R. LaFevers - Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos

“Just as soon as I finish here,” he said, sounding as if he hadn’t really heard me at all.

I looked out the window, where the clouds had finally joined together and formed a steady gray drizzle. “I don’t think Mum’s going to want to wait that long.”

When he didn’t answer, I looked over his shoulder. It appeared he was trying to sort out the hieroglyphs on the pieces of clay tablet. Intrigued, I leaned in closer. I adore hieroglyphs. Some people love to draw and others have a way with music and still others love puzzles, but hieroglyphs are my favorite thing. To me, they make clear and perfect sense, as if they were the way we’re supposed to communicate. But Father seemed stumped.

“Here you go.” I reached around his arm. “What if you put this piece here, then turn it clockwise half a turn?” There. Maybe now he’d begin to see how useful I could be!

“Theodosia, I really don’t think you comprehend how complex this is. There is no way a mere child could understand how these pieces—”

“Like so.” I slid the last piece into place.

“Hmmpf.” He leaned forward to study the completed stele. “Now, be a good girl and find me a spot of lunch before we go, would you?”

“I already thought of that.” I reached into my pocket and placed the jam sandwich on the table in front of him.

His face brightened. “Oh! Jolly good. Thank you.” He took a bite, then grimaced. “Jam? Again?”

My spirits fell. It was something to eat, wasn’t it? Besides, it was all I could find in the cupboard. I glanced at the clock again. Poor Mother would be wondering what on earth had happened to us.

But Father was once again absorbed in the stele. “ But let them remember, to be afraid, even after his death, ” he read as the clock chimed two-thirty.

“Come on, Father! Mother is going to be as furious as a drenched cat!”

“Oh,” he said, looking out the window. “Is it raining?”

A loud crack of thunder and bolt of lightning shot out of the sky and the rain turned into torrents. “Just a bit,” I said.

WE STEPPED OUT OF THE MUSEUM into a howling wind that nearly snatched my heavy winter coat right off my back. The sky was leaden with clouds, which pelted us with a furious, stinging rain. Father herded me into the growler, where we shook the worst of the water off then settled back onto the cushions. He rapped on the carriage ceiling with his cane, and we lurched away from the curb out into traffic.

The streets were a mad snarl of carts, carriages, omnibuses, and motorcars, all vying for the right of way. People with large black umbrellas dashed across the street, trying to get out of the downpour. An omnibus swerved to avoid a pedestrian and nearly plowed into us. Our driver swore as the growler lurched wildly and sent me crashing into the side of the carriage. “Watch where yer goin’ ye muttonhead!” the driver called out.

As I righted myself, I looked up to find Father scowling at me. “Where is your hat?” he asked. “You manage to remember your gloves often enough. Why not your blasted hat?”

Because I don’t touch cursed objects with my head, I wanted to say. But of course I didn’t. “I hate hats. They feel like they’re squishing my head, squeezing and squeezing until my brain feels all mushed up. Like porridge in a too-small bowl.”

Father frowned. “Really, Theodosia. You need to get a hold of that imagination of yours. One of these days you’re going to catch your death.”

Why is it that parents only notice you long enough to scold? If you do something right, say bring them lunch or help them out with a puzzle, they act as if you’re invisible. But let one silly mistake slip by, like a forgotten hat, and they read you the riot act.

I looked out the window and forced myself not to squirm with impatience. Mother had been gone for ages, and I couldn’t wait to see her. It was my fondest hope that she’d been so homesick, she’d swear she’d never go away again. Most mothers don’t leave their homes for months on end, but then most mums weren’t as wonderful as mine. She’s dashing and adventurous and oh-so-clever. And an American. She doesn’t pay too much attention to stuffy old conventions. Grandmother Throckmorton says I take very much after my mother. I don’t think she means that as a compliment.

Hopefully, Mother would want to dash straight home and have one of those warm, happy family evenings that I missed so much. I was getting just a bit tired of sleeping in the sarcophagus — a night or two is an adventure, but four nights in a row is an ordeal. I was running out of clean frocks, I was dying for a proper meal, and there never seemed to be enough blankets at night.

The cab pulled up in front of Charing Cross Station and we stumbled out onto the street. Father managed to catch me just before I landed in a nasty puddle.

We made our way toward the station, jostled this way and that by the crowd. I felt like a billiard ball let loose on the billiard table. Afraid I’d lose Father in the crush, I grabbed the tail of his greatcoat. A path opened up mysteriously in front of him. I couldn’t be sure, but I suspect he was using his cane (gently, of course!) to encourage people to make way for us.

After one particularly bad jostle, I felt a cold, small hand next to mine on Father’s coat. I watched, shocked, as the hand reached into Father’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. Without thinking, I reached out and clamped down on the grimy wrist.

The wallet dropped back into Father’s pocket and the owner of the wrist gave a low squeal. “Blimey! Let me go! Let me go! Don’t call fer the p’lice, miss. I was just gonna look at it, then put it right back.” The squealer had a button nose, and two bright blue eyes peeked out of his soot-covered face.

“You were not,” I hissed, not ready to bring a mob of officials down on him quite yet. After all, he looked to be an Unfortunate Soul. (Mother and Father are quite firm in their teachings that we must be kind to those less fortunate than ourselves. Still, I didn’t think that meant he should be allowed to pick Father’s pocket.)

“Yes I was. Honest.” He wiggled frantically, tugging at his arm to get away.

“I won’t turn you in, but you stay away from our pockets, do you hear me? Swear it.”

“I swears it, I swears it. Now let go already. Them fingernails of yours is right sharp.”

They weren’t really, but I had angled them to their best advantage. It wasn’t very nice, but then neither was picking pockets.

“Swear it on your mother’s grave,” I said solemnly. Through my work at the museum I have learned that swearing on someone’s grave is very serious business.

He rolled his eyes and heaved a great, irritated sigh. “All right already. I swear it on me mother’s grave.”

“Very well then.” I let go of his wrist. He gave a quick nod of thanks, then, before I could blink, he melted back into the crowd.

Just then Father glanced over his shoulder at me. “Theodosia, what are you doing back there? Stop gawking and hurry up.”

Inside the station we hustled along to the platform where Mum was waiting for us. She was one of the few passengers still there, and she sat perched atop one of her larger trunks. There was another pile of trunks and crates next to her that looked as if it would topple over at the next strong gust of wind.

I was so happy to see her that I wanted to run and throw my arms around her, but it had been so long since I’d seen her, I felt shy. Then she reached out and wrapped her arms around me in a wonderful hug that chased any doubts away. The soft fabric of her traveling suit under my cheek and the familiar scent of lilacs made me horribly aware of just how much I’d missed her. I opened my eyes wide and blinked rapidly to keep from embarrassing myself.