Theodosia and the Eyes of Horus

by R. L. LaFevers

  "Awi Bubu?" I blurted out.

  Six pairs of adult eyes zoomed in on me. "You know this man, miss?" Turnbull asked at the same time as Father said, "How the devil do you know him, Theodosia?"

  I glanced from one outraged face to another. "He's a magician. He performs in a show at the Alcazar Theater. I saw a picture of him on a playbill once."

  "What were you doing in that part of town, young lady?" Mother asked.

  Sometimes she picked the absolutely worst moments to turn into a concerned parent. "Isn't it rather more important to ask what he is doing here?" I countered, trying to divert their attention back to where it belonged.

  "Yes," Father said, turning to the old Egyptian in the closet. "What are you doing here?"

  Slowly, Awi Bubu rose to his feet. One of the constables reached for his billy club as if he expected the shriveled little man to attack him. Instead, the magician gave a deep, respectful bow. "I am sorry to have intruded. I was merely looking for a place to spend the night."

  Turnbull looked sharply at Flimp. "Is that true? Did he have anything on him when you found him?"

  "No, sir. But what person in their right mind would spend the night in a museum, of all places?"

  It seemed impolite to point out that Flimp himself did just that every night.

  "Well," Turnbull barked, "answer the man's question."

  Awi—or would it be Mr. Bubu?—bowed again. "I was planning to spend the night in the park—"

  "Vagrancy is vagrancy, man. Sleeping in the park isn't allowed either," Turnbull said.

  "Even so, as I had no place to spend the night, I was going to try there, but before I reached it, I was set upon by thugs who did not like my foreign appearance. Wishing to escape them before I suffered too much harm, I sought refuge behind the museum. I found one of the doors ajar and slipped in, hoping to evade my pursuers. When they did not follow me, I fear I was lulled into a sense of security and fell asleep."

  Turnbull glared at Father. "Can't you keep this museum of yours locked?"

  Father turned on Flimp. "Which door was it?"

  "The entrance door back by the receiving dock, sir. I suppose it's possible that Dolge or Sweeny left it open." He scratched his head. "But I would have sworn I checked it last night, sir, like I always do."

  Of course he had. And I had no doubt that it had been locked. I looked at Awi Bubu, only to find him staring directly at me.

  I grew warm and flustered and looked away, not wanting any of the adults to realize Awi Bubu and I knew each other well enough to have had an actual conversation.

  "Perhaps they forgot," the Egyptian magician said. "For I would never have entered had the door not already been open." He turned to Mother. "And may I compliment you on your excellent collection? It is one of the finest I have seen since I left Cairo."

  "Even so," Turnbull said, "I can take you in on vagrancy charges. Constable!" One of the men stepped forward to grab Awi Bubu, but Mother stopped him.

  "Cairo, you said?"

  Awi bowed deeply. "Yes, ma'am. I am far from my native land."

  "Indeed you are. And have you no place to stay?"

  He spread his hands. "I have been evicted from my lodgings, ma'am. While Egyptian magic is much in fashion in London, I am afraid actual Egyptians are not."

  Mother's face softened. "And how do you come to know so much about museum collections, Mr. Bubu?"

  "I had occasion to work for Gaston Maspero at the Antiquities Service in Cairo."

  Mother's face brightened as if someone had just dropped a prettily wrapped gift into her lap. "Really, Mr. Bubu?"

  "Oh no, Henrietta!" Father grabbed her arm and walked her a few paces down the hall. I inched after them. "Whatever you are thinking, forget about it," he whispered.

  "But Alistair! He's worked for the Antiquities Service in Cairo. Just how often does a professional acquaintance of the director's land on our doorstep? It's a wonderful opportunity. He may have suggestions that would help us present our case to them!" Mother's eyes were bright, her cheeks pink. I risked another glance at the Egyptian; he was staring intently at Mother, his lips moving silently. A ticklish sensation ran up my back. Not quite as strong as when I was in the presence of a curse, but strong enough to let me know that some form of magic was being worked.

  "Stop!" I shouted. Awi Bubu's mouth snapped shut and he turned to look at me. So did everyone else.

  "Stop what, Theodosia?" Father asked, annoyed at the interruption.

  How was I to explain? Glancing around frantically, I spied Henry. "It was Henry. He was pinching me."

  "Was not!" Henry said, outraged.

  "Were too," I replied, desperate to create a diversion from my inexplicable behavior.

  "Silence!" Father barked.

  I bowed my head, shame heating my cheeks. But Awi Bubu was no longer muttering his chant.

  "Not to worry, guv'nor," one of the constables said. "Young'uns will be young'uns."

  "Now," Turnbull said, "I suggest you allow us to press charges against this vagrant and be on our way."

  "No, Inspector," Mother said. "That will not be necessary. I think we can all agree that there were extenuating circumstances in his situation. After all, one cannot expect a man to willingly subject himself to a beating when there is an open door at hand."

  Inspector Turnbull was clearly not happy with this. "But ma'am..."

  Awi Bubu bowed again. "Thank you, madam. I only hope I can return the kindness someday."

  "Well, actually...," Mum replied. "If you wouldn't mind, I would like to talk to you sometime about your work at the Antiquities Service in Cairo."

  "But of course. Whatever madam wishes."

  "Perhaps you could come tomorrow at two o'clock?"

  Awi Bubu bowed yet again. "As you wish. Until tomorrow then." With that, Awi Bubu gave one last bow and walked toward the door. We all stared after him until he disappeared. Then Inspector Turnbull said to my parents, "I'd be careful of that one, I would. Who knows what someone of his kind might be up to."

  "Someone of what kind?" Mother asked frostily.

  Turnbull blinked. "Someone who spends his nights in parks and museums, madam," he replied, just as icily.

  "We'll take all due care, Inspector," Father interjected before we all got frostbite. "And thank you for your quick response."

  While the adults exchanged goodbyes, I slipped away down the hall. As soon as I was out of their sight, I burst into a run, determined to catch up to Awi Bubu. When I stepped outside the museum, he was already half a block away. "Wait!" I called out, doubling my speed in an effort to reach him before he disappeared.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fagenbush Issues a Challenge

  AWI BUBU SLOWLY TURNED AROUND, folded his arms together, and gave a precise little bow. "Little Miss has need of me?"

  "No, I don't have need of you," I huffed out, trying to catch my breath. "But I want to know what you were doing snooping around our museum last night."

  "I believe Little Miss was there when I explained it to your constabibbles. I was headed to the park—"

  "I don't believe that for a minute! Two days after we first meet, you just happen to walk by our museum?"

  "Ah, but Little Miss told me her parents worked at the British Museum, did she not? How was I to know she had lied to me?"

  Bother. He had me there. Well, as Father always says, the best defense is a good offense. "What about that utter bunk you told Mother about working at the Antiquities Service in Cairo?"

  "But it is not, as you call it, bunk. It is the truth. I worked there before I was exiled from my country."

  I studied the wiry little man. It was hard to believe that a performing street magician had once worked in one of the most important archaeological organizations in the world. But then, it was also hard to believe that grown men wore black robes and hoods and belonged to secret societies.

  "Will I have the pleasure of seeing Little Miss when I return tomorrow?" Awi Bubu asked, as
if we were having a polite chat.

  I glared at him. "You can bet on it. I know you're up to something, and I will not let you trick my parents with any of your shenanigans."

  "Little Miss is a most devout skeptic," he said, then gave one of his infernal bows and took his leave. Before I could so much as turn toward the museum, Henry's voice accosted me. "Why were you talking to that man?"

  "Henry!" I whirled around, wondering how much he'd heard. "What are you doing out here?"

  He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. "What did he mean when he said you told him your parents worked for the British Museum? Father isn't going to be very happy about that, you know."

  "No, Henry, you mustn't tell him!"

  "I don't see why not. seems I owe you one for making up such tommyrot about me. As if I'd pinch a girl!" he said, clearly still furious with me.

  I stepped forward. "Henry, I didn't have any choice. Really."

  He snorted and turned back toward the museum. "wait!" I hurried to catch up to him.

  He stopped and scowled at me. "Why should I listen to a word you say? First you leave me twiddling my thumbs at the train station, then you make up lies to get me in trouble with Father. In front of strangers, no less! Any truce we might have reached last time I was home is long over."

  "No, no, Henry. Let me explain. There are perfectly good reasons for everything." My mind raced as I wondered just how much I should—or could—tell him. "There is so much that isn't what it seems."

  He kicked at a pebble. "Go on. I'm listening. And it had better be good." He folded his arms across his chest.

  "Not here." I looked around the square, uncertain if any of the scorpions might be lurking nearby. "Down in the catacombs, where no one else can hear us."

  He rolled his eyes. "Quit playing at being so mysterious."

  "I'm not. You'll understand once I explain."

  ***

  Luckily the foyer was empty when we returned to the museum. Neither the constables nor Flimp nor my parents were in sight. We even managed to miss Fagenbush as we hurried down to the catacombs.

  Henry reached the bottom of the stairs first. "Hey! Where's that Emerald Tablet?"

  My heart lurched in my chest at his words until I remembered that Henry didn't know I'd hidden it last night. I sailed past him to the shelf and lifted the wooden shield. "I hid it under this. Just in case."

  "Just in case of what?" Henry scoffed.

  "Intruders in the museum," I told him.

  He stared at me blankly for a moment before the penny dropped. "You mean you knew that old Egyptian guy would come looking for it?"

  "Well, not him exactly," I admitted. "But it did occur to me that someone might come after it."

  "But only you and I and Stilton knew—oh! You thought Stilton might come after it?" He frowned, puzzled. "I always liked Stilton."

  "Me too, Henry, but there are many strange things afoot these days." Still uncertain how much to tell him, I took a deep breath. He had to know some of it, if only so he could stay safe. And really, a second set of eyes keeping a lookout for odd goings-on couldn't hurt. Surely it was all right for him to know as much as Sticky Will did. That seemed reasonable. "You remember how I told you I'd gone to Egypt on Wigmere's orders?"

  Henry stopped fidgeting.

  "There's rather more to it than that." I paused, trying to get my thoughts in order.

  "Go on," he said.

  "I'm still keeping an eye on things for Wigmere. But there are others involved too. Remember von Braggenschnott?"

  "I'm not likely to forget him, given that he nearly killed Sticky Will."

  "Yes, well, it turned out that Nigel Bollingsworth had been working with him."

  Henry's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "our old Assistant Curator? The one you always made cow eyes at?"

  "I never did," I said.

  "He was a traitor?"

  "Exactly. And Wigmere wanted me to keep an eye out for any other traitors."

  Henry leaned forward. "It's that Fagenbush fellow, isn't it? He's always seemed fishy to me."

  I sighed. "I'm afraid not. Wigmere claims to have checked him out rather thoroughly."

  "Maybe he's wrong."

  "Yes, my thoughts exactly."

  "What about Stilton?"

  "Stilton doesn't work for the Serpents of Chaos, but he does belong to a secret organization—"

  "Like a club?"

  "Yes, like a club. It's called the Arcane Order of the Black Sun, and they are wildly attracted to all sorts of magic. Especially Egyptian magic. So while Stilton means well, I don't necessarily trust the others in his organization."

  Henry whistled.

  "But wait," I said. "It gets better. Remember when you and I went into the Seven Dials last time you were home? And we followed that gentleman from the British Museum?"

  Henry nodded. "Tetley, you said his name was."

  "Shhh!" I glanced over my shoulder, afraid that the mummy formerly known as Tetley would somehow respond to hearing his name.

  "What?" Henry whispered.

  "That's him." I pointed to the mummy up against the wall.

  "Quit pulling my leg..."

  "No, Henry, really! Von Braggenschnott got mad at him for failing when we were in Egypt and he had him mummified as a punishment. These are extremely dangerous people, which is why I'm telling you all this. So you will be on your guard and watchful at all times."

  "You mean I get to work for Wigmere too?"

  "Well, not Wigmere exactly. But me. You can help me in my duties for Wigmere, and that will be just like working for him," I rushed to explain.

  He wasn't fooled. "No, it won't. It will be like working for you." He sighed, clearly put out. Then he frowned. "How does that old Egyptian fellow fit into this? Does he work for Wigmere too? Or the Caning Order for Blackson—what did you call it?"

  "The Arcane Order of the Black Sun. And I don't know yet how he fits in, but that's what I intend to find out."

  "Find out what?"

  I jerked my head up at the sound of Clive Fagenbush's voice. He stood on the bottom step. How on earth had he gotten all the way down those creaky stairs without my hearing him? "What are you doing here?" I asked, none too politely.

  He came fully into the basement; his gaze slowly took in the mad jumble of long-forgotten artifacts before finally settling on the row of mummies on the far wall. He crossed over to them and began studying them with interest. "I see you're keeping Tetley down here."

  "Not by choice. Chudleigh wants nothing to do with him now that he knows that it's a fake. He clearly doesn't belong in the museum, but there's not much else to be done. Unless you have a suggestion," I said sweetly. Actually, what I longed to do was give the poor man a proper burial; I just hadn't figured out how to go about it yet.

  Fagenbush sauntered over to the Canopic shrine on which the statue of Anubis rested. "Ah, yes. Your jackal."

  Oh, do be quiet, I thought. You're going to spill all my secrets. I glanced at Henry, who was watching Fagenbush with narrowed eyes. "Amazingly lifelike, isn't it?" I said.

  Fagenbush looked over his shoulder at me, then down at Henry. "Amazing," he drawled.

  "What are you doing down here?" I demanded again, my nerves stretched thin by his examination.

  "Now, Theo, you can't blame me if I wanted to check out where you've been keeping yourself for the last few weeks. You can't hog all the choicest artifacts, you know. I'll have to be sure and come down here more often. In fact, you might say I'll be dogging you." He glanced at the Anubis statue, then laughed at his own joke. But I knew a threat when I heard it. He was going to follow me around if need be—whatever was required for him to make those wretched reports to Wigmere.

  He continued his perusal of the room, sauntering ever nearer to the shelves. As Fagenbush worked his way closer and closer to the tablet, I realized I had to divert him—but how? I glanced around, and my eyes fell on a Canopic jar that held a length of rope ensorcelled with a
particularly nasty curse. Hmm. I could use that, except it was a rather vile piece of magic, and while I wanted Fagenbush out of the way, I didn't wish him any permanent damage. Well, not often, anyway.

  When Fagenbush reached out and picked up a funerary mask from the shelf just above the hidden tablet, my gaze settled on a stool from the New Kingdom that was nestled up against the base of the shelves. Carefully, as if I didn't want him to see me, I lifted my foot and gently pushed the stool behind the Canopic shrine.

  Fagenbush's head snapped up, his nose quivering like that of a hound on point. "What was that?"

  "What was what?" I asked innocently.

  He dropped the now forgotten mask back on the shelf and strode toward me. "What are you trying to hide from me?"

  "I'm not trying to hide anything from you."

  "You little liar." He pushed past me and reached behind the Canopic shrine, then smiled in triumph as he pulled out the stool. "See! I knew you were trying to conceal something." He examined it. The leather seat had rotted away centuries ago, but the legs were inlaid with small pieces of ivory and ebony, so it didn't take long for Fagenbush to figure out it had belonged to an important individual. His gaze turned speculative. "Now, why didn't you want me to see this? I wonder."

  Actually, I had wanted him to see it. That was the whole point and the basis of the new strategy I had just devised on the fly: redirect Fagenbush's nosiness to harmless artifacts. Well, relatively harmless. The stool had a mild curse on it, one that roughly translated to "May the sands of the desert settle in your knickers until the next new moon."

  I scowled, as if I were upset he'd found the stool. "I'm sorry, did you say what you were doing down here?"

  He gripped the stool and closed the gap between us. "I have actually been sent down here by your father and Weems to see if you've finished their precious inventory yet. If not, I am to assist you until it is done. I have, in essence, been sent to clean up after you."

  "Hardly," I said, thrusting the ledger at him. "The inventory was completed last night. Here. It's all yours." Of course, it wasn't complete. There were a number of questionable artifacts I hadn't included, such as the tablet and the Orb of Ra, but I wasn't about to confide that to Fagenbush.