The Curse of the Silver Pharaoh

by Pip Ballantine

  “Quite stubborn aren’t you, Miss Simmons.” It was a compliment, even though her interruption of amorous adventures between the two adults should have warranted more scorn than anything.

  “I have my moments, Miss,” she replied, pushing Emma’s hair out of her face and hoping she wouldn’t notice the new grey lock. “Just please make her well again.” It was time to bring out the full arsenal. Provide just a hint of truth, keep her sympathetic. “We were together in the orphanage see.”

  With most adults, at least the middle or upper class ones, the orphan stories tended to do well—all thanks to Mr Dickens. The crooked eyebrow and slight twist of Miss Delancy’s lips suggested Verity might be laying it on a bit thick. “Enough of that now. Let us concentrate on the matter at hand, shall we?” Miss Delancy laid out a strange series of objects in front of Emma: a black feather, a pyramid-shaped pink gemstone, and a small brass dial. None of these made any sense, but Verity kept her face as still as a china mask. “Now, hold your friend still...”

  Resting her hands against Emma’s shoulders, Verity felt the cold coming off the younger girl, the muttering under her breath just discernible over the crackle from the fireplace.

  “Not a language I am familiar with,” Delancy admitted, returning her attention to her book.

  Verity leaned into Emma and listened intently. A tightness formed in her throat. That was the voice I heard. That is the voice the Silver Pharaoh.

  After a moment of listening to Emma’s faint murmurings, the headmistress picked up the feather in one hand and the crystal and dial together in the other. Verity watched her carefully. Miss Delancy began waving the feather over Emma’s prone form, scooping the air as if she was guiding unseen smoke towards the contents of her other hand. Æther was a strange substance to be sure, but Delancy’s rituals had no relation to any sort of science. It was more like the parlour tricks she saw confidence people play on widows and grieving mothers. At least Julia’s device had some scientific basis.

  Delancy paused and looked back at the open book before her. Shaking her head slightly, she began the ritual once more, but this time the emphasis of her words changed.

  “You said you have seen this before, yes?” Verity snapped.

  “Young lady, I would suggest you choose a more delicate tone. Now, silence please.”

  When Miss Delancy finally put down the three odd objects, she took Verity’s hand and placed it against Emma’s heart. She could feel the poor girl’s heart threatening to pound through her rib cage, but the Egyptian the headmistress whispered seemed to have some sort of effect on her. The longer Miss Delancy spoke the incantation, the more Emma’s heartbeat calmed.

  Verity was about to open her mouth and ask “What now?” when Emma lurched upright, her deep, desperate gasp for air causing her entire body to shudder. Both Verity and Miss Delancy jumped back a little, uncertain if the young girl would collapse back like some dreadful marionette with its strings cut.

  But then Emma coughed, leaning over in a painful spasm, and the gaslight dimly illuminated green vapour expelling from her mouth. Verity put her arm around her while Miss Delancy closed the book that had been her guide and released a breath that, from the sounds of it, she had been holding for quite some time. When Emma’s fit finally calmed, her eyes were watering and her skin was as pale as parchment.

  She looked at Verity, rather than through her. “Where am I?” she whispered and her throat sounded raw.

  “Miss Delancy’s rooms,” Verity said in a mad scramble, lest her friend—not quite in her senses yet—reveal something she shouldn’t.

  Emma glanced around and spotted the headmistress. “Miss Delancy?”

  “You gave us quite a fright, dear. Perhaps a spot of tea would be in order, now wouldn’t it?” Miss Delancy asked gently. Her magnificent dark eyebrows drew together as she studied the two of them. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “That’s quite alright, Miss Delancy.” Emma fought to keep her balance, but Verity still urged her towards the door. She glanced at the headmistress out of the corner of her eye. “Perhaps it would be best if I get Emma back to her room?”

  “Of course, girls.”

  “And Miss…”

  “No need, my dear. No need whatsoever.” The milk of human kindness served by the headmistress stunned her to the core. What followed she had expected much sooner. “Tomorrow, though, I will want some answers on exactly what you lot were up to in the wee hours of the morning.” With a final stroke of Emma’s hair, her fingertips lingering in the lock of shock white, she gave a nod and opened the door for the girls. “Get some rest.”

  The corridor was thankfully clear of automatons. Perhaps that was another grace bestowed from Miss Delancy. The halls were quiet, save for the occasional rapid scratching of feline claws against the floor. Some of the academy’s residents were in need of a grooming. Verity and Emma had just reached the girls’ dormitory, without incident, when Professor Vidmar emerged from the darkness. She almost dropped her friend in trying to reach reflexively for a non-existent weapon.

  He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I’m sorry, Verity, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Miss Delancy wanted to make sure you both got back here alright.”

  “We did, thank you. No Guardsmen about.” she said quickly. “Was that you?”

  “Yes, as I said, Miss Delancy wanted you to get back to your rooms safely. Quite a miracle you lot slipped by them. I deactivated the automatons for the night.”

  “Much appreciated,” Verity said with a slight curtsy. While that did explain the absence of hallway monitors, what she could not explain was the leap in the pit of her stomach when he said her name. She assured herself it was the product of a very distressing night.

  Glancing across at Emma, she gave him what she hoped was a curt nod. “I’m just going to put her to bed, sir.” Trying her very best to be subtle, even with the exhausted Emma leaning against her, Verity forced a tight smile. She wanted to ask the professor so many questions, but Verity knew if even one of them got past her lips there would be all sorts of probing questions for her in return. “Then I’m going to get to sleep myself.”

  As she walked Emma past him Vidmar touched Verity’s shoulder, and when she looked up to him he smiled warmly. “Try not to be too hard on Miss Delancy. She’s under incredible strain protecting this school and its students.”

  With Vidmar standing there, her mind conjured his dark, brooding face mere inches from the headmistress’ face, her bosom heaving as he drew closer. The scent of his skin. The beauty of his smile. This smile. The one he currently wore with her. Was this what she had interrupted?

  “I’m certain,” Verity began, her restraint very poor indeed, but she didn’t care, “Miss Delancy has plenty of outlets for her unwanted tension.”

  “She said you were clever,” Vidmar said, his smile widening. “Lobelia was right.”

  Clenching her jaw tight, Verity nodded at Vidmar, pushed open the door to the dormitory, and half-carried Emma in. The relief of the door shutting behind them was surprisingly satisfying.

  “Wha—?” came a groggy voice from the other bed. “Emma?”

  “Yes, Rose,” Verity said to Emma’s roommate, “it’s Emma and Verity. Just come back from the Infirmary.”

  “S’alright?”

  “A touch of a tummy ache, never you mind,” Verity said, gradually guiding her friend to her bed. “Goodnight, Rose.”

  Rose mumbled something Verity could only assume to be “Good night” before she rolled over in her bed, giving her back to them.

  The night’s revelations unveiled far more important things to think about than the professor who made her stomach leap about. Just his good looks and skill with automatons that held my attention, she assured herself. She was not likely to die of her odd fascination, unlike whatever evil lurked within the academy.

  “I think I am going to chuck,” Emma whispered, clutching at her stomach as she came to a complete stop in the centre of t
he room. Verity guided her to the vanity and Emma leant against the drawers, her face hovering over basin. She couldn’t remember when she took a deep breath, but Verity felt a bit of relief. A little vomit on the posh interior was small price to pay for Emma to come back to herself.

  After a few moments, Emma pulled herself erect and grinned. “No, I’m alright.” Even in the faint moonlight coming in through her room’s far window, Verity could make out that Emma looked awfully pale.

  Also a faint gleam of green remained in her eyes.

  Verity’s knees suddenly gave out from under her, and she managed to grab hold of a chair. The séance, what they had seen in the library, and what only she heard all came flooding back to her. It had been a real ghost. A real, true Egyptian ghost. It was the Silver Pharaoh, and something told her—without question—that it was here. She saw it, and almost touched the other side. Quite an adjustment for Verity to make in her world view.

  Would there be any lingering effects? “Are you really?”

  Emma furrowed her brow. “Am I what?”

  “Are you alright?” Verity asked, sliding her arm under Emma’s as she helped her to bed. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  A shudder ran through her friend, and she hung her head. “I... I don’t know, Verity.”

  The urge to shake Emma was strong, but Verity was fairly certain that would frighten the younger girl for little reward. “Try hard, Emma.” She glanced over to Rose and whispered, “You know who that was we saw tonight.”

  Emma took a deep breath, and closed her eyes as she settled back into her pillow. “Psusennes,” she whispered. “The Silver Pharaoh, it was.”

  “Yes, and you may be the only one who might have an idea where to find him.”

  “What d’ya mean, Verity?”

  “Emma, he touched you,” Verity said, touching the streak of white in her hair. “That sort of contact, so I’ve heard, sometimes establishes a connection. Did you feel anything like that?”

  “I heard a whispering in my head, but I couldn’t understand him. Well, one word. Empire.”

  “Empire? Do you think he was asking you about the British Empire?”

  “Damfino. The rest that Pharaoh was spouting was all in some foreign language.”

  “Did he show you anything? Maybe a pyramid, or his sarcophagus?”

  Emma’s brow furrowed. “No, nothing like that. I remember…” She opened her eyes and sat up in the bed. “Anger. Oh, Verity, he was so angry. I’m sorry I can’t remember any more than that. It’s sort of like one of those muddled dreams without words to explain it.”

  Verity hugged her tight before easing her back into bed. “Well, you know...sometimes dreams come back to us.” She pulled the sheets up around her neck. “Maybe you just need some real sleep and your brain will figure it out.”

  “Do you have to go?” Emma asked in a small voice Verity had never heard from her before. It was not the sound of a survivor from the slums of London, but a child who had seen far too much of the inexplicable in one evening.

  “No, not at all,” she said, sitting on the floor and taking Emma’s hand. “I’m going to stay right here while you sleep.”

  The younger girl squeezed her hand, and seeming comforted, closed her eyes. “Good,” she whispered over a yawn. “I know you will keep me safe.”

  Verity felt her smile tighten ever so slightly. After what she witnessed tonight, she could no longer be certain of anything.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A Right Pickle

  It was not the first time Ol’ Tom had given Christopher a swift kick to the head. Gin could be a fickle bitch. He swam back towards the light knowing it was going to hurt. The dry mouth, the horrid taste on his tongue, and the aches all awaited. It was always a hard start to the morning feeling that way.

  When he found he could not move either his hands or his feet, though, he surmised this morning’s due to Ol’ Tom would be particularly bad. As he cracked his eyes open, it was to see Liam’s unimpressed face staring back at him, as well as finding himself tied up quite soundly.

  “You rotter,” the younger lad grumbled with a frown communicating his darkest thoughts. “You go arfarfan’arf, and I got no one watching me back.”

  “He’s got a point.” A boot inserted into his side told Christopher they were not alone.

  Tiny loomed over them, and his smile was not reassuring. “You look right fishy around the gills there, lad. No puking on my nice rug.”

  While Christopher worked his mouth, Tiny perched his huge form on a chair and leaned back. Judging from the crates and barrels all around them and the raucous sound of laughter, they were still in the pub, just a quiet backroom where underhand business could be conducted.

  “Now then, boys,” Tiny said, cracking his knuckles slowly as he looked each of them over. “Why don’t I show you how to run an interrogation?”

  “No mates then?” Christopher fired off his first round.

  Tiny chuckled. “Unlike you, I don’t need no mates. They left me here to deal with you lot, seeing as you…”

  “Made you look like a soft git?” Liam broke in.

  Christopher shot him a look. Liam’s dander was up and he was ready for a good scrap. It was just hard to figure out if he wanted to deal with Tiny, or have a row with him. Regardless of who would be on the receiving end of Liam’s ire, Christopher had to make it clear what Agent Thorne would always say: Let cooler heads prevail. They had to remain alive long enough to figure a way out of this scrape.

  Wriggling to a seated position, he tried his best to look as defenceless as possible. “Nah, Liam, Tiny here, he ain’t daft, or they wouldn’t have left him alone like this.” Tiny rubbed his beard, giving both boys a sideways glare. Christopher ventured to add a little more sauce to the goose. “In Usher that’s how we do it. Bet our friend here knows everything that toff Sir Mallory does.”

  Tiny’s eyebrows drew together, his smile turning quite wry. “I know plenty. For one thing, you lot are not Usher.”

  Christopher kept his face as if it were a mill pond in the morning. “What are you on about?”

  “This,” Tiny said, lifting up the ring Christopher should have been wearing but evidently was not. Rubbing his thumb against the inside of his own fingers confirmed his fear. “This ring is not up to Usher technology unless the clankertons there have made some amazing progress. I wager you kids are working with Her Majesty’s government. Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, eh wot?”

  “Now come along, Tiny, you really think some posh—”

  “Just stop, Chrissy,” Liam said, his temper near its end from the crack in his voice. “He figured it out. Figured it out before Mallory, he did.”

  “So, lad, you are correct. I am not some plonker stuck in the cogs, as our Usher counterparts employ. As part of the Brotherhood, as part of the all-seeing eye, I know quite a bit. Such as our person on the inside. I know her name.”

  Christopher nodded. “You’re right about that. He wouldn’t.” His tongue was still dry and sticky from the gin, but he could not afford to fumble again. It was time to spin a yarn. Despite the dangers of this man and what he knew of him and Liam, Christopher had to get him on the line. “I know plenty too.”

  “Like you did back at the farmhouse?” he asked, unsheathing a knife.

  His throat burned. This was the problem with Ol’ Tom. He was such a fine gentleman when in his company, but the following day he was a right bastard in making you wish he would have never left you.

  “I told you I was going to show you how to run an interrogation,” he said, flipping the knife around his hand.

  Christopher recognised this intimidation game, usually played between the other street urchins. Granted, this bloke was the size of three children, but this was hardly the first time Christopher had been threatened with a blade. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  “No,” Tiny uttered just before dragging the knife across Liam’s arm.

  Christopher th
ought Liam was going to scream the roof off the inn, but Tiny stuffed a large wad of cloth into his mouth. He set the knife aside and slipped on a single leather glove. Across the outside of the fingers and knuckles, Christopher could just make out a texture. His hand shifted into the afternoon light streaming in from the window and the gleam caught his eye. Tiny tightened his gloved hand into a fist, and that was when Christopher made out the jagged texture of rocks and shards of glass.

  “Not yet,” Tiny said to Christopher, tightening his fist just enough to make the leather glove creak softly.

  His punch to Liam’s open wound made the young boy’s entire body jerk so hard, he nearly knocked Christopher over. On the second punch to his arm, Liam sent trails of snot out of his nose which splattered across the floorboards. The boy was struggling for breath as he tried to draw air, but with the gag filling his mouth and his nose as it was, he was turning slightly red.

  “Now, you should be afraid.” He waved a finger at him as he said in barely a whisper, “See, you look like a tough lad. Been in a few scrapes, I bet. But this nipper here? Bet you’ve spent some time protectin’ him from bad people in the streets. People worse than you and him, I mean.”

  Tiny stepped away and then punched Liam in the wound again. Liam screamed into his gag. Christopher could still see in the corner of his eye the boy’s body trembling as Tiny got in close again. Christopher dared to glance down at the single gloved hand, and he could see Liam’s blood slowly dripping from the glass and rock there.

  “Christopher, mate,” and Tiny lightly slapped him with his other hand, forcing his eyes up to his own. “Need your attention, because this is important.” He leaned his head towards Liam and nodded on hearing the child’s gagged whimpers. “This — is how — you interrogate someone. You find their weakness, and exploit it. Ya follow?”

  Christopher nodded.

  “Good lad. Now, see, I am very good at this. You agree with that, yes?”