CHAPTER EIGHT

A Long Shot

 

THERE WAS A SMALL CROWD IN THE FOYER—all waiting for me, apparently. Admiral Sopcoate was holding Miss Chittle’s coat for her and she was trying to shove her arm into the sleeve—only, she was shaking so badly, she kept missing. “You didn’t tell me the girl was mad as a hatter!” she said, making a final stab with her arm and managing to get it into the sleeve this time.

“Really, she’s not mad, just very high spirited,” Father said. I was heartened by his loyal support of me.

“Nonsense,” Grandmother harrumphed. “The girl has far too much freedom, and her head has been stuffed with so much ridiculous learning as to make her useless.”

Before Grandmother could get on a roll cataloging all of my faults, I interrupted her.

“Perhaps Miss Chittle should have some more of her medicine,” I suggested sweetly.

Isis rubbed up against my ankles, but I kept my attention fixed on Miss Chittle as all the blood drained from her face. I felt a small twinge of guilt, but she did want me removed from the museum, something too dangerous to contemplate.

“Medicine?” Grandmother asked, her sharp gaze zeroing in on the younger woman. Miss Chittle had gotten both her arms into her sleeves by now and stood ready to bolt.

Grandmother sniffed. Her eyes widened, and then she sniffed again. Her eyebrows shot up. “Spirits, Miss Chittle?” Her voice rang out through the foyer.

As the governess blinked in alarm, Isis left my ankles and went over to comfort her. Perhaps Isis was trying to make up? But wait! What was that in her mouth? Before I could do a thing about it, Isis dropped a small, wet, bedraggled ball of fur onto the toe of Miss Chittle’s lovely kidskin boot.

Eyes wild, Miss Chittle looked down at her shoe, shrieked, and, before I could explain it was a peace offering, kicked her foot and flung the poor mouse clear across the room. It struck one of the last remaining mummies smack in the middle of the forehead, then tumbled to the floor.

“I say, good shot, Miss Chittle!” Admiral Sopcoate called out, but she was already running toward the front door.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then Father snickered. Grandmother rounded on him, irritation snapping in her eyes. “Don’t encourage her! She just chased off another governess—and drove her to drink in under an hour!”

Honestly! That was so clearly not my fault.

“Now, now, Lavinia,” the admiral soothed. “Clearly the young woman had too nervous a disposition for this sort of job. You need to find a governess with a little more backbone.”

Hear, hear, I thought but kept to myself.

Grandmother straightened her back and raised her chin a bit. “And I shall,” she promised.

When everything fell quiet again, Father asked, “Theodosia, don’t you have some work to do?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on that. It was very nice to see you again, sir,” I said to the admiral. “Ma’am.” I curtsied at Grandmother, then left. Really, there’s nothing like Grandmother Throckmorton to put something as ghastly as catacombs into perspective.

 

I shivered when I opened the door that led down to long-term storage. The air was definitely disturbed. Something was afoot. I reached under the collar of my dress and pulled my three amulets out into the open, where I could clutch them in my hand. (I don’t know if that actually made their protective magic any stronger, but it made me feel better.)

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the sense of wrongness was overwhelming. Especially once I noticed that the entire right-hand wall was empty.

All the mummies that had been there the day before were gone.

I frowned. I was sure I hadn’t seen them upstairs with the others. Still mulling over this puzzle, I turned to the left side of the room and squeaked.

All seven mummies from the right wall were now over by the left wall. But they weren’t leaning up against it; they were standing free, looking down at the ground, as if paying homage to something on the floor.