R. LaFevers - Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos

Nigel’s face fell as he remembered the group of unruly schoolboys who had descended upon the museum earlier in the afternoon. “Oh, dear. I don’t know. I suppose I should go have a look. Make sure they haven’t broken anything or absconded with a legendary sword or something.”

I came over and stood next to the box of figures he was looking at. “What are these?” I asked. I knew perfectly well they were shabti figures, a common part of any self-respecting Egyptian tomb. The clay and wax figures were buried with the deceased so that they could perform any manual labor the dead person was called upon to do in the afterlife.

But as I drew closer, I saw that these shabtis were different in many ways. They had a rather menacing look to them, for one thing. And each clutched a weapon of some sort in their little clay arms: spears, daggers, swords, each of them had something deadly. Most odd.

With a quick glance at Fagenbush, I asked Bollingsworth, “Are they dolls? Did the mummy children play with them?”

Fagenbush’s head snapped up and he narrowed his beady little eyes at me.

“Goodness, no!” Nigel exclaimed, horrified at my ignorance. “They’re quite fascinating, actually… just a minute. I say, Clive, would you check and make sure those wayward boys aren’t up to no good?”

Just as I had hoped! What First Assistant Curator would check on a bunch of bratty schoolchildren when there was a perfectly good Second Assistant Curator to do it for him?

I peered up through my eyelashes as Fagenbush glared sharp, pointy daggers at me. He’d known exactly what I was doing — getting rid of him. I gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you so much, Mr. Fagenbush. I’m ever so curious about these dolls. ”

With a snarl, he threw down the lid he’d just managed to pry off one of the packing crates and stormed off.

“Now, Theo,” Nigel began. “These figures are shabtis. They were used for — Theo? I say, Theo?”

But I was busy rifling through the packing material in the crate Fagenbush had just opened.

“Don’t you want to hear about the shabtis?” Poor Bollingsworth threw me a puzzled look, but before he could figure out what I’d done, I called out, “Come look at these. I’ve never seen them before. Have you?”

Immediately the shabti were forgotten (thank heavens!), and Nigel hurried over to see what I’d found.

He reached down and ran his hands through the small black bits. (I do wish these curators would learn to wear gloves!) “Curious,” he muttered.

“Aren’t they?” I let them pour through my hands (which were, of course, properly covered). They were small bits of black stone — basalt and onyx, I think — and they were all very precisely shaped, although what they represented I couldn’t tell.

“Grain,” Mum announced as she and Father joined us at the crate. “They are all carved to look like grain. Rye, wheat, even rice. I’ve never seen anything like it before,” she said.

“Yes, but why is it black?” I asked. “Isn’t grain, well, grain-colored?”

“I don’t know why they didn’t carve the grain out of sandstone or soapstone or some other, lighter-colored material. Perhaps we’ll learn why as we study these finds.”

“Speaking of grain,” I said, remembering my hunger, now that Fagenbush had been taken care of. “Can I go to the pie shop and fetch us something for dinner? I’m famished. There’s been nothing to eat but jam sandwiches for the last two days.”

“Oh, darling. Of course you may.” Mum elbowed Father. “Alistair, you can’t let her eat such rubbish all the time.”

“I… we’ve… been rather busy here, Henrietta,” Father stuttered, looking somewhat sheepish.

To make him feel better, I asked, “Shall I get some nice plump pasties, Father, dear? I know how fond of them you are.”

He perked up immediately. “Why, yes. That would be lovely.”

I held out my hand for some money. Father scrabbled around in his pockets, put a few shillings in my outstretched palm, then returned his attention to the ceremonial knife he’d just pulled out of one of Mum’s trunks.

I cast a glance up at the darkening sky. If I hurried, I mean, really hurried, I could be back before dark. Probably.

I ran across the workroom and began thumping my way up the stairs.

“Don’t forget your coat,” Father called out after me. “And your hat!”

The rain let up just enough that I thought I could make it to the pie shop and back before the gray clouds reconvened and began their second assault. It was cold, and the wind was still buffeting people this way and that. But it felt good to be outside, away from foul-smelling evil curses and artifacts and Clive Fagenbushes.

A few blocks from the museum, the houses and shops grew smaller and the streets more narrow. The clouds were growing dark again and I realized I’d better hurry.

It wasn’t until Haddington Street that I heard the footsteps behind me. I stopped suddenly, pretending I had to rebutton my boot, and the footsteps stopped also. Slowly, I stood up, trying to think what to do. The streets weren’t deserted, but there weren’t very many people about. I took a few more steps, then paused to look in a nearby shop window. As I stared at bowlers and derbies, I heard the steps start up again, then stop.

I decided the best thing to do was to make a dash for the pie shop. I sped down the street, and heaved a sigh of relief when Pilkington’s Pies came into view. I yanked open the door and rushed into the shop, startling poor Mrs. Pilkington. “Goodness, luv. Ye startled me. Why the hurry?”

Mrs. Pilkington was a wonderful person, plump and savory, just like the goods she sold. She always had a delicious aroma of buttery pastry and savory pie filling clinging to her, like a homey eau de toilette.

“Just starving, Mrs. Pilkington. That’s all.”

She gave me a knowing look. “Aye. Been keeping you cooped up in that drafty old museum too much, ’ave they?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, with feeling.

“So what’ll you have for your supper tonight, luv?”

“Well, Mum’s home, so I think we should get extra, just to celebrate.”

“Of course you should, dear. And how lovely, yer mum’s home.”

I made my selections and, at the last moment, had Mrs. Pilkington keep one of the pies out for me to eat on the way home. I was famished. I picked up my purchases, stepped outside, and bit into the flaky meat pasty, nearly choking on it when I found myself smack up against the beastly little pickpocket I’d apprehended earlier at Charing Cross Station. “You!” I spluttered, ignoring the small shower of crumbs that escaped. Served him right for following me.

“Oy, what about me?” he asked, his sharp blue eyes watching my pie with keen interest.

“Why have you been following me? Don’t lie, now.”

The urchin pulled himself up to his full height, which was a good two inches shorter than me. “I never lie,” he said in a huff. “And I wasn’t following you, I was following the bloke that was following you.”

My knees wobbled a bit. “Which bloke, er, gentleman?”

“The one wot followed ye out of the station today. You know, the swarthy-looking fellow.”

I had a good idea who he meant. The fellow that had been staring at Mum’s trunks. “But why?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Mebbe you ’ave somefink he wants.”

“No, no. I mean, why did you follow him ?” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you looking for a reward?”

He pulled back, indignant. “’Ell no! I just figured I owed ye one, miss. You not turning me in at the station earlier and all. Sticky Will always pays his debts.” He eyed my package. “Um, yer supper’s gettin’ cold.”