Where was I born, if not in Britain? Or, worse, had I been born in Britain but under a different name? Was I an orphan, perhaps, whom Mother and Father had taken pity on? What if I wasn't really from this family? That would explain so much! Why Grandmother disapproved of me; why I had these unusual talents that no one else seemed to possess.
As much as I'd longed for answers to those questions, I'd never imagined these answers.
Isis, sensing my mood, appeared at my ankles and followed me to my closet, where she curled up in my lap and kept me company until it was time to go home.
At dinner that night, I found my eyes going back to Mother time and again, studying her face, trying to see any similarities between her features and mine. Finally Father got so exasperated he said, "Good heavens, Theodosia, stop scrutinizing your mother as if she were a particularly troublesome translation."
"Sorry, Father," I muttered, turning my attention to the mutton on my plate. To make matters even worse, we were having boiled mutton for dinner, my absolutely least favorite.
"Alistair," Mum said reproachfully. Then to me she said, "Is there anything wrong, darling? Something we need to talk about?"
Here was an opening I could use. "Actually, yes, Mother. I was wondering if you could tell me about the day I was born?"
There was a clank as Father dropped his fork and Mother gasped, her cheeks growing pink. After a surprised minute, she frowned. "Theodosia, that is most inappropriate to bring up at the dinner table. Surely a girl of your age knows that."
My face turned bright red in embarrassment. Indeed, I hadn't known that. In fact, Mother never made a fuss about propriety or being vulgar or any of those sorts of things. That was one of the reasons she annoyed Grandmother so.
And even through my extreme embarrassment, I could tell that her overreaction meant she was hiding something. A something so terrible it couldn't be discussed at the dinner table.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Frown Not on Humble Birth
THE NEXT MORNING, I thought seriously about staying home. In fact, the only thing that got me out of bed was the driving need to find another opportunity to talk to Mother about where I was born.
As I washed my face, I searched for signs of Mother in my features. I would even settle for Father's plainer looks. But while Mother had lovely rich chestnut hair that curled gracefully into a topknot with charming little tendrils escaping, my hair was straighter than a poker and the most nondescript color ever invented. Once in a while, when the sun shone brightly, I thought I could detect a straw-colored glimmer or two, but since the sun never shines in London, what good did that do me? And it wouldn't curl, no matter how long we left the curling iron on it. My hair burned before it curled!
My eyes weren't the least bit Mum-like either. Instead of being rich chocolate brown like hers, my eyes had some of every color in them, which sounded good but actually was a lot like greenish mud. Henry and Father had blue eyes, so I'd always thought Mother's brown and Father's blue had simply gotten mixed up in me. But with Awi Bubu's revelations still ringing in my ears, I realized that might not be the case at all.
There wasn't an opportunity to get Mother alone all morning. Once we got to the museum, it was even worse. Weems wanted to ask her a question about the placement of the Sekhmet statue, no doubt sucking up to her after his set-down yesterday. Father also remained in the foyer, checking up on how Fagenbush was coming with the assembly of Thutmose III's war chariot. The only one missing from all of this was Stilton, which was just as well since I needed to catch him alone. I still owed him a thank-you for his help Saturday night and I wanted to let him know that the funeral had gone off without a hitch. I had meant to tell him yester day but was so distracted by Sopcoate's unexpected appearance and demands that I'd forgotten.
I made my way down the hall to Stilton's office, surprised to find the door closed. I raised my fist to knock but was stopped by the sound of voices. Who could Stilton be talking to? Everyone else was in the foyer.
"You aren't supposed to be here." I couldn't tell if that was panic or outrage I heard in Stilton's voice.
"You've been ignoring the grand master's summons for days, ever since you missed the meeting Saturday night."
I knew that voice. It belonged to Basil Whiting, Aloysius Trawley's second in command. And why hadn't Stilton warned me that he would be skipping a Black Sun meeting? I had no desire to draw even more of Trawley's ire.
"I haven't been ignoring anybody," Stilton said. "We've been up to our ears in work around here, trying to get ready for the new exhibit. I can't get away without raising suspicion."
"Have you forgotten that you swore an oath of loyalty?"
"N-no. Of c-course not!"
"Loyalty to the grand master comes before even your job," Whiting said.
"Then how does he expect me to eat or put a roof over my head?" Definitely outraged, this time.
"Such mundane matters are not his concern," Whiting said.
Stilton started to speak, but Trawley's second in command talked over him. "No more excuses. The grand master says you need to choose."
"Choose?"
"Yes, choose whom you will serve—him or the girl. And be sure you choose right, or you'll think the Trial of Nephthys was a walk in the park. Master says this is your last warning."
With a start, I realized the conversation was over. The floor creaked as Whiting headed for the door. In an instant, I leaped back to the wall and slipped behind the suit of armor there.
Whiting came out of Stilton's office, checked the corridor, then hurried toward the back entrance. This was a most disturbing development. Clearly, any pretense of cooperation was being cast aside, and it was now open war. The only question now was, Whom would Stilton choose?
My heart was still pounding as I slipped out from behind the armor. I needed to talk to Stilton and—
"There you are!"
I whirled around to find Fagenbush glaring at me. "Come into my office," he ordered.
I glanced around to be sure no one would see us, then reluctantly followed him inside. I'd never been invited into his office before, and I wasn't sure I cared much for it. I was surprised to find it much neater than Father's or Stilton's, but it most definitely felt like enemy territory. I held myself stiffly and waited.
After he closed the door, the smell of ox dung became overwhelming. "How do I remove it?" he growled at me.
"Try scraping your boots on the grass—"
"Do not pretend this isn't your doing."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
He ground his teeth and clenched his hands, but changed the subject. "You went to visit Wigmere yesterday."
As it wasn't a question, I didn't bother to answer.
He stepped toward me and I resisted the urge to pinch my nose with my fingers. Whoever would have thought that I would miss the smell of boiled cabbage and pickled onions?
"What message did you have for Wigmere? He's instructed you to give it to me."
I forced myself to turn casually and say, "I was just paying him a social visit. To see if he was planning on attending the exhibit opening. That is all."
"You liar!" Fagenbush snarled at me. "You are jeopardizing my career with your stubbornness."
I whirled on him. "My stubbornness! My stubbornness? Have you shown me one iota of trust or kindness or anything that indicates my trusting you wouldn't be a huge mistake?" Even as I railed at him, my mind raced like a motorcar engine. Who had told him I'd been to Somerset House? Boythorpe? Or Wigmere himself?