The morning was so intolerably grim he almost felt grateful to the whiskey for distracting him. His head was like a bell at midday, and his eyes ached as though someone were squeezing them into too-small trousers. It was all he could do to shave, and even that did not proceed without incident. The arrival of Dr. Sebastian, chipper and well groomed, at six o’clock seemed incidental to the military operation required to haul Morgan’s body where he had to haul it.
Dr. Sebastian carried a small case and Morgan the string-wrapped box Mrs. Hallows had provided for the journey. They had a carriage to themselves, but by some miracle Dr. Sebastian did not insist on conversation, instead retreating behind his newspaper and leaving Morgan to close his eyes. He woke as they were pulling into Waterloo. His eyes screamed. His stomach lurched. There was no way he’d make it through the day.
Dr. Sebastian led him briskly from the station and into the cacophonous streets. Morgan felt a sliver of gratitude towards his hateful boater for blocking the sun from his eyes. After a harrowing march across bridge and park, they arrived at a facade in Pall Mall. It was a club. Dr. Sebastian’s club.
They repaired to the cloakroom, where they found flannels, soft white soap, cologne. After washing his face, combing his hair, and applying a zesty aftershave, Morgan began to feel less inhuman. Dr. Sebastian asked if he was hungry. Morgan was not.
—Good, Dr. Sebastian replied with a roguish smile. Civilization first. Lunch later.
Morgan found it oddly agreeable to follow the man blindly. It was all rather like the secret outings Emily and Captain Cahill organized for him when they’d first come to London.
—Sir, Morgan asked, what about my father?
—He’s expecting you at teatime.
Morgan couldn’t conceive why they’d left at such an ungodly hour, except that Dr. Sebastian must have things to attend to.
—I won’t keep you from your business, Morgan said.
Dr. Sebastian turned the Bishop’s lip-pursed expression on him.
—Behave yourself, he said sternly.
* * *
At the British Museum, Dr. Sebastian purchased a leaflet for Morgan and then bounded up the stairs to the Egyptian rooms. While Dr. Sebastian fell into a mind-numbing conversation with a docent, Morgan drifted over to a colorful sarcophagus surrounded by a school party in straw hats and pinafores.
The girl sent a jolt through him, head to groin. Was it the shape of her legs in the stockings? Was it the pinafore, announcing schoolgirl yet displaying a woman? Or was it the heart-slaying warmth of the smile she sent his way?
She tittered with a clutch of other girls. Morgan sidled into their midst and pretended to examine the case.
—What did they do with all those beetle thingies? the girl asked.
Her hand fell on his sleeve, warm, light, paralyzing. He pressed the leaflet into the pocket of her blazer. He needed to say something, but where in the great universe to start?
A woman called, and the girls departed in a fit of giggles. He followed at a distance as they descended to the ground floor. In the commotion of the entry hall, the girl looked back over her shoulder—for him?—for him! He snaked through the crowds, following to the rotunda.
His hand was in his pocket, and Droit’s was on his pencil:
To the young lady who asked about the scarabs, I apologize. For behaving like a cad, for thrusting my leaflet at you without a word. You were more than attractive. Circumstances were not as they appeared.
Unaccountably, I have come under the authority of my Headmaster, who is flogging me round the museum. There would have been a good deal more flogging if he saw me conferring with a young lady as charming as yourself. You may not have noticed him examining papyri nearby.
I’m no use at dancing, but I did hit a hundred and fifty in an afternoon last month.
If this hasn’t appalled you, why not leave word with the librarian in the reading room? Direct your notice to Anton O’Masia. Not my real name, but I promise to make it worth your while.
He amazed himself that he had thought to carry a pocket notebook and pencil with him. It was the habit of a man seizing control of his destiny. He entered the library and approached the desk. Across the room, the girl and her party consulted with a tweed-suited man.
—Good afternoon, he said to the librarian.
She was a mousy woman. He flashed her the smile of a man seizing control of his destiny.
—Could you very kindly give this to the young lady over there, when it’s convenient? I’d be much obliged.
He pointed out which young lady he meant. The mousy woman said she would see to it. Morgan thanked her with another seizing-control smile. She smiled back. He sauntered from the room.