Theodosia - The Serpents of Chaos by R. L. LaFevers
Something felt different as soon as I stepped into the room. It was in the air, as if the elemental particles had been disturbed. It felt as if the invisible threads that wind themselves through the atmosphere had been snarled.
Something had tangled these invisible threads into a twisted mess.
Ignoring the familiar punch of nausea, I went over to the closest box of shabtis.
Once again, they had changed. They were now exquisitely detailed little statues and they lay in their crate in a jumble, not all nicely laid out as we had left them.
Bother. Had the shabtis got up and moved around on their own? Like they had in my dream?
My stomach did a somersault at that thought. It made perfect sense that Amenemhab would have included these small clay figures as part of his curse. He’d included every other possible thing—why not these? Perhaps they were to rise up and help bring the downfall of Thutmose and Amenemhab’s enemies from the inside out. Sort of like an Egyptian version of the Trojan horse.
It seemed perfectly logical, in a black magic, revengey sort of way.
I moved on to the next crate and saw a dozen shabtis scattered on the floor around it. Was this the crate Henry had been using for soldiers? Had he carelessly left them out? Or had they climbed out on their own? No, surely one of the curators moved them. Probably Fagenbush had come down here, sniffing around.
Except even Fagenbush treated artifacts with the utmost care. The jumble of nerves in my stomach grew larger.
Looking for answers, I crossed over to the worktable where most of the stele had been laid out. I stood for a bit, studying the grisly images. The pharaoh’s army lined up in endless rows, armed with spears and swords and daggers, grim expressions on their faces. Beheaded enemies lay at the pharaoh’s feet, clearly the handiwork of these soldiers. Was that part of the whole plan? Were these shabti figures to rise up, not in the true afterlife like most shabtis, but whenever someone disturbed the tomb?
Words from Amenemhab’s Art of War came to mind.
But let them remember, to be afraid, even after his death. Let them remember how he smote his enemies in two, renting their skulls asunder as they wished to lay your land. Let them remember that his retribution was swift and terrible, as it will always be through all eternity.
Something touched my shoulder. I jumped, nearly dropping the stele.
“Theo?” Mum’s voice sounded above my pounding heart. “Whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Nothing, Mother,” I said, clutching my heart to make sure it was still in my chest. “I just hadn’t heard you come in. That’s all.”
She eyed me dubiously.
Anxious to get her concerns off of me, I pointed to the stele I’d been studying. “Mum, look here for a moment. You brought home nearly everything pictured in this stele.”
“Hm. Yes, I did, didn’t I? How clever of you to figure that out.”
“But you didn’t bring this,” I said, pointing to a scepter the pharaoh held in his hand. “The Was scepter, according to the rubbing you gave me. Amenemhab speaks about it quite a lot, actually.”
What he said was that whosoever holds the Was scepter in their possession shall be assured wealth and prosperity for their land. I was thinking poor Britain could use a bit of that right now. Plus, if I made it sound enticing enough, Mother might decide it was worth going back to Egypt sooner rather than later.
“Really? I never saw anything like that on our excavation or I would certainly have brought it home. I’ll look for it next time, won’t I?”
“When do you think that will be?”
“Darling, we just went over this last night. Not for a while yet.”
I nearly screamed in frustration. Wigmere had no idea what he was asking. I thought about telling her that the very fate of Britain hung on her decision. That her actions had launched a series of events that could topple the kingdom. I thought about explaining the curse and its repercussions. But in the end, I stumbled upon the one thing that would spur her to action.
“When Henry and I were over at the British Museum the other day,” I said, glancing out of the corner of my eye to make sure I had her full attention, “we heard that Snowthorpe chap talking to one of his flunkies. He was trying to set up an expedition specifically to find this Was scepter. Seemed to think it was nearly as valuable as the Heart of Egypt.”
Mother rose up, full of indignation. “But that’s our dig! They can’t just barge in there because they want something.”
Then I played my trump card. “Has that ever stopped them before?”
As she stared at me, I could see the wheels and gears churning inside her head. She glanced over toward the stairs. “Well, I just came to check and see how you were doing down here, darling,” she said brightly. “I really must go back upstairs.”
To Father’s workroom, I hoped.
Where, with any luck, she would soon talk him into a quick jaunt to Cairo.
***
I spent the rest of the afternoon studying the steles that had been laid out on the table. They told the exact same story that the Art of War rubbing told, only in pictures. With vivid detail.
We beseech you, oh gods, that whosoever should take his heart from this land, shall bring upon themselves the agonies of a thousand deaths. May their actions bring pestilence upon their land, eating away at their bounty as their actions have eaten away at the glory of our land. May famine bring them to their knees, hollowing out their bellies and weakening their bodies. May all the power of the Nile fall from the sky, flooding their lands until all shall float away on a sea of destruction and death.
They showed pictures of emaciated people, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the haunted faces I’d seen in the Seven Dials. One stele showed people with a revolting pox on their faces, writhing on the ground.
Then, oh gods, may plagues rise up to eat away at the people, may pustules and sores erupt over their bodies, marking them for all to see as destroyers of Egypt. May your retribution upon these enemies of Thutmose be swift and terrible, may Sehkmet devour their hearts, and Ammit feast on their heads. May all the lands run red with their blood until they return the Heart of Egypt to its rightful resting place, and lay it back at your feet, so that Thutmose’s glory will be whole once more.
I was so absorbed in trying to learn all that I could from the steles, I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. Dusk was falling and the room began to grow dark. Just as I decided I’d better turn up the gaslights, I heard a squeak on the stair.
I froze.
It was the kind of slow, quiet squeak that lets you know that the person doing the squeaking doesn’t wish to be heard.
Frantic, I looked around for some kind of weapon. My eyes fell on the ritual dagger that Mum had brought back. I snatched it up in my hand and tiptoed over to hide behind the wall at the base of the stairs.
As I waited, I tried to take shallow little breaths that couldn’t be heard. I pinned my eyes to the base of the stairs, where the intruder would first appear. A shadow rose up on the wall of the staircase, looming tall and black. My heart kicked into a gallop. I raised the dagger.
The shadow stepped off the stairs and into the room. “What are you doing here?” I asked, shoving the dagger behind my back.
Lord Wigmere looked a bit surprised, then rather sheepish. “Looking for you, of course.”
“Well, why were you sneaking?”
He puffed up at that. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was just walking quietly.”
I sniffed, then returned to the steles I’d been studying, laying the dagger on the worktable. I tapped my toe, impatient for Wigmere to leave. I still hadn’t forgiven him his suspicions about Mother.
Wigmere limped farther into the room. “Still angry, are you?”
“I’m afraid I have nothing to say to you,” I told him, then strode over to the crates of shabtis.
“Theodosia, look at it this way. I oversee hundreds of museums here in Britain, scor
Well, that little black statue of Bastet had been very charming. “Yes, but you can’t possibly think I’m going to believe something like that about my own mother.”
Wigmere studied me for a moment, pulling on his mustache. “Very well. Pax. I won’t insist you see your mother in that light, if you agree that I have a moral obligation to do so. No matter how extraordinary she or her daughter might be.” He held his hand out.
I stared at it a moment. He had called pax, after all. And I suppose he was only doing his job. And, since I had every intention of proving him wrong, I suppose I could afford to be gracious. Although, I’d like to know when this gracious stuff becomes fun, because really, it’s rather dull if you ask me.
“Oh, all right,” I said, putting my hand in his. He had called me extraordinary.
His whole face brightened in a smile.
“Besides,” I continued. “I’m telling you. The insider is—”
“Your father?” Wigmere asked.
“No!” Just as I started to get worked up, I saw his mustache twitch. “Ha ha. Very funny.” I tossed my hair over my shoulder.
Wigmere frowned. “Have you had any luck with your parents?”
“No, but I will. I’ve only just gotten started on them. They’ll be off to Cairo in a matter of weeks. Just you wait and see,” I said, hoping it was true.
“Well, the whole reason I came here is,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “I have something for you.”
He fiddled around a bit, then pulled out a small velvet pouch and handed it to me.
“For me?”
He nodded. I opened it and pulled out a tiny wedjat eye hanging on a thin, golden chain.
“Oh, my,” I said, staring at the gold as it spun round in my hand. It was heavily weighted with good magic and protection. I’d never seen any amulet ooze as much protective power as this one.
“Wear it, Theodosia. At all times. Hide it under your collar if you must, but do not take it off. Ever. It is old, very old. It is rumored to have been fashioned by the god Horus himself, and given to the very first Egyptian king as a sign of the god’s favor.”
I stared from the artifact back up to Wigmere. “But, the gods are only myths! Aren’t they?”
Wigmere put his hands in his pockets and turned to look out the window.
“That’s what conventional archaeology says. And what the Brotherhood used to think. But now, after decades and decades of research, and seeing the magic and power that have been wrought into some of these artifacts, we aren’t so sure.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No. That can’t be. It simply can’t.”
Wigmere turned away from the window and looked back at me. He seemed to realize what effect his words had, then shrugged. “As I say, no one knows for certain. All is lost in the shroud of time.” He looked out the window again. “That reminds me. I hope you’ll be glad to learn that we located that sticky-fingered friend of yours, and I’ve decided to hire him as an errand boy for the Society.”
“You mean Will?”
“Yes. It will keep him out of trouble, and you never know when we might have need of his particular, er, talents.”
What a perfect place for him! “I shall feel much better knowing he’s working for you.”
“Well, my dear,” Wigmere said, fidgeting with his cane. “I must be going. You take care of yourself. I have every confidence that you will succeed.” He put his hand out for me to shake, but surprising us both, I threw my arms around him and gave him an enormous hug.
Taken aback, he stood awkwardly for a moment, then gave me a few pats on the head. “There now, dear girl. Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
I stepped back. “Thank you for coming today. And thank you for this,” I said, holding out the wedjat eye. “I’m sure it will come in handy.”
“I’ve no doubt,” he muttered under his breath.
Victory at Last!
HURRAY! VICTORY! This morning at breakfast Mother and Father announced they would be leaving for Cairo aboard the Rosetta Maru the day after next—both of them! Father is furious that the British Museum would even think of stealing another find out from under his nose. He considers it a personal affront, one he’s intending to address himself. He petitioned the Museum of Legends and Antiquities board of directors for special permission to go to Cairo with Mother. And they granted it! Apparently, they aren’t too keen on the British Museum getting the best of them, either.
But despite my best efforts to convince them to take me along, my parents had the gall to say I wasn’t to go. I was too young. Egyptian archaeological expeditions were no place for an eleven-year-old girl. Piffle! And a cavernous old museum is?
Then they had the further gall to say they needed me to watch over the museum for them. But they said it in that annoying tone of voice that lets you know they just want you to think you’re being useful.
Then, the coup de grâce (that’s French for “killing blow”). They announced I was to stay with Grandmother Throckmorton while they were away. Not very likely!
And I’d like to know how I’m to keep an eye on the museum when I’m stuck under Grandmother Throckmorton’s nose?
Well, I have no choice now. I am bound for Cairo as a stowaway. I just have to work out a plan. Of course, having Father along will complicate things considerably, but I will manage.
And isn’t the Rosetta Maru a wonderful name? Doesn’t it sound like all sorts of adventures and wildly mysterious things could happen aboard a ship with a name like that? Knowing I was going to be smack in the middle of them sent a delicious thrill down my spine.
(Or maybe that was fear. It was hard to tell, as I found myself swinging wildly between the two lately.)
***
I can’t tell you how hard it is to pack for a trip that you’re not supposed to be going on. Mum went through my closets and emptied all my winter frocks and coats into a trunk bound for Grandmother’s house.
I snuck up to the attic to try and locate a traveling bag I could take to Cairo. I had to pack very different things from what Mum had in mind, let me tell you. Not to mention I didn’t have access to any of the things I’d really need once I was in Egypt; lightweight frocks, a parasol, cotton stockings instead of wool. Again, I resorted to the attic and managed to scavenge some old things of Mother’s, including one of her old pith helmets. Excited at the find, I tried it on and went to look in one of the cracked mirrors that lived in the attic. I must say, I looked quite dapper and ready for action.
I also nabbed some old woolen stockings with moth holes in them. I was going to need a way to escape from Grandmother Throckmorton’s house, after all. They just might come in handy.
I kept a couple of old winter gowns and my favorite coat out on the bed in case Mum or Henry wandered into my room while I was packing. I’d just toss those on top of my satchel, and no one would be the wiser.
Henry was feeling particularly glum, since he was being sent back to school. He’s decided he likes the museum, after all, even though I’ve reminded him a hundred times that adventures like the one we had never happen. He is somewhat mollified by the knowledge that I am being packed off to Grandmother Throckmorton’s.
If I didn’t know that I was actually going to Cairo with my parents, I think I would simply perish with despair.
Grandmother Throckmorton
WE BADE HENRY GOODBYE at Charing Cross Station and waited on the platform until his train pulled away. I realized I was going to miss the little beast. Either that or I had a bit of coal dust stuck in my eye.
Then Father clapped his hands together and said, “Now, Theodosia. Let’s pay your grandmother a visit.”
He always tries to m
Grandmother lives in a very grand house over by St. James Park. It’s the kind of house where all the chairs and sofas are covered with frilly covers and she has hundreds of flowery, breakable things crowding every surface imaginable. The whole house is wretchedly uncomfortable and you can’t touch a single thing.
When we pulled up in front of the house, a footman came down to greet the cab and carry my bags. He lifted the suitcases and led us up the stairs to the front door, where Grandmother’s butler, Beadles, waited for us. Beadles always looked as if he’d just smelled some really nasty fish and was trying to keep his nose as far away from it as possible. Which was really quite horrid because then, if one happened to look up, one could see straight up into his nostrils and practically count his nose hairs.
Wasn’t he worried about going cross-eyed staring down his nose like that? I always did, whenever I tried it.
“Master Throckmorton, Mrs. Throckmorton, I shall tell Madam that you are here.” He ignored me completely, but then, he always does. He stepped away, leaving us all waiting in the hallway as if we were on a business call. Why does Father put up with this, and what makes him think I am going to?
I heard the rustle of stiff silk over lots of rigid petticoats, then Grandmother Throckmorton was upon us. “Hello, Alistair.” She greeted him first, offering up her old, wrinkly cheek for him to kiss.
“Hello, Mother. How are you?” Father asked after he’d given her a quick peck.
She sniffed. “As well as can be expected.” She is very clever, that woman. She said it as if it were somehow Father’s fault. I don’t know how she does it, but it would be a worthwhile skill to learn.
“Henrietta.” She nodded at Mother, but did not offer her a kiss. Lucky Mum, I thought. Then she directed that steely gaze and pinched mouth at me. “And what have we here? Ah, yes. Theodosia. My granddaughter.” She sniffed again.