Theodosia & the Eyes of Horus (26 page)

There was a clank as Father dropped his fork and Mother gasped, her cheeks growing pink. After a surprised minute, she frowned. "Theodosia, that is most inappropriate to bring up at the dinner table. Surely a girl of your age knows that."

My face turned bright red in embarrassment. Indeed, I
hadn't
known that. In fact, Mother never made a fuss about propriety or being vulgar or any of those sorts of things. That was one of the reasons she annoyed Grandmother so.

And even through my extreme embarrassment, I could tell that her overreaction meant she was hiding something. A something so terrible it couldn't be discussed at the dinner table.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE FROWN NOT ON HUMBLE BIRTH

***

THE NEXT MORNING, I thought seriously about staying home. In fact, the only thing that got me out of bed was the driving need to find another opportunity to talk to Mother about where I was born.

As I washed my face, I searched for signs of Mother in my features. I would even settle for Father's plainer looks. But while Mother had lovely rich chestnut hair that curled gracefully into a topknot with charming little tendrils escaping, my hair was straighter than a poker and the most nondescript color ever invented. Once in a while, when the sun shone brightly, I thought I could detect a straw-colored glimmer or

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two, but since the sun never shines in London, what good did that do me? And it wouldn't curl, no matter how long we left the curling iron on it. My hair burned before it curled!

My eyes weren't the least bit Mum-like either. Instead of being rich chocolate brown like hers, my eyes had some of every color in them, which sounded good but actually was a lot like greenish mud. Henry and Father had blue eyes, so I'd always thought Mother's brown and Father's blue had simply gotten mixed up in me. But with Awi Bubu's revelations still ringing in my ears, I realized that might not be the case at all.

***

There wasn't an opportunity to get Mother alone all morning. Once we got to the museum, it was even worse. Weems wanted to ask her a question about the placement of the Sekhmet statue, no doubt sucking up to her after his set-down yesterday. Father also remained in the foyer, checking up on how Fagenbush was coming with the assembly of Thutmose Ill's war chariot. The only one missing from all of this was Stilton, which was just as well since I needed to catch him alone. I still owed him a thank-you for his help Saturday night and I wanted to let him know that the funeral had gone off without a hitch. I had meant to tell him yesterday

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but was so distracted by Sopcoate's unexpected appearance and demands that I'd forgotten.

I made my way down the hall to Stilton's office, surprised to find the door closed. I raised my fist to knock but was stopped by the sound of voices. Who could Stilton be talking to? Everyone else was in the foyer.

"You aren't supposed to be here." I couldn't tell if that was panic or outrage I heard in Stilton's voice.

"You've been ignoring the grand master's summons for days, ever since you missed the meeting Saturday night."

I knew that voice. It belonged to Basil Whiting, Aloysius Trawley's second in command. And why hadn't Stilton warned me that he would be skipping a Black Sun meeting? I had no desire to draw even more of Trawley's ire.

"I haven't been ignoring anybody," Stilton said. "We've been up to our ears in work around here, trying to get ready for the new exhibit. I can't get away without raising suspicion."

"Have you forgotten that you swore an oath of loyalty?"

"N-no. Of c-course not!"

"Loyalty to the grand master comes before even your job," Whiting said.

"Then how does he expect me to eat or put a roof over my head?" Definitely outraged, this time.

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"Such mundane matters are not his concern," Whiting said.

Stilton started to speak, but Trawley's second in command talked over him. "No more excuses. The grand master says you need to choose."

"Choose?"

"Yes, choose whom you will serve--him or the girl. And be sure you choose right, or you'll think the Trial of Nephthys was a walk in the park. Master says this is your last warning."

With a start, I realized the conversation was over. The floor creaked as Whiting headed for the door. In an instant, I leaped back to the wall and slipped behind the suit of armor there.

Whiting came out of Stilton's office, checked the corridor, then hurried toward the back entrance. This was a most disturbing development. Clearly, any pretense of cooperation was being cast aside, and it was now open war. The only question now was, Whom would Stilton choose?

***

My heart was still pounding as I slipped out from behind the armor. I needed to talk to Stilton and-- "There you are!"

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I whirled around to find Fagenbush glaring at me. "Come into my office," he ordered.

I glanced around to be sure no one would see us, then reluctantly followed him inside. I'd never been invited into his office before, and I wasn't sure I cared much for it. I was surprised to find it much neater than Father's or Stilton's, but it most definitely felt like enemy territory. I held myself stiffly and waited.

After he closed the door, the smell of ox dung became overwhelming. "How do I remove it?" he growled at me.

"Try scraping your boots on the grass--"

"Do not pretend this isn't your doing."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He ground his teeth and clenched his hands, but changed the subject. "You went to visit Wigmere yesterday."

As it wasn't a question, I didn't bother to answer.

He stepped toward me and I resisted the urge to pinch my nose with my fingers. Whoever would have thought that I would
miss
the smell of boiled cabbage and pickled onions?

"What message did you have for Wigmere? He's instructed you to give it to me."

I forced myself to turn casually and say, "I was just paying him a social visit. To see if he was planning on attending the exhibit opening. That is all."

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"You liar!" Fagenbush snarled at me. "You are jeopardizing my career with your stubbornness."

I whirled on him. "My stubbornness! My stubbornness? Have you shown me one iota of trust or kindness or anything that indicates my trusting you wouldn't be a huge mistake?" Even as I railed at him, my mind raced like a motorcar engine. Who had told him I'd been to Somerset House? Boythorpe? Or Wigmere himself?

He took a step closer, nearly backing me against the wall. "And where else did you disappear to yesterday afternoon? You were gone much longer than a quick visit to Somerset House warranted. Who else are you associating with? I wonder how Wigmere will feel upon hearing it."

Something in me snapped. I was sick of being watched and observed like some specimen in a jar. I was tired of all these wretched adults thinking I was just playing a game. I raised my finger, pointed it at Fagenbush's chest, and took a step toward him, forcing him to back up a bit. "You want to know what happened yesterday? Fine, I'll tell you. Admiral Sopcoate"--Fagenbush's eyes widened--"yes,
that
Admiral Sopcoate, showed up at the memorial service, that's what. Furthermore, he demanded I hand over the artifact that everyone keeps telling me is nothing but worthless occult drivel." I cocked my finger back then poked Fagenbush in

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the chest--hard. "So you take that information to Wigmere and see what he has to say, why don't you."

Then, while he was still sputtering, I strode out of his office and headed for the upstairs workroom. Since I'd gathered a good head of steam, it seemed like a fine time to get Mum alone and ask her about where I was born. Until I did that, I would be able to concentrate on little else.

I found her alone in the workroom, poring over the remaining steles from the dig.

The question I'd been burning to ask her dissolved on my tongue. I glanced at the stele on the table in front of her. "Anything interesting?"

"Oh, yes. Lots."

I waited a moment longer, gathering up my courage, until Mother finally said, "Was there something you needed, dear?"

I tried again. "Mother," I began, my mouth growing dry. The question I was about to ask terrified me. Or maybe it was the possible answer that was so disturbing. I cleared my throat and tried to lighten my tone, as if this were simply a casual conversation and my entire identity didn't hang in the balance. "Was I born at home, like Henry, or was I born in a hospital?"

Mother's whole body went still, just for a second, and

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my insides turned to jelly. She clearly did not like this question.

"Why do you ask, dear?" Not much of an answer, that. In fact, I recognized it as a major avoidance tactic, one I used quite often myself. My unease grew. "No reason, really. Just curious."

"Do you remember when Henry was born?" Mum said brightly. "How funny he looked? Just like a little old gnome. And old Dr. Topham was there?"

"Yes, Mum. But I want to know about when
I
was born." My voice came out a little more stern than I had intended. Mum blinked at me, and I stared into her dark brown eyes-- eyes that were nothing like my own. A cold feeling of dread filled me. Why wouldn't she answer the question?

"Well." Mum gave a nervous little laugh. "It's an unusual story, really. You weren't born at home or in a hospital. You were born in Egypt."

Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't this. "Egypt?" I repeated stupidly.

Mother gave that nervous laugh again, her cheeks flushing faintly pink. "Yes, I'm afraid so. Your father and I had been working on an excavation of an ancient temple site when I discovered I was in the family way. However, the rainy season came early that year, and there was major flooding, which made travel impossible. Especially in my

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condition. When the rains finally stopped, it was too late for me to travel, so I stayed and continued my work."

In Egypt. I was born in Egypt. Before I could wrap my mind around that, she continued.

"As I said, I had decided to keep working. I felt perfectly fine, strong and healthy, and I saw no reason to be confined to my hotel room. I would have gone quite mad, I'm sure. However, eager child that you were, you came three weeks earlier than expected and caught us off-guard." She cleared her throat. "You were born in the temple I was working in at the time."

A temple!
"Whose temple was it?" I asked, nearly afraid of the answer.

"It was a temple dedicated to Isis."

Well, at least it wasn't a Seth Temple. "Why did you never tell me this before?" I wanted to know. Was she ashamed?

"Well, it was a bit of a scandal, all the way around. I was the first archaeologist to give birth on a dig," she said, her voice drier than dust from the Sahara. "Not to mention the sheer impropriety of it all. In fact, your grandmother still hasn't forgiven me. Such a vulgar thing to do, you know. Have a baby in a far-off foreign land on heathen soil."

"Is that why she dislikes me so?"

"Oh, Theo, darling. I don't think she dislikes you so much as she is worried for you. She is convinced that your being

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born and spending your first months of life in a strange land has ruined your chances of being a proper British miss. Pure rubbish, but that's your grandmother for you. Your father, however, was quite taken with the whole situation. Called you our most precious artifact."

"He did?" Her words stunned me.
I
was my father's most precious artifact? How could that be? My eyes began to prickle and burn.

However, before I could embarrass myself with a full display of waterworks, there was a shout from below: "fire!"

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX A MOMENTARY TRUCE

***

MOTHER AND I RACED TOWARD THE SHOUTING . When we arrived in the foyer, we found Father flapping his morning coat, putting out a burning statue. Underneath the smell of smoke, ash, and dung, I caught the rotten-egg stench of sulfur. That did not bode well.

"What happened?" Mother asked, hurrying forward.

With the fire now safely out, Father let his coat hang limply at his side and ran his hand through his hair. "I'm not sure. The blasted thing just burst into flames. Weems?" He turned to the First Assistant Curator. "What did you do to it?"

"N-nothing, sir." Weems squirmed uncomfortably.

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"Well, it didn't just spontaneously combust," Father said.

"I-I'm afraid it did," the unfortunate Weems continued. "There is no other explanation."

"Tell us exactly what you were doing before it burst into flames," Mother suggested.

Weems scrubbed his hands over his face, as if trying to wash away the memory. "Well, I had just unwrapped the statue from the roll of felt she came down in--"

"Where's the felt?" Father asked.

Weems pointed to the dark green fabric that had fallen to the floor. Father bent down and picked it up, then rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed it. "Go on."

"...and set her on the display column."

"How, exactly?" Father asked.

"Like this." Weems took the statue from Father and set it carefully down on the column. Faint bits of dust and ash swirled in the glinting rays of the morning sun, casting the black basalt statue in bright light. There was a faint
swoosh,
then a crackle as the statue caught fire again.

Father gave a shout of surprise and whipped his coat up and began beating at the flames once more. "Quit doing that!" he shouted.

Poor Weems looked sick with bewilderment. He obviously had no idea how he kept managing to set the statue on fire.

I, however, did. And as much as I disliked Weems, I knew