Theodosia and the Eyes of Horus

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.

"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 it had nothing to do with him. Clearly the statue of Sekhmet was cursed.

It was a very cunning curse, actually, and one I'd seen only a few times before. Ancient magicians would curse a funereal object so that when it was brought out into the sun, it would burst into flames. In this way, they hoped to discourage tomb robbers from plundering the pharaohs' tombs.

When at last the flames were out again, Father looked haggard. "Maybe it's the plinth," he said, bending down to look at it. But of course it wasn't. I saw Clive Fagenbush watching Weems with a knowing glint in his eye; then our gazes met and a look of understanding passed between us. Fagenbush also knew what had caused that fire, and it was no plinth.

"Here, Father," I said, stepping forward at the same moment that Fagenbush did. "I'll just take that back up to the workroom for you."

Fagenbush glared at me, furious I'd offered first.

"Oh, thank you, Theodosia. That would be best, I think." He turned to Weems. "And you, I think it best if you go work on the guest list for Friday's reception. I can't risk you incinerating anything else."

"Very well, sir," Weems said, trying to look as if he weren't the least bit demoralized by all this.

I took the statue from Father, careful to touch only the very top of its head and its feet. Sekhmet was the lioness-headed goddess who represented the destructive force of the sun, and she and her ancient priestesses were a tad vengeful. They often coated such statues with various poisons, so that if the flames didn't get you, the poison would. With luck, some of the ash would cling to the surface and would act like a rubbing, allowing me to read the cursed hieroglyphs that had been used. I was surprised at how cool it was to the touch, but that simply confirmed it was magic, not the principle of combustion, that was at work here.

When I reached the workroom, I carried the statue of Sekhmet over close to the window, careful not to let the feeble sunlight touch it. Unfortunately, even with a faint film of ash on the statue, I couldn't make out the hieroglyphs that formed the curse, and until I knew those, I couldn't remove it.

Very carefully, I moved the statue toward the faint rays of sun coming in through the thick glass. I held Sekhmet so she wasn't quite touching the light itself, only brushing against some of the dust motes dancing in the sun.

It worked. The statue didn't catch fire, but it began to heat up, and as it did, the faint hieroglyphs became visible. Because I wasn't in the direct sunlight, the inscribed hieroglyphs on the statue didn't move and swarm so much as pusate, so even though they were faint, they were stationary and therefore easier to read.

Working quickly, before the statue actually caught fire again, I peered closely at the symbols. Destruction. Chaos. Power of the sun. Avenger of wrongs. Our lady of slaughter. Honestly! We were lucky the statue had only burst into flames!

From what I could make of the inscribed spell, the curse on this statue called down the fires of the desert on anyone who moved it from the darkness of the Temple of Thutmose III into the sunlight.

Once I'd clearly seen all the hieroglyphs, I moved the statue over to the workbench, being careful not to touch it against anything. The curse confirmed what I'd thought: it had been devised so tomb raiders wouldn't steal it. However, that presupposed that all tomb raiders could read the hieroglyphs, which most definitely wasn't the case.

Wait a moment. I looked down at the surface of the statue, but the symbols were already fading. Bother. I picked it back up and went over to the window, paying careful attention to one specific hieroglyph.

Behind me, the workroom door opened. "Perfect timing," I said. "I need your opinion." Then I turned around. It wasn't Father, as I'd expected, but Fagenbush. And he had a most strange look on his face—as if his normal sneer had been tainted with a glimmer of hope.

"You need my opinion?" he repeated, clearly unsure he had heard correctly. It was an odd moment, and it felt as if something I couldn't even identify hung in the balance. Uncomfortable, I turned back to the statue and said, "I need a second opinion; now hurry, before this thing catches fire again."

There was a long pause, then I heard his footsteps behind me. As he drew closer, I noticed that the scent of ox dung was growing fainter. The curse must be wearing off.

"What have you found so far?" he asked.

"The usual for Sekhmet: Chaos. Power of the sun. Avenger of wrongs. Our lady of slaughter. But see this glyph here? That's the one I need a second opinion on. What do you think it translates to?"

Fagenbush leaned in closer and angled his head. "'Tomb.' No, 'temple.'"

"Yes!" I beamed at him, and he blinked in surprise. "I made that exact same mistake. But it is 'temple,' isn't it."

He nodded.

"Which makes the whole thing quite odd, because the inscription claims that this statue was to remain in the Temple of Thutmose III for all eternity, not in his tomb, as I'd first thought. The only problem is—"

"There isn't any Temple of Thutmose III." Fagenbush looked at me, and I could practically see the gears whirring in his head.

"Exactly. At least, none that's been discovered yet."

A very long, very charged silence filled the room, making me a bit uncomfortable.

"Keep an eye on this for a moment, would you? I need to go get something to remove the curse with." Then, before he could say no, I rushed to the door and nearly flew down to my closet, where I had left my curse-removal kit. I snatched it and hurried back up the stairs. Inside the workroom, Fagenbush was poring over some of the steles that littered the worktable. As I approached, his eyes zeroed in on my satchel, but he said nothing.

I lugged it over to the table and began rifling through it until I found a small yellow tin, which I set on the worktable next to the statue.

"What is that?" Fagenbush asked.

"Beeswax," I told him as I opened the tin. "It won't remove the curse entirely, but if I rub it over the entire statue, it will act as a barrier between it and the rays of the sun, effectively nullifying the curse until I have a chance to research it fully."

He stared at me oddly. "Beeswax," he said, his voice flat.

"Yes. Watch." I dipped a corner of a nearby rag into the wax and began rubbing it over the statue. "It won't hurt the basalt the statue is made of," I pointed out. "And see how nicely it polishes it up?"

By the time I finished the first coat of wax, my hands began to itch. Frowning down at them, I realized I had a nearly overwhelming need to wash them. Which made no sense, since I was wearing gloves, the way I always did. Ignoring the sensation, I dipped the rag into the wax for a second coat, then stopped.

What if some element of the curse had managed to work through both the rag and my gloves? That thought had me putting down the rag and the statue rather quickly. "Do you want to put a second coat on? I need to go wash my hands. But be careful, the statue might be transferring something itchy."

He looked up sharply at me, and I was suddenly painfully aware of all the decoy artifacts that I'd put in his way. "Truly," I said, holding up my hands. "My palms are itching fiercely, so be careful."

His face relaxed, and he picked up the rag and dipped it in the wax tin. I glanced briefly at the steles scattered on the worktable, worried that he'd finish the second coat of wax and have a chance to search for references to "temple" before I returned. Then I reminded myself I was only going to be gone a minute. How long did it take to wash one's hands?