A Sardine Trap

 

THORNLEIGH AND HENRY WERE WAITING FOR US in Wigmere’s office. According to their report, Will never returned to the churchyard. Worried, I reminded myself that Sticky Will was very good at taking care of himself. He’d had lots of practice, and if he could survive the Seven Dials, he could survive anything.

Wigmere sent me and Henry back to the museum in one of the Brotherhood’s coaches. Henry peppered Thornleigh with questions the whole way, but the man kept mum. He had the driver let us off at the corner so that no one at the museum would see the coach. “Bye, then,” he said, as we stepped onto the sidewalk. “Excellent job, saving Stokes and Danver.”

“Who’s Danver?” Henry asked as the coach drove away.

“Never mind,” I said. We climbed up the stairs to the museum’s front entrance, and just in time. Flimp was getting ready to lock up. He rocked back on his heels as he waited for us to clamber through the door. “Someone’s been looking for you two all afternoon, they ’ave,” he chided us.

Henry and I stood in the anteroom for a moment, trying to get our stories straight. We were still whispering, trying to think of a story that wouldn’t get us in too much trouble, when who should come thundering in but Fagenbush.

He strode over to where we stood and peered down his long beak directly into my eyes, as if he were trying to read my mind. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

“We went to visit the British Museum. To get out of the way. Everyone seemed extra busy today.” When fibbing, it’s always best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

Fagenbush’s eyes narrowed until they were slits of malevolence. “I don’t belie—”

“Theo! Henry! There you are!” Mum came hurrying into the foyer. “That was lovely of you to lay low today. Your poor Father’s got enough on his mind.”

Why, she’d never even realized we were gone! But now I was committed to the partial fib I’d told Fagenbush, who continued to hover. So I told her the British Museum story.

“Really, Theodosia. You know how your father feels about that place. Let’s not tell him, shall we? It will spoil his mood.” She paused, then added, “Even more.”

A stab of regret sliced through me. I so longed to tell her what had happened to the Heart of Egypt. To tell her how close Henry and I had come to getting it back. But I couldn’t. In truth, none of that mattered anymore. It didn’t matter how clever I or Henry had been, not when the well-being of all Britain was at stake.

 

Since Mother and Father were still distracted over the Heart of Egypt, they had dinner brought round. We all ate together in the sitting room, which should have been nice but wasn’t. Father’s foul mood infected us all, and I had plenty of worries of my own after talking to Wigmere. We all sat in a rather melancholy silence, our bleak thoughts circling around the dinner table like vultures.

After we’d finished dinner, Henry curled himself up in the chair in front of the fire with his new book, The Treasure Seekers. Mother and Father retired to discuss their problems in private. Feeling guilty about all my secrets, I retired to my closet, one of my best thinking spots.

Safely in my sarcophagus, I vowed to pore over Amenemhab’s Book of War first thing in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. Maybe there was a clue to solving the toppling problem in there. It was worth a try.

But of course, I couldn’t sleep. After the day I’d had, I should have been out in minutes. Every fiber of my being was exhausted, but my mind wouldn’t switch off. When I wasn’t worrying about the Heart of Egypt toppling Britain, I was marveling over a whole society of people who studied for years in order to do what I did without even trying. Who would have guessed such a thing? The idea made me uneasy, as if I were some kind of freak.

The problems before me were huge, and it seemed as if there was nothing I could do about any of it. Finally admitting that sleep was miles away, I crawled out of the sarcophagus and tiptoed to the door, which I had left open a crack. I checked my Isis lure (a tin of sardines stationed just inside the door) to see if she had snuck a nibble when I wasn’t looking.

She hadn’t.

I grabbed a blanket from the sarcophagus and wrapped it around my shoulders. Sitting down on the floor near the door, I leaned up against the wall. I would just sit here and will Isis to come, that’s what.

I sorely missed her tonight. I needed the feel of that small, warm furry body next to me to chase away, well, everything. Then I had an idea.

One of the cornerstones of Egyptian magic is the art of creative utterance. Which is basically a fancy way of saying, it’s all in how you say a thing. And the words you use. True names can be a very powerful tool. So, what if I tried to see if I could make it work for me? Wigmere said I had a unique talent and it wasn’t all about following recipes; maybe I could use that to my advantage!

I reached over and traced the hieroglyphs for “Isis” on the floor near the sardine tin, then whispered, “Isis, come.” Nothing happened. Then another thought occurred to me. “Come, Isis,” I called again, only this time I used the ancient Egyptian I’d learned from my study of hieroglyphs.

I did this quite a few times, stopping every now and then to check for signs of her. Nothing. As I sat there, my thoughts drifted to Wigmere and his Brotherhood. I wondered if they had all stayed up tonight in order to try out the Moonlight Test for themselves.

I wondered if it would work for them.

Then, of course, thinking about Wigmere got me thinking about Stokes. I was glad he was going to be all right. If I closed my eyes, I could see the cold flat stare of the German fellow as he shoved that knife into Stokes’s ribs.

Germans. Knife. Stabbing. Stop it, you horrid brain!

Why does one’s mind always think of the truly awful things in the middle of the night when there’s no one to talk to and nothing to distract oneself with?

I heard a creak on the floorboards outside my door. Oh, please let it be Isis.

I stood up as quietly as I could and tiptoed to the door, peering out into the gaping black of the hallway. There was nothing there.

Uneasy, I sat back down against the open door. I had to come up with a plan. After everything that Wigmere had told me, it was more important than ever to find the Heart of Egypt. And more difficult. Just how was I supposed to retrieve the wretched thing?

I shifted my position, thinking I’d return to bed, when once again I heard a slight creak on the floorboards outside in the hallway.

Which made me wish doubly hard I hadn’t just been thinking about bloodthirsty Germans and stabbings and such.

Nonsense. Determined to be brave, I leaned forward and peered back into the dark hallway. “Isis?” I whispered.

My heart kicked into a gallop when I saw a tall, slender woman standing in the hallway. “Mother?” I breathed, but even as I said the word, my brain registered that this was most definitely not Mother. The woman wore a linen sheath with a wide gold collar. There appeared to be a solar disk held between two horns on top of her head.

I blinked to clear my eyes, and when I opened them again, she was gone. I slumped back against the door as relief surged through me. Perhaps Father was right. I really did need to get a grip on my imagination.

Just then, two iridescent golden-green orbs appeared in the hallway. Isis! I pulled back behind the door, my hand ready to close it once she decided to come in.

It took forever, but she finally nosed her way to the sardines, crouching like a panther and stopping every few inches to check for . . . something. I don’t know, whatever demonic cats check for.

When she finally reached the sardines, Isis tossed all caution to the wind and tore into the things as if they were dangerous cat-hunting rats. She’d take one in her mouth and shake her head back and forth (flinging sardine juice everywhere) as if killing the sardine all over again. Only then would she settle down and eat it.

While she was thoroughly absorbed in her meal, I reached forward and very slowly closed the door. As soon as she heard the click, she paused and looked up at me, a low caterwaul starting deep in her throat.

“Isis,” I said, carefully enunciating her name. She stopped snarling and went back to eating her fish. I spent the next few minutes talking to her, saying calming things and using her name every three or four words. It seemed to work. She calmed down quite a bit and even ate the last sardine without having to kill it all over again.

Then I had to decide how to coax her over to the bed. If I’d been thinking properly, I’d have saved the last sardine and put it at my feet once I lay down in the sarcophagus.

Why is it that all the really great ideas always come too late? I went and settled myself in the sarcophagus, calling Isis’s name and that of Horus, the god whose protection I’d put in her amulet, the whole time.

Her eyes grew more focused and less frenzied looking. After many stops and starts, she made her way to the sarcophagus and gracefully hopped up onto the edge, balancing delicately as she tried to decide what to do. Finally, she hopped down to my feet and began knitting at the blanket with her claws. Soon a loud rumbling purr started up. With a sigh of relief, I allowed myself to fall back against my pillow. It looked like that amulet might be doing the trick after all.

I could only hope a great idea on how to solve the whole toppling of Britain would come as easily.