R. LaFevers - Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos

When Mum pulled back, her eyes were a bit damp, too, and she took a minute to adjust her hat. Father had already begun surveying the luggage.

“Good heavens, Henrietta. Just how many new frocks did you acquire in Cairo, anyway?”

Mother laid a gloved hand on his arm. “These aren’t my clothes, you ninny. There was some severe competition over there.” She glanced meaningfully at me, which meant she didn’t want to discuss this in front of me. “I thought it best to keep some of the artifacts close by as opposed to shipping them.”

Father beamed at her. “That’s my girl.”

Mother got a warm look in her eye and I had to look away so I wouldn’t have to see them go all mushy.

And it was a very good thing I did.

The platform was mostly empty by this time. If it had been full, I’m sure I never would have noticed the man. Actually, he was trying very hard not to be noticed, which of course made him all the more noticeable. More important, the moment I laid eyes on him it felt as if an icy-footed beetle were scuttling down my back. It was the same sensation I got whenever I discovered a cursed object in the museum. The man lurking in the shadows stared at Mother like a hungry vulture.

No. Not Mother; her trunks.

I looked away before he realized he’d been spotted and sidled up to Mum, tugging on her skirt to get her attention. “Mother, who is that man over there? The one skulking in the shadows,” I asked, careful to keep my voice low.

“Skulking in the shadows!” Father said in a rather too loud voice. “Really, where do you come up with these things, Theodosia?”

I glared at him, wishing for a moment that I had let that urchin pinch his wallet. Mother put her hand on my shoulder and gave the fellow a quick glance. The moment she turned in his direction, he looked away and began studying the train schedule posted on the wall in front of him.

“Him? I don’t know, dear. He was on the boat when we left Alexandria.”

“Another one of your admirers, Henrietta?” Father teased.

“Nonsense!” Mum said, flapping her hand.

Must they carry on so?

The cab driver was not happy when he saw all Mum’s trunks and crates. I kept a lookout for the little pickpocket, half convinced he’d try to make off with an entire trunk if given the opportunity. Finally, the driver (with Father’s help) managed to get every piece of luggage tied on and tucked in. It was a bit of a squash, but we didn’t have far to go.

I sat right next to Mother, pressed up close due to all the luggage, which I didn’t mind. I had six long months to catch up on, after all. I let my mind focus on how wonderful it was to have her home again and actually go home for a bit. I was getting tired of dinners out of a tin. I wanted a proper bath and a cream tea, and steak and kidney pie for dinner with a scrumptious pudding afterward.

After six long months away, surely Mother felt the same.

For the moment, I was happy to snuggle up against her and let the two of them talk their boring political talk.

“So, how were things over there, Henrietta?” Father asked.

Mum settled more firmly into the cushions. “Well, the French have calmed down some. The Americans are like puppies bounding all over the place in their enthusiasm, not minding who or what they step on. And the place was absolutely crawling with Germans.”

“Any sign of von Braggenschnott?”

“Well, yes, actually. He’s risen to a surprising level of influence considering that he’s up to his elbows in smuggling antiquities out of the country. But I can’t complain; he came to my assistance in convincing the local officials to let me take my discoveries out of the country and bring them home to England.”

“I don’t know, Henrietta. I don’t like having you anywhere near von Braggenschnott or men of his character.”

Mother waved her hand in the air. “Nonsense. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Hm, yes, well. The Germans have been busy at home too. Their naval buildup has the entire Ministry uneasy. The Lord Chancellor offered them a treaty again, but Kaiser Wilhelm insists on concessions we refuse to make. Everyone’s getting nervous. They’re pretty sure he’s up to something.”

Thoroughly bored with this conversation, I looked out the window. With a sinking heart, I noticed the growler turn away from Chesterfield Place and head down Marlborough Street toward the museum. I gave Father a questioning look. He reached out and patted my arm. “Don’t worry, Theodosia. It will only be for a bit. We’ve got to drop some of these crates off at the museum, and your mother wants to show us a few of her new discoveries.”

A bit, my bum, I thought. I settled back against the cushions and resigned myself to spending yet another night in the museum. Which was probably just as well, since I was terribly worried about Isis. I had to find a way to reverse that spell.

Besides, it would only be for one more day. Come tomorrow, we’d have to go home. For one, it was only a few days before Christmas and even my distracted parents emerged from their scholarly pursuits long enough to celebrate Christmas. The second reason was my younger brother, Henry. He would be coming home from school tomorrow and he hates the museum. He is so easily bored, and becomes such a dreadful pest, that by mutual consent my parents avoid having him there for any length of time.

Of course, I should be in school as well. I went for one term and it was so horribly dull and boring. Unfortunately, I had the bad luck to get far better marks than the others, an unpardonable sin in their eyes. (If I’d any idea how unpopular that would make me, I would have flubbed the tests on purpose!) So when I came home for the holidays, I just never went back and, luckily, my parents never remembered to send me. Or, more accurately, I never reminded them. Once, when Father managed to remember on his own, I pointed out that my own studies of history, ancient languages, Greek, and hieroglyphics were far more rigorous than anything any school could come up with. He reluctantly agreed, and so we let the matter drop.

Father had the growler pull round the back to the loading dock. Dolge and Sweeney came out to meet us and hauled the crates and some of the trunks into the downstairs workroom and short-term storage area. Then Father instructed Dolge to hop in the growler and take the rest of Mum’s things to our house.

“So,” Mother announced after all the fuss of unloading and seeing Dolge off, “who wants to see some new artifacts?”

Father and I crowded around while Mum pulled a key out of her pocketbook and knelt down in front of the first trunk.

“Oh, Alistair! It was all there, exactly as you said it would be. Your research was simply brilliant,” Mother said. As she fumbled with the lock, I was relieved to see she still had her gloves on. Father, too, I noticed, as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

I studied his face to see if there was any sign of bitterness. There didn’t appear to be, but who could have blamed him if there was?

Long ago, when I was only two, Father, after years of painstaking research and study, discovered the likely whereabouts of the tomb of Thutmose III, a powerful pharaoh in Egypt’s Middle Dynastic Period. He and Mother made the trip to the Valley of the Kings (leaving me with my British grandmother, who I’m quite sure dressed me up in lacy frills and forced me to sit still for hours on end). Their expedition was a huge success except for the fact that they were betrayed by a colleague, and a man named Victor Loretti claimed the official discovery.

Even worse, the British Museum, which Father was working for at the time, refused to back him and accepted the discovery as Lorretti’s.