R. LaFevers - Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos

Father reached out and yanked me away from the wall and began yelling at the porters for putting us in a room with a nest of scorpions. This sent them into a panic as they had no idea their perfectly good room had pests, especially poisonous ones.

Pandemonium ensued. The porters bowed and begged a thousand apologies. The concierge himself rushed up to the room and spent the next half-hour assuring us that nothing like this had ever happened before in their illustrious hotel, and they begged a thousand more pardons.

As they carried on, I used the opportunity to make a quick examination of the room (staying well away from the scorpions, who were in fact not moving very much). I glanced over at the dresser and saw a small figure sitting on it. I snatched it off the dresser just as Father bellowed at me to come out of there.

When I stepped into the hallway, I looked down and slowly opened my hand. In my palm lay a small, thumb-size carving of Selket, the scorpion goddess. These scorpions hadn’t been a random nest, but called to our room by someone who knew of such things.

Who would have done this? And why?

The only explanation I could come up with was that it must have something to do with the Heart of Egypt. But only Wigmere and Stokes knew that it was here, so that didn’t really make any sense. Unless von Braggenschnott and his lot had somehow figured it out, or guessed. But how?

Was it possible that von Braggenschnott discovered the Heart of Egypt was missing before he boarded his ship that day? Could he have guessed that Will pinched it when he bumped into him? Then stayed in London and not returned to Germany with the others?

But that still didn’t explain how he would have known it was here in Cairo. Unless he was just following Mum’s movements, assuming she had got it back somehow. Or unless Mum — no! I would not let myself even voice the thought. Perhaps it was part of Amenemhab’s original curse. Either way, what did that do to my chances?

We finally got everything settled and moved to a new room. My parents spent quite a long time checking under the beds, behind the curtains, anywhere and everywhere a small scorpion might hide. But I didn’t join in. I knew they would find nothing.

Our enemies hadn’t known we’d be in this room. I was certain we’d be safe. At least for the night.

My head ached and my stomach was a gnawing pit of emptiness by the time we made it down to dinner. We didn’t have time to dress, which was quite mortifying as all the other diners looked us over the minute we stepped into the dining room. Mum assured me that this happened often, as travelers arrived at the hotel at all hours and not always with their dinner clothes to hand. Still, I would have liked to have made a more grand appearance for my first night in Egypt.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, my parents were up and off to the Antiquities Services or some such in order to speak to the proper officials about gaining access to Mum’s dig.

Luckily, Mum left her dragoman, Nabir, with me. They expected us to stay around the hotel, explore the gardens, that sort of thing — but of course, I had other plans. Tomorrow we were leaving for Thebes, which meant I had exactly one day to see all of Cairo. I wasn’t going to waste it in a silly hotel. Not with mosques and palaces and bazaars and marketplaces and all sorts of things to experience.

It took a bit of doing to get Nabir to agree to any of it. He just kept shaking his head and pretending like he didn’t understand me. Eventually I gave up trying to reason with him, and slammed a loathsome straw hat on my head so I wouldn’t get burned to a crisp in the hot Egyptian sun. Then I marched toward the door.

What could the poor man do but follow? Once he realized I was going with or without him, he began muttering something about “into the hands of Allah” and shaking his head.

I stepped outside into the bright yellow light of the morning, surprised at how different the air in Cairo feels. It’s not just hotter or brighter or drier, but also older somehow. The ancientness of the city pressed against my skin, drawing me into its age-old mysteries, begging me to explore its secrets.

Once Nabir had finished praying to Allah for assistance, he became much more helpful and steered me to the bazaar. I was dying to see all the Turkish carpets and fancy Eastern goods. Besides, I needed something to get my poor mind off worrying over who had set the scorpion trap. I wasn’t terribly anxious to wait around the hotel until they happened to show up again. Who knew what they’d try next time? Cobras? Asps? I had a feeling that scorpions were only the beginning.

The streets of Cairo were bustling with activity. Dark-skinned men were everywhere, some in funny little red felt hats and others cloaked in layers and layers of white cloth. Donkeys and camels shared the streets with carriages driven by half-naked natives. Swarms of people filled the narrow lanes, speaking more languages than you could imagine. It was almost as if the Tower of Babel had come to life! I was very glad to have Nabir at my elbow.

As the jumble of other languages floated by, I vowed to keep an ear out for German. I was betting it was the Germans who had set the trap last night, although I hadn’t the foggiest notion of how they would have learned I was in Cairo.

I followed Nabir as he led me through the maze of streets. High, close buildings loomed on either side and most of the windows were covered with a wooden trellis kind of thing. The skyline was pierced by scores of minarets that topped the many mosques peppering the city. I sighed in contentment. It all felt very foreign and adventurous. There were veiled women carrying jars on their heads and a shopkeeper working out of a doorway. I tried not to stare at the beggars running alongside the carriages pleading for baksheesh or sleeping on the nearby steps.

I had expected the dirt streets to be dusty, but they weren’t. They were muddy. Nabir explained that the streets were watered to keep the dust down. I couldn’t help but wonder why they felt dust was worse than mud. Personally, I think I would have preferred the dust.

When we finally reached the bazaar district, I gaped in amazement. The shops were tiny, and so crowded together they looked like cupboards, or maybe closets. There were pipe bowls and brass urns, saddles, and colorful Moroccan slippers hanging from poles. I was quite taken with an embroidered red pair with cheerful turned-up toes and wished I hadn’t spent all my money on the passage on the Rosetta Maru. The old shopkeeper saw me eyeing the slippers and gave me a toothless smile. He took one of them off the pole, then thrust it at me, saying something I couldn’t understand.

“He says little miss should try it on,” Nabir translated. “These finest of slippers will suit your bright-as-the-sun self.”

I smiled at the shopkeeper. I did rather fancy myself a turned-up-at-the-toes sort of person, and I was pleased he’d noticed. But I had to shake my head. “I’ve no money, Nabir,” I explained. “But tell him his slippers are as beautiful as, as…” I struggled for an appropriately grand compliment. “A thousand lotus blossoms.”

Instead of frowning and shooing me away like the shopkeepers in London would have, the kind man just gave me another grin and put the shoe back on the pole. He folded his hands inside his billowing black sleeves, content to let me browse.

Next we passed sweetmeats, then tobacco, then gold and silver trinkets as well as every color of silk imaginable, wrapped in brilliant bolts or hanging in colorful swags.