Page 13 of Disturbing the Dead
I practically run over to gaze down on the golden mask that would have lain over a mummy’s face.
“Really hope they didn’t find this on an actual mummy and remove it,” I say. “That’s cause for cursing.”
“For what?”
“A mummy’s curse.”
At his blank look, I’m about to tease that he needs to lift his head from his medical journals. Then I remember why he looks so confused.
“That’s right,” I say. “The curses weren’t much of a thing before King Tut.”
“King who?”
I glance around quickly, ensuring we are alone. “King Tutankhamun. He went on the throne as a boy and died before he turned twenty. After the turn of the century, an archaeologist will find his tomb. Then people will start dying, cursed for disturbing the sleep of the boy king.”
“Is that a real story?” says a voice, making me jump. “Or a made-up one?”
Two small figures emerge from the shadows. Children, maybe ten or eleven. One is a girl wearing a child-sized replica of a ladies’ gown, though shorter, with petticoats instead of a crinoline cage. She’s tall, with light brown curls and skin that looks as if it has spent more time in the sun than one expects of an upper-class Victorian. Behind her stands a boy with dark hair and eyes, his skin the same shade as Gray’s.
“I made it up,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”
“It is still a very good story,” the girl says. “Continue.”
The boy rolls his eyes. “You cannot command a guest to continue her story, Phoebe.”
Her brows rise. “Then what good is being the host’s daughter? If I must endure smiling and curtsying to guests, then I ought to be able to command them to finish the stories they began.” She lifts her gaze to mine. “You were talking about a curse on a pharaoh’s tomb. Does someone die? I do hope so.”
“Phoebe,” the boy says with exasperation.
“What? It would be a very poor curse if no one died, and I think some of them should.” The girl turns as footsteps hurry down the hall. “Would you not agree, Mimi?”
“Agree with what, Phoebe?” A woman appears and smooths the girl’s hair. “Dare I ask what you two are pestering our poor guests with now?”
“‘You two’?” the boy squawks. “It was not me, Mama.”
The woman who has entered is maybe our age. She resembles the boy, with slightly darker skin. She wears a gown even finer than mine, including what has to be an actual Egyptian artifact around her throat—a broad collar of multiple strands, each strung with dozens of tiny amulets.
Before the children can answer, the woman catches sight of us. Her gaze goes to Gray, and she blinks. Then she gives a light laugh and touches her lips, the gesture self-conscious, as if to hide the laugh.
“I am sorry, sir. For a moment, I almost mistook you for… someone else.”
“I have already been mistaken for a Mr. Awad,” he says.
“Uncle Selim?” Phoebe says.
“He is my uncle, not yours,” the boy says.
“As our parents are now married, Michael, that makes him our uncle. If you do not wish to share him, I will take him, and you may have my uncle Thomas, who is a right old bore.”
The woman sighs deeply. “I must apologize for the children. They have spent too long in Cairo and have quite forgotten how to be proper Scottish lads and lasses.”
“Because we’re not Scottish,” Phoebe says. “I was born in Cairo, like Michael. We are Egyptian.” She turns to us. “It is nicer in Egypt, where it is much too warm to wear all this.” She pulls at her dress. “And that makes a fine excuse for not wearing it.”
I turn to Gray. “Might we go to Egypt, Dr. Gray? Please.”
The girl laughs, but the woman gives a sharp intake of breath.
“Gray?” she says. “Dr. Duncan Gray?”
