He took a step closer, nearly backing me against the wall. "And where else did you disappear to yesterday afternoon? You were gone much longer than a quick visit to Somerset House warranted. Who else are you associating with? I wonder how Wigmere will feel upon hearing it."
Something in me snapped. I was sick of being watched and observed like some specimen in a jar. I was tired of all these wretched adults thinking I was just playing a game. I raised my finger, pointed it at Fagenbush's chest, and took a step toward him, forcing him to back up a bit. "You want to know what happened yesterday? Fine, I'll tell you. Admiral Sopcoate"—Fagenbush's eyes widened—"yes, that Admiral Sopcoate, showed up at the memorial service, that's what. Furthermore, he demanded I hand over the artifact that everyone keeps telling me is nothing but worthless occult drivel." I cocked my finger back then poked Fagenbush in the chest—hard. "So you take that information to Wigmere and see what he has to say, why don't you."
Then, while he was still sputtering, I strode out of his office and headed for the upstairs workroom. Since I'd gathered a good head of steam, it seemed like a fine time to get Mum alone and ask her about where I was born. Until I did that, I would be able to concentrate on little else.
I found her alone in the workroom, poring over the remaining steles from the dig.
The question I'd been burning to ask her dissolved on my tongue. I glanced at the stele on the table in front of her. "Anything interesting?"
"Oh, yes. Lots."
I waited a moment longer, gathering up my courage, until Mother finally said, "Was there something you needed, dear?"
I tried again. "Mother," I began, my mouth growing dry. The question I was about to ask terrified me. Or maybe it was the possible answer that was so disturbing. I cleared my throat and tried to lighten my tone, as if this were simply a casual conversation and my entire identity didn't hang in the balance. "Was I born at home, like Henry, or was I born in a hospital?"
Mother's whole body went still, just for a second, and my insides turned to jelly. She clearly did not like this question.
"Why do you ask, dear?" Not much of an answer, that. In fact, I recognized it as a major avoidance tactic, one I used quite often myself. My unease grew. "No reason, really. Just curious."
"Do you remember when Henry was born?" Mum said brightly. "How funny he looked? Just like a little old gnome. And old Dr. Topham was there?"
"Yes, Mum. But I want to know about when I was born." My voice came out a little more stern than I had intended. Mum blinked at me, and I stared into her dark brown eyes—eyes that were nothing like my own. A cold feeling of dread filled me. Why wouldn't she answer the question?
"Well." Mum gave a nervous little laugh. "It's an unusual story, really. You weren't born at home or in a hospital. You were born in Egypt."
Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't this. "Egypt?" I repeated stupidly.
Mother gave that nervous laugh again, her cheeks flushing faintly pink. "Yes, I'm afraid so. Your father and I had been working on an excavation of an ancient temple site when I discovered I was in the family way. However, the rainy season came early that year, and there was major flooding, which made travel impossible. Especially in my condition. When the rains finally stopped, it was too late for me to travel, so I stayed and continued my work."
In Egypt. I was born in Egypt. Before I could wrap my mind around that, she continued.
"As I said, I had decided to keep working. I felt perfectly fine, strong and healthy, and I saw no reason to be confined to my hotel room. I would have gone quite mad, I'm sure. However, eager child that you were, you came three weeks earlier than expected and caught us off-guard." She cleared her throat. "You were born in the temple I was working in at the time."
A temple! "Whose temple was it?" I asked, nearly afraid of the answer.
"It was a temple dedicated to Isis."
Well, at least it wasn't a Seth Temple. "Why did you never tell me this before?" I wanted to know. Was she ashamed?
"Well, it was a bit of a scandal, all the way around. I was the first archaeologist to give birth on a dig," she said, her voice drier than dust from the Sahara. "Not to mention the sheer impropriety of it all. In fact, your grandmother still hasn't forgiven me. Such a vulgar thing to do, you know. Have a baby in a far-off foreign land on heathen soil."
"Is that why she dislikes me so?"
"Oh, Theo, darling. I don't think she dislikes you so much as she is worried for you. She is convinced that your being born and spending your first months of life in a strange land has ruined your chances of being a proper British miss. Pure rubbish, but that's your grandmother for you. Your father, however, was quite taken with the whole situation. Called you our most precious artifact."
"He did?" Her words stunned me. I was my father's most precious artifact? How could that be? My eyes began to prickle and burn.
However, before I could embarrass myself with a full display of waterworks, there was a shout from below: "fire!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Momentary Truce
MOTHER AND I RACED TOWARD THE SHOUTING. When we arrived in the foyer, we found Father flapping his morning coat, putting out a burning statue. Underneath the smell of smoke, ash, and dung, I caught the rotten-egg stench of sulfur. That did not bode well.
"What happened?" Mother asked, hurrying forward.
With the fire now safely out, Father let his coat hang limply at his side and ran his hand through his hair. "I'm not sure. The blasted thing just burst into flames. Weems?" He turned to the First Assistant Curator. "What did you do to it?"
"N-nothing, sir." Weems squirmed uncomfortably.
"Well, it didn't just spontaneously combust," Father said.
"I-I'm afraid it did," the unfortunate Weems continued. "There is no other explanation."
"Tell us exactly what you were doing before it burst into flames," Mother suggested.
Weems scrubbed his hands over his face, as if trying to wash away the memory. "Well, I had just unwrapped the statue from the roll of felt she came down in—"
"Where's the felt?" Father asked.
Weems pointed to the dark green fabric that had fallen to the floor. Father bent down and picked it up, then rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed it. "Go on."
"... and set her on the display column."
"How, exactly?" Father asked.
"Like this." Weems took the statue from Father and set it carefully down on the column. Faint bits of dust and ash swirled in the glinting rays of the morning sun, casting the black basalt statue in bright light. There was a faint swoosh, then a crackle as the statue caught fire again.
Father gave a shout of surprise and whipped his coat up and began beating at the flames once more. "Quit doing that!" he shouted.
Poor Weems looked sick with bewilderment. He obviously had no idea how he kept managing to set the statue on fire.
I, however, did. And as much as I disliked Weems, I knew it had nothing to do with him. Clearly the statue of Sekhmet was cursed.
It was a very cunning curse, actually, and one I'd seen only a few times before. Ancient magicians would curse a funereal object so that when it was brought out into the sun, it would burst into flames. In this way, they hoped to discourage tomb robbers from plundering the pharaohs' tombs.
When at last the flames were out again, Father looked haggard. "Maybe it's the plinth," he said, bending down to look at it. But of course it wasn't. I saw Clive Fagenbush watching Weems with a knowing glint in his eye; then our gazes met and a look of understanding passed between us. Fagenbush also knew what had caused that fire, and it was no plinth.