Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos-Theo 1 (17 page)

N
OW
I
HAD
TO DO SOMETHING
. There was simply no choice. Not with the Heart of Egypt's curse beginning to do its damage here in Britain. I glanced back down at the paper, intending to read the article again, hoping I might be wrong. Instead my eyes landed on a photograph on the right-hand corner of the front page. "It's him!" I said, startling poor Henry so badly that he dropped his last piece of toast—butter-side down, of course.

"It's one of those Germans we were following yesterday. The one who stabbed Stokes."

Henry's eyes grew wide. "Crikey!" He leaned forward and shoved me out of the way so he could see the picture better.

The article was dreadfully boring, full of politics and treaty negotiations between Britain and Germany. The main thrust of it was that Britain could hold off entering into a substandard treaty with the Germans as long as we remained strong domestically. For now, the German delegation was giving up and returning home. The writer of the article made it quite clear that Britain would be able to negotiate in her own best interests only as long as her economy remained strong. Further talks were scheduled for the spring.

Of course! If Britain was in a weakened state, brought on by plague, pestilence, and famine, we would lose our bargaining power. A weakened Britain couldn't possibly negotiate in her own best interests because she'd be dependent on other countries. Wigmere was right. How wickedly brilliant! Germany was using the power of ancient Egyptian magic to topple its adversaries. Just like Thutmose III and Amenemhab had.

I hurried through the rest of the article. It didn't mention von Braggenschnott by name, but it did say the delegation would be leaving their residence in Carleton Terrace Gardens and returning to Germany tomorrow on the
Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse.
That cinched it—Will had said he'd followed the man tailing me back to Carleton Terrace. They had to be connected!

***

The easiest solution would have been to leave it all to Wigmere and his Brotherhood, but he hadn't looked too hopeful yesterday. Plus, it was Mother who'd brought the vile thing home—it seemed as if someone in our family ought to take responsibility for it. I quailed at the enormity of the task, then forced myself to look on the bright side: surely saving Britain would impress Mother and Father. I mean, they'd notice
that
, wouldn't they?

After hours of thinking, I finally came up with a possible plan. Unfortunately, there was simply no way I could do this on my own. I would need help. I loathe asking people for help. First of all, they rarely say yes. And second, even when they do, they can rarely be trusted to do as they're told. Wigmere had been adamant about not telling my parents, which left Henry and Will.

Henry was the only other person who knew of Wigmere's organization, even though he didn't realize the half of it. But perhaps I could gain Henry and Will's cooperation without telling them anything they didn't already know. Then I wouldn't be breaking my promise to Wigmere. Will, in fact, would be a key player in this plan of mine. If he was agreeable, that is. His part was rather dangerous, which worried me, but then so did plague, pestilence, and famine.

The weakest link would be Henry, but I wasn't going to think about that just yet.

I looked out the window, hoping against hope it had stopped raining.

No such luck. Which meant I would have to make my way to Charing Cross Station in the freezing rain. It was the only place where I knew to find Will, and time was of the essence. I had to reach him today so we could put our plan into action for tomorrow.

The tricky part was getting out of the museum without attracting Henry's attention. I didn't want to risk him following me again. Last time I saw him, he had muttered something about being sick of all this Egypt rubbish and headed off toward the armor exhibits.

I grabbed my thickest coat and an umbrella and stepped out into the downpour. The wind had picked up and was blowing the sheets of rain sideways. Small streams of water ran down the gutters, and the traffic in the street was a hopeless tangle. Of course, now that I knew about the curse, the rain seemed much more sinister, as if the very drops themselves were laying a thin film of chaos over the land.

With one last, longing glance at an omnibus, I began trudging my way to Charing Cross. I so wished I had enough money for an omnibus today
and
a cab tomorrow. But I didn't. And tomorrow was when we would need a ride most.

Once I reached Charing Cross Station, I realized that getting here was the easy part. Now I had to find Sticky Will.

There was an absolute wall of bodies everywhere. The smell of wet wool and smoke filled the damp air. I stepped back from the crowd and tried to guess where I would be right now if I were a pickpocket.

Well, that was obvious. Right in the middle of the potential pickings, of course. You wanted lots of people jostling about so your movements would be well hidden. And you'd want to be near the richest-looking pockets.

I took a few more steps back and found a bench to stand on. As I peered over the mob of people, I spotted a man with a very well cut suit holding an ivory-handled cane, a gold watch chain dangling from his waistcoat.

He looked like a good target to me. Not that I was planning on picking his pocket. I just wanted to find the person who might be thinking of it.

I pushed and squirmed my way through the crowd toward the man.

Just as I reached him, I saw a small, grimy hand reach out and slip itself into the man's pocket. Honestly! How could no one notice such a thing?

"Caught you," I said under my breath.

Sticky Will startled so badly that he dropped the man's wallet back into his pocket.

"Blimey, miss! You scared the snot outta me!"

"Sorry about that," I said. "I need to talk to you.
Now.
" As I dragged him to the edge of the crowd, he mumbled something about me costing him a pretty penny.

I found a spot out of the rain under an awning where we wouldn't be crushed to death before I'd explained what I needed.

"Wot's up?" Sticky Will asked.

"First, tell me what happened to you yesterday. Were you able to follow that fellow?"

"Aye, miss. He went ter Carleton 'Ouse Terrace, too. I tried to get close enough to get yer thingamajig, but he was guarded up too tight like."

"Did he see you?"

"No. I'm sure of it. Is that wot you came all this way to find out?"

Now that it was actually time to lay out my plan, I was suddenly tongue-tied. What if he thought I was off my nut like everyone else? I mean, Will didn't know what was going on, and I had to get his cooperation without betraying Wigmere's trust. I would have to appeal to his sense of adventure and national pride; hopefully, he would never find out that I hadn't told him the full truth. "No. It has to do with that artifact we were chasing yesterday."

Will nodded. "Go on."

"It is vitally important that we get it back. Those German fellows who nabbed it are up to no good. The artifact has, er, special properties that make it more dangerous than most."

His eyes widened and he leaned forward. "Wot properties?" he asked. "Is it cursed?"

I started. "Cursed? What do you know about curses?"

Will leaned back and sniffed. "Ain't I good enough to know about curses?"

Oh, no. Not that again. "Of course you are, you twit. It's just that so few people believe in them, I hadn't expected you to."

"Oy. All you have to do is read one of them penny dreadfuls to know curses is alive and well."

I started to remind him that penny dreadfuls were make-believe, then realized it didn't matter
why
he believed what I said. "Well, you're right. It
is
cursed. A horrible, vile curse."

"Blimey," he said, his eyes now as round as saucers.

"Exactly. And in order to make sure that nothing bad happens, we have to get the artifact back from the Germans. That's where you come in."

"Me?" he squeaked.

"You." I nodded. "Only someone with your skill and experience can do what needs to be done."

"Wot needs to be done, then?"

"Well, here's my plan. I saw in this morning's paper that the Germans are leaving tomorrow on a ship. You, Henry, and I will follow them down to the docks. We'll have Henry create a diversion, and while everyone's attention is distracted, you'll sneak in and pinch the artifact right out of one of the Germans' pockets." I leaned back. "What do you think? Can you do it?"

"It'd be the pinch of a lifetime! They could even write one o' them books about me!"

"Exactly! And you're the only one I know who can do it. You're small, you're quick, and, thanks to me, you know who has it. But you won't get to keep it. It will have to be returned to ... be taken care of properly."

His face fell a bit at that but, really, what could a pick-pocketing urchin do with something like the Heart of Egypt?

"It's not like you could use it to pay for sausages or a new coat," I explained as gently as I could.

He puffed himself up, bristly as a hedgehog. "Wot's wrong with this coat, I'd like to know?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing. I just meant, the artifact is so unique and recognizable, it's not like you could sell it or anything without getting caught."

"You mean fence it?"

"Yes. That's the word."

"Wol, me friend could fence anything, but I get what you mean."

"Then you'll do it?" I asked.

His eyes sparkled. "Yes, miss. I will."

Wonderful. That was one problem solved. Now I just had to work out the two dozen other obstacles that stood in our way and we'd be all set.

I
HADN'T BEEN BACK
from my trip to Charing Cross Station for more than ten minutes before a loud bloodcurdling yowl came from somewhere up on the third floor.

"Theodosia Elizabeth Throckmorton!" Father yelled. "Come and get your blasted cat! Now!"

"Uh-oh." I hurried up the stairs.

When I reached the workroom, I found Isis attached to Father's back like a demonic cocklebur. Father kept turning round and round trying to bop her with his cane so she would let go.

He mostly ended up beaning himself instead. Which served him right for even thinking to take a cane to my cat.

"Theodosia? Come get this cat or I will cheerfully hand her over to Henry for his mummifying experiments."

No he wouldn't, he was only teasing. Wasn't he? "I've got her. Just hold still a minute, would you?"

Father stopped spinning around like a top and I grabbed Isis. I tried to pull her off his back, but she clung as if her claws were embedded in his skin.

Finally, after many attempts and frustrated curses by Father, I freed my poor cat. She squirmed and fought in my arms. "Sorry about that," I said over her caterwauling.

Father just glared at me.

I could no longer put it off. Isis was getting a mud bath.

***

Unfortunately, I didn't have any mud from the Nile River. Mud from the small square across the street would have to do. It was made from rainwater, so perhaps the purity of that would be similar enough. One could always hope.

I snuck back into the museum carrying a small bucket of the wet, juicy mud and headed toward my closet, where I'd left Isis. I could hear her low-pitched growling. I put the bucket down close to the door so it would act as a barricade when I opened it. Bending over with my left hand at the ready, I opened the door with my right.

As soon as there was enough space for her whiskers to clear the door, Isis leaped over the bucket into the hallway—straight into my waiting hand.

I'd positioned myself just right and was able to grab a handful of her fur, right behind her neck. I quickly used my other hand and gathered her into my arms, holding her close. It was a challenge trying to reassure her and avoid her needlelike claws while using my foot to scoot the bucket of mud through the doorway.

Of course, it would have been much more convenient to use the museum's main lavatory, but I couldn't risk one of the museum's visitors wandering in at the wrong moment. How would I explain giving a cat a mud bath? Even
I
couldn't talk my way out of that one!

I shall spare you the details of the bath. Suffice it to say, I don't recommend it. Not unless there is no choice. What Isis didn't realize was that if the mud bath didn't work, it would be a waxing for her—just like that fellow at Level Six. But a hairless cat was too hideous to bear thinking about.

I opened my door a crack to see if the coast was clear, but Isis had no such qualms and burst through the door, careening down the hall. The good news was, she didn't slash at me with her claws or give one of those terrifying yowls of hers. The bad news was—

"Theodosia?" Mum called out. "Was that your cat? Whatever is wrong with that creature?"

—the coast hadn't been clear. "Just feeling frisky, I think."

"Well, that's very frisky indeed. Is that mud on your frock, dear?"

I stared down at myself in dismay. It looked like someone had tried to imitate a primitive cave painting on the front of my gown.