by Jasmine Walt
Rolling my eyes, I laughed. “Right, Mom, ’cause there are so many chances to get some sun in Seattle in January.”
“You could go to a tanning salon.”
I scoffed. “I will not go to a cancer factory! I’d rather keep my skin smooth and healthy and nicely pasty until I’m Grandma’s age.”
With a long-suffering sigh, my mom raised her hands in front of her in defeat. “Your dad ran some errands for me before he headed back home. He’s supplied us with quite a few movies to keep us occupied while you recuperate. Why don’t you pick one out? They’re over there,” she said, pointing to the coffee table behind her.
“Really?” I asked, perking up from my food-induced lethargy. If there was one thing I loved as much as pancakes, it was movies. For the most part, I really was a simple soul to please.
So, with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, I settled on the couch and rifled through a stack of DVD cases. Silently, I thanked my dad for picking movies from nearly every genre: romantic comedy to action, science fiction to period drama. There was a flick for every mood. At the moment, I was in the mood for some rigid chivalry and modest ball gowns. The latest Jane Austen adaptation shimmered in my hand as I placed it in the tray of the DVD player.
I lost myself in the music and language of another time, my mom curled up beside me. I slid down, resting my head on a pillow in her lap, and sighed as she started combing through my hair with her fingers. Breathing in her familiar scent of floral perfume and hand lotion, I felt some of the tension seep out of my body.
I was so incredibly glad she’d stayed.
9
Details & Arrangements
As I strolled along a wet concrete path, I thought back on the last three days, savoring the chance to finally get out of my apartment . . . alone. My wonderful, caring mom had spent every waking moment stuffing me with her culinary creations and enticing me into watching movies or playing board games. I’d barely had time to grade my students’ final essays. I loved my mom dearly and appreciated all of the effort she was channeling into my recovery, but I was getting a little stir-crazy.
As I passed well-trimmed expanses of grass and mini-forests of large evergreens, overgrown blackberry bushes, and abundant ferns, I felt a piece of me—one I hadn’t even realized was missing—return.
It felt like an eternity since we’d set up the meeting, but I was finally on my way to meet Professor Bahur, mysterious archaeologist and user of archaic speech patterns, at the Burke Café. I almost couldn’t contain my anticipation. I wanted to know everything about the dig and what my exact role would be. I still didn’t even know the location of the excavation site. I’d left my apartment early, taking the opportunity to turn the half-mile straight shot into a three-mile zigzag across the university’s familiar grounds in hopes that the fresh air might help settle my nerves.
Entering the quad from the southeast, I ascended gradual brick stairs, thanking my luck that the morning’s frost had worn off by midday. I paused on the top step, taking deep breaths of chilly, humid air. I was still weak, recovering from the unforeseen aftereffects of the incident with Mike. While my brain had fully healed during the hours spent in the hospital, the rest of my body still looked as if it had been starved for weeks. All of my clothes were noticeably loose, and as I hadn’t had much spare bulk to begin with, the weight loss definitely wasn’t an improvement to my appearance. At least my mom’s dietary plan of continual force-feeding seemed to be helping.
Breath caught, I resumed my stately pace down one of the brick walkways crisscrossing the quad’s lawn. If I were a soaring bird looking down at the rectangular, open space with its border of brick buildings, I imagined the sight would resemble an enormous stained-glass window with emerald panes cut into symmetrical, geometric shapes. The usually crowded area was devoid of people, leaving barren cherry blossom trees and the towering brick-and-stone buildings as my only companions. Their beautiful, classic architecture appeased the part of me that yearned to replace modern, impersonal structures with those rich in character from earlier centuries.
Lost as I’d been in my wandering thoughts, I had a sudden moment of panic, fearing that I would be late for my meeting with Professor Bahur . . . or that I already was. I checked my phone; it was a quarter past three. Thankfully, I wasn’t late . . . yet. If I hurried, I might have time to order a vanilla latte before meeting up with him.
Ten minutes later, I reached the Burke Museum, heading for the entrance to the café in the basement. I sighed appreciatively as I opened the narrow glass door. If I ignored the electric bulbs and the scatter of laptop-focused patrons, I could almost imagine that I’d stepped back in time. The carved wooden wall panels and the small, dark-stained tables with their sturdy, matching chairs belonged in a world gone a hundred years.
I scanned the café, and upon finding that all three patrons were women and therefore not Marcus Bahur, stepped up to the counter.
“What would you like?” the petite young barista asked.
“A tall vanilla latte, please,” I said without thinking. “Actually, can you make it a grande? And I’ll have a blueberry scone.”
“That’ll be five sixty-three,” she told me.
I handed her the money. “Do you know if there’s a Professor Marcus Bahur here right now?”
Her eyes went wide and her cheeks flushed. “Oh, um . . . no, I haven’t seen him.”
I lowered my eyebrows, confused by her reaction. “But you know him?”
“Oh, yes! He’s been a regular since summer,” she explained. Suddenly her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Why? Are you looking for him? What for?” She glanced at the door, then back at me.
I put on a friendly smile. “I’m meeting him for an academic project. Would you mind describing him to me? I’m not sure who I’m looking for.”
Her mouth transformed from pouty to pretty, and she giggled. She didn’t speak for a few moments while she retrieved my scone and started making my drink. Finally, she said, “He’s . . . um . . . sort of hard to describe.” She blushed again while she steamed milk.
“Okay . . . well, is he tall?”
“Yes,” she replied with a nod.
“Does he have gray hair?”
She giggled again. “Definitely not.”
I was growing impatient with her witless inability to simply describe a person. “Well, what color is his hair, then? Or is he bald?”
Her eyes squinted in thought. “Nope, he’s got hair.”
As she handed me my coffee, I grabbed the scone off the counter and muttered, “Thanks.” I started to turn away from her, but paused. “How old do you think he is?”
As I’d been speaking, her face had grown redder and her barely-contained giggling seemed ready to explode out of her. “Oh, you’ll have to ask him,” she said.
“And how am I supposed to do that if I can’t find him because all I know is that he’s tall and has hair?” I asked, irritation clipping my words. Is she even old enough to work?
She managed to squeak, “Because he’s right behind you,” before doubling over in laughter.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a deep, calming breath before turning around. He was standing several feet away, wearing gray trousers and a heavy, black wool coat and was, in fact, tall with black hair. My breath caught in my throat as I realized just how minimal that description had been. I’d been expecting an older gentleman, but this was a man in his prime, in his early thirties at most and strikingly handsome. His face was composed of strong lines and sharp angles, his full lower lip the only hint of softness.
He’d been looking at his phone when I faced him, leaving my embarrassing reaction—blushing and staring—mercifully unnoticed. When his eyes raised and latched onto mine, I nearly dropped my coffee. His irises were an amber so rich they practically glowed. It was an eye color I’d seen before, only once. Professor Marcus Bahur was the guy I’d spilled vodka and cranberry juice on at the bar. You’ve got to be kidding me.
>
As recognition registered on my face, the faintest smirk pulled up one corner of his mouth. I groaned and closed my eyes momentarily. “I am so sorry . . . about the drinks and your shirt, I mean. God, this is embarrassing.”
His mouth widened into a tight-lipped smile.
This isn’t awkward or anything, I thought. Time for some damage control. I closed the distance between us in two short steps and held out my hand, very businesslike. “I’m Alexandra Larson.”
Reaching out, he grasped my hand and shook it firmly. “A pleasure, Ms. Larson.” His accent was as rich and beautiful as I remembered from our brief encounter at the bar.
“Yes, it is, Professor Bahur.” I forced myself not to stare at him like a moon-eyed teenager, which was exactly how I’d acted at the bar.
As he released my hand, he flicked his eyes to the barista and said, “The usual, please. Thank you, Cassandra.” To me, he said, “Well then, Ms. Larson. Why don’t you pick a table and get settled. I’ll join you shortly.”
“Sure.”
Pleasantly disturbed and highly confused, I wound through the haphazard clusters of tables and chairs to an unoccupied corner. I sat on a bench against the wall, hoping to catch a glimpse of the intriguing professor’s interaction with the barista.
Cassandra bubbled and chirped nonstop while Professor Bahur waited for his order. He rarely spoke, only providing one-word answers when required, but she was unperturbed. At every shift of his body she giggled or simpered or sighed. Such a little girl, I thought blandly. I ignored the fact that my body had wanted to respond in an unfortunately similar fashion during both of our brief encounters.
“Get a grip,” I muttered. The director of the greatest excavation opportunity I’d ever been offered was a no-flirt zone. I needed to get my ridiculous, unprofessional reactions to him under control.
But damn, even though he was still wearing his heavy wool coat, I could tell he was well built. When he moved, every inch of him seemed utterly sure of its placement, like a dancer or a master of the martial arts. I couldn’t help but imagine what his body would look like without clothing, unintentionally leading me to think about it pressed against mine . . . covering mine . . . moving against mine. Unbidden, Mike’s body replaced the professor’s in my lewd thoughts. My heart rate increased dramatically, and my breaths grew short.
“Ms. Larson? Are you alright?” Professor Bahur asked from across the table. He sat, placing a cappuccino cup and saucer on the wooden surface.
“Hmm?” I snapped my mind back to the here and now, shoving away all lust or panic-inducing thoughts. Under the professor’s steady gaze, I said, “Yes . . . yes, I’m fine. Thank you. I was just thinking . . .”
Like a falcon, he cocked his head to the side and scrutinized me. “Sometimes, I find that stray thoughts can be quite troublesome. A curse of the intelligent, I suppose.” He included me in his undefined “intelligent” group with a flick of his hand on the table.
“I suppose,” I said. “Or a curse of the cursed.”
“Are you cursed, Ms. Larson?” His amber eyes were penetrating.
I shook my head and laughed softly, thinking of all that had happened during the last month. “Maybe.”
Professor Bahur’s expression turned serious. “Well, that can be quite an inconvenience when bounding around on excavations and such, don’t you think? One might accumulate more curses than one can bear.”
“I’ve been on several excavations over the past five years and the curses have yet to interfere with my life. What about you, Professor?”
He lowered his eyes and studied his cappuccino. “Some people are more cursed than others.”
I coughed, choking on the sip of coffee I’d just taken. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He waved away my concern with his hand. “Please, don’t worry about me. I’ve had a long time to learn how to live with my curses.”
Unsure of how to respond, I took another sip of frothy latte, this time cough-free.
“I’m very eager to work with you, Ms. Larson. I’ve been reading up on your work. Your piece in the Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology was exceptionally enlightening.”
I brightened, happy to veer toward a less-personal topic of conversation. The article he spoke of focused on my unconventional method for deciphering unknown or unclear symbols across dozens of ancient languages using similar, but technically unrelated texts; it formed the basis for my dissertation as well.
“Thank you, Professor. Honestly, I’m hoping your excavation will provide an opportunity for me to test some of my theories. I think it’ll really increase the methodology’s validity.”
“I’m certain it will,” he agreed, taking a sip of his coffee, which also appeared to be a latte. “Now, I’m sure you’d like the specifics of the excavation.”
“Yes, I really would.”
He nodded absentmindedly. “Several years ago, I discovered a couple of stone tablets referring to a temple in Deir el-Bahri. A temple that, as far as we know, doesn’t exist.”
“Or just hasn’t been discovered yet,” I added. Deir el-Bahri, located on the west bank of the Nile in southern Egypt, was world-famous, mostly because the mortuary temple of one of the most famous female pharaohs—Hatchepsut—was located there. The idea that there might be an undiscovered temple somewhere among Deir el-Bahri’s steep, limestone cliffs was astounding . . . and so incredibly intriguing.
“Precisely,” he agreed.
“Professor, if you’ve discovered an entirely unknown temple there, you’ve made the find of a lifetime!” I was in complete and utter awe of the beautiful creature sharing a café table with me, not for his looks, but for his unquestionable intellect.
Eyes sparkling, he continued, “It gets better, Ms. Larson. The temple has remained hidden for so long because of its unique construction. Unlike the three main temples at Deir el-Bahri, ours was designed without majestic colonnades and ramps—the entire structure is supposedly carved into the cliffs.”
I nodded, trying to comprehend the enormity of the potential find. “So it’s supposed to be more like the tombs in Valley of the Kings?” I asked, referring to the cluster of tombs located on the other side of Deir el-Bahri’s cliffs.
He nodded. “Based on recent geologic studies, we are fairly certain of the location of the temple’s buried main entrance.”
“Main entrance? As in, not the only entrance?”
The professor’s mouth quirked into a mysterious smile, an expression I was quickly growing fond of. “You’re quick, Ms. Larson. Dr. Ramirez warned me about that aspect of your character.”
“Warned you? Last I checked, being quick wasn’t a bad thing.” Damn, my tongue was going to get me into trouble with him.
He acquiesced with a dignified nod. “You’re correct, of course. I must remember not to underestimate you, though your youth and . . . other attributes may lead me in that direction.”
I kept my face blank, pretty sure my new boss had just insulted and complemented me at the same time.
His lips quirked again. “Back to the issue of multiple entrances—you see, the tablets indicate that our undiscovered temple connects to Djeser-Djeseru.”
My mouth fell open and I held up a hand. Djeser-Djeseru—roughly meaning “holiest of holies”—was the ancient name of Queen Hatchepsut’s mortuary temple. I couldn’t believe that the most famous, visited, and explored temple in Deir el-Bahri contained an as-yet-undiscovered secret passage that led to an as-yet-undiscovered secret temple. “You’re kidding, right? That’s impossible!”
Professor Bahur stared into my wide, stunned eyes with a complete lack of humor.
“You’re not kidding? Oh my God . . . you’re serious?”
He raised one eyebrow at my shocked redundancy.
Placing both of my hands flat on the tabletop, I said, “Let me get this straight. You think you can find a previously unknown temple that connects to Hatchepsut’s mortuary temple?”
He gave a single, minute nod.
“But that would mean there’s an undiscovered secret passageway in Haty’s temple. That site’s been scoured by . . . I don’t know—everyone—over the past century! It must draw more than a million visitors every year! How is this even possible?”
“It would appear, Ms. Larson, that Haty”—the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement at my nickname for the famous female pharaoh—“was a woman of many secrets. Her stepson and her architect did a very good job of covering them up. Your main role on this excavation is to uncover those secrets—particularly the exact location of the entrance in her temple—as I’ve yet to have much luck.”
Oh my God . . . Oh my God . . . Oh my God, I thought, and my nerves hummed with excitement. Professor Bahur had just handed me a task that pretty much every archaeologist would kill for.
He made a low, knowing sound. It was annoyingly attractive. “Yes, I thought you might enjoy that bit of information.”
“This is unbelievable. Thank you so much!” I practically laughed.
“You are quite welcome. It just so happens that your skill set is precisely what might crack the final riddle. You specialize in deciphering difficult, ancient texts . . . we have difficult, ancient to decipher,” he said cheerily. “Do keep in mind that you will need to do a fair amount of research in preparation for our departure.”
I nodded, brimming with anticipation. I would do almost anything to participate in his excavation.
Professor Bahur continued, “The university has been kind enough to set aside a classroom on the top floor of Denny Hall for the excavation team to plan and prep. I expect you’ll spend most of the winter term there. I’d like you to come by on Monday morning so I can give you a key and introduce you to the rest of the team.”
“Sure. What time?”
“Half past eight should work nicely. Additionally, I’ve made arrangements with Dr. Ramirez for your graduate duties to be pushed aside. You won’t need to teach students or complete any unrelated research projects. This excavation will function as your entire course of study for the next year. I need your focus uninterrupted. Is that acceptable?”