield Street. It was wonderful to be home! Thick curtains and even thicker carpets kept all the drafts away and there was a fire burning in every room in the house. Cook, relieved to have something to do, made a fabulous dinner of steak and kidney pie, and even Henry wasn't too much of a bore.

Then, after dinner who should show up but Uncle Andrew, Mum's brother and my favorite uncle in all the world. Of course, the townhouse was much too cramped for all of us so Mum and Dad made a last-minute decision to go to the country. We all packed like madmen, bundled up, and piled into a carriage that carried us off to our home in Surrey. I have to say, I think it was the best Christmas ever! Except for the rain.

The only awkward bit was when Mother and Father opened their presents from me. They tried to be polite, but I saw the puzzled looks they exchanged when they thought I wasn't looking. I'd made them each an amulet. Of protection. To be worn when we're at the museum. Honestly. You'd think they'd have sorted this stuff out by now.

Uncle Andrew showed me how to throw knives that afternoon. We didn't tell Mum. She got angry enough last year when he showed me how to shoot clay pigeons with a shotgun. I landed flat on my backside in the muddy slush with a bruise the size of a pudding on my right shoulder. But I blew that clay pigeon to smithereens. I don't know why Mum got so upset. According to Uncle Andrew she's a crack shot herself. But she says I'm too young. What I'd like to know is how old does a person have to be before they get to do all the fun stuff?

U
SUALLY WHEN
I
RETURN TO THE MUSEUM
after a long absence, it feels like I'm being welcomed by an old friend. All the creaks and groans seem cheerful. As if the wraiths and spirits are relieved to have me back, as if they
liked
having someone around who was aware of their existence.

But not today.

Today, the minute I stepped foot into the building, it felt different. Colder. More still. As if everything were holding its breath. I gazed around the vast main hall, peering up into the small balconies and archways that lined the stone walls, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

When I set my valise down on the tiled floor, the soft
click
echoed down the chamber and disappeared into utter silence. Father started to walk around me, but I put out my hand to stop him. "Do you notice anything?"

He scowled at me, then concentrated a moment. "No," he said, rather crisply. "Nothing. The only thing I notice is that you're about to go off on one of your tangents. I'm warning you, Theodosia."

Father turned toward the stairs and tripped over my valise. "What in heaven's name is that?"

"Just a few things I brought with me. Supplies, that sort of thing." Clean clothes, to be exact. Just in case we got stuck at the museum for days on end again.

"Hmph," he growled, then strode out of the foyer toward the stairs that led up to his workroom.

I heaved a sigh, then looked away from Father to find Henry grinning at me. "You made a good impression on him, there, Theo."

I glared at him. "Yes, almost as good an impression as you made when you tried to light the gaslight at home with your finger and nearly burned your hand off."

Henry kicked halfheartedly at my bag. "It was supposed to be an experiment. On static electricity."

Henry looked so dejected I was almost sorry I'd brought it up. But really, I didn't need Henry to remind me how iffy my position was. It wouldn't take much for Father to decide I was suffering from nerves or some equal nonsense and pack me off to some cold gray school to cure me of them.

I left Henry in the foyer studying his bandaged finger and went up to the second floor to stash my case in my closet. Then I went up to the third floor and the Ancient Egypt Exhibit, curious to see if I could work out what was making the museum feel so wrong. Besides, if I pretended I wasn't really looking for Isis, maybe I'd have a chance of finding her.

When I was halfway up the stairs, a voice behind me made me jump.

"So what
is
wrong?" It was Henry.

"As if I'd tell you, you little beast. You'd be off to Father in a minute flat, tattling and trying to get me locked up in another of those hideously boring schools."

"They're not so hideous. They've got sports, you know. Besides, maybe I won't tattle. Not if you make it worth my while," he said.

I stopped and whirled around to face him. "And why would I want to do that?"

"If you tell me what's wrong, I'll even try to help you work out what's going on."

"I don't need your help to work out anything."

Henry's face fell and I immediately felt awful. Then I had a brilliant idea. What if the reason Henry hated the museum was because he could sense all the black magic? He was my brother, after all. Shouldn't we share the same traits, just like we share the same eye color (hazel, if you're wondering)? "Actually, there is something you can help me with," I told him. "But keep your voice down and your hands in your pockets."

He muttered something about bossing not being part of the deal and shuffled along after me.

As we walked among the Egyptian statuary on our way to the exhibit room, I could detect nothing out of the ordinary. I paused at the door leading into the exhibit and closed my eyes. Again, I sensed nothing.

"What are we looking for?" Henry asked. "And how are you going to find it with your eyes closed?"

"Henry," I asked, opening my eyes and watching him closely. "Do any of these exhibits ever give you the willies or make you uneasy?"

"Uneasy how?"

"Like make your skin crawl—"

"No. Never. How about you?"

"No. Never."

"Then why do you ask?" He thought for a moment. "Is that what's wrong with you? Are you frightened of these stuffy old exhibits?"

"No! But you hate being in the museum, so I thought perhaps it made you uneasy."

"I'm no coward!"

Drat. I'd so hoped he felt some of the same sensations I did, but just didn't know how to say so. Bringing Henry along was already proving to be a bad idea. "Look, I'm just trying to detect what is off with the museum. Something feels wrong somehow. As if someone were here while we were away, or one of the exhibits had been tampered with, something of that nature."

"You're off your nut," he said. "Forget about school, Father needs to send you directly to Bedlam."

I whirled around and scowled at him. "Take that back! Right now! Take it back, I say!"

Stunned, he just stared at me.

I clenched my fists and took a step toward him. "I'm warning you, Henry. I'm deadly serious. Take that back now or I'll—"

"All right already! I take it back. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

I glared at him. "You're not helping." I turned away from him and stepped fully into the Egyptian Funerary Magic room. It was morning, so the presence of the long-dead spirits was subdued. Maybe that was it. Were they too subdued?

I gave one last look around the room. Everything here seemed perfectly normal. Well, as normal as the Egyptian exhibits ever got.

We left the room and headed toward the armory. Occasionally a bespelled sword found its way into the museum. Maybe I'd missed one and the sensation was coming from there.

Henry and I walked among the tall glass display cases that held spears, swords, and battle axes from every historical battle ever fought. Or so it seemed. It didn't take long before Henry became completely absorbed in all the weaponry in the room and I was able to conduct my examination without any interruptions. As I walked among the full-size suits of armor posted around the room like so many silent guards, I felt nothing. No sign of what was wrong with the museum and no sign of Isis either.

Fighting off a feeling of discouragement, I chewed my bottom lip and tried to think what to do next.

But of course! Our next stop would be Edgar Stilton's office. If something were truly off, he would be feeling it as well. It was early and he was likely the only assistant curator who had made it in so far.

When I tapped on his door, Stilton called, "Come in," his voice cracking horribly on the "in" part, which caused him to turn bright red.

"Good morning, Stilton," I said.

"Hullo, Theo. And Henry! Welcome home from school." He let loose with a whopping big sneeze, then fumbled for his handkerchief.

"Thanks," said Henry, stepping back a pace or two.

"Have you got a cold, Stilton?" I asked.

He dabbed his honker with his handkerchief. "No," he said. "It only just started this morning when I got here. Must be the dust or something."

Aha! I knew it. Something unusual
was
afoot!

We said our goodbyes and then, reluctantly, I headed for the short-term storage area downstairs, where we had unloaded Mum's discovery last week. Wanting to avoid the nasty swarm of curses the artifacts were carrying, I'd put it off as long as possible.

"What's down here?" Henry asked, nearly treading on my heels.

"Mum's latest discoveries. You'll like this one, Henry. It's got loads of weapons."

His face brightened at this news and he stopped dragging his feet.

There was no one in short-term storage when we arrived, so I parked Henry in front of a box of evil-looking shabtis and set to work.

The sense of malevolence coming from the cursed artifacts was exactly the same as before Christmas, so I ignored them and began examining the contents of the other crates to see if anything was missing. The steles were there, and the revolting ceremonial dagger. I rifled through another crate and found a pile of scarabs that had a distinctly malicious feel to them, but it wasn't strong enough to account for the whole museum being off.

Four new crates sat nearby, but they hadn't even been opened yet. When I looked up from the boxes, I saw Henry had taken a dozen shabtis out of their crate and had set them up along the floor as if they were tin soldiers.

"Henry," I hissed. "They're not toys! They're four-thousand-year-old artifacts. Now put them back." I glanced down at the clay figures. With my heart beating faster, I slowly picked one up.

"Hey! You just ruined my troop formation!" Henry protested.

Ignoring him, I studied the figure in my hand. It had changed. The features were sharper, clearer. The expressions more harsh.

But no. That was impossible, surely. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. Was the uneasy sensation I had coming from these shabtis?

I waited a second and felt ... nothing. No. Whatever strange things were going on with these clay soldiers, it wasn't what I had sensed when I came in this morning. Although, that now meant there were two things I had to investigate.

"Okay, Henry," I said as I put the shabti back in the crate. "Put those away. Our next stop is the catacombs."

"Oh, give off," Henry said uneasily. "They aren't really catacombs."

"If you say so," I said, heading for the door.

"They're not," he insisted, hurrying to catch up to me. "It's just a bunch of old stuff down in the basement. Stuff Dad's not using."

Henry was right. They aren't really catacombs, but long-term storage for things we're not currently using in the exhibits. But they are very creepy. All sorts of dead things, mummies and coffins and ancient skeletons of who-knows-what lurking twenty feet underground. Sounds like catacombs to me.

I opened the door, shuddering as a thick blast of icy cold stale air hit me. It smelled dank and musty and..."Okay. Nothing's been disturbed down there." I turned around and bumped smack into Henry, who was trying to peer over my shoulder down into the depths of the stairway.

"How can you tell?" he wanted to know.

"I just can, that's all." I could tell by the feel of the air, dank and heavy, with no fresh eddies or swirls cutting through its depths for months. The whole place had the feel of a sleeping beast that hadn't been disturbed in ages.

I didn't want to be the first one to do so. And certainly not without more protection than I had on me at the moment.

"Tea," I announced, putting as much cheer into my voice as possible.

"There's no tea down there," Henry said, still peering into the dark passageway.

"Of course there's not." I shut the door, narrowly missing his nose. "But it's time to take Mother and Father their tea," I said firmly.