The British Museum was a hive of activity, at least outside. Construction on the marvelous East Wing continued. The Greek Revival edifice was still obscured by scaffolding, with cables dangling, suspending heavy loads of stone and marble. Simon and Kate bypassed the old Montagu House, where the museum’s collection had been displayed for many years, and still was. They made their way across the yard, walking along planks thrown down over the mud. Kate wore a midcalf-length skirt and heavy boots, suitable perhaps for riding but nearly scandalous here. Still, she trudged uncaring across the filthy boards, following Simon, who also wore high boots and rough tweed.
“A pleasant day.” Simon’s breath misted in the cold. “The museum and tonight a sociable salon. Almost like the old days when I was a bon vivant on the town.”
Kate hummed. “I’d rather stay at the museum.”
A shout alerted them to a man standing on a high porch underneath a network of scaffolding. The fellow waved to them so they hopped a few perpendicular timbers, listening to the squelching mud beneath. They both climbed the steps to a young, red-haired man.
Kate smiled as she took the man’s hand cheerfully. “Thomas, it’s so good to see you. Thomas, this is Simon Archer. Simon, Thomas Clover, an assistant curator for Egyptian and Near Eastern collections. And an old friend of the family.”
“Mr. Clover,” Simon greeted warmly, “thank you so much for seeing us. I can’t tell you how eager I am to see the new wing.”
“Then let’s do.” Thomas escorted the two inside the East Wing, the new home to the King’s Library. In the vast gallery, sunlight streamed from windows set high in the walls, highlighting the wood panels. They moved through the quiet maw with the unfinished plaster ceiling twenty feet above their heads and passed two columns into a completed section with walls crowded with display shelves. Row upon row of books and papers filled the gallery. Thomas extended his arm to a table in a shaft of light, where several heavy folios sat alongside a pile of thick, rolled paper.
“You asked to see the papers of Nicholas Hawksmoor, yes?” Thomas said to Kate, then with some doubt, “Just Hawksmoor, not Wren?”
“That’s correct.” She inspected the cracking labels on the spines of the folios and unrolled one of the heavy scrolls. “This is wonderful. Letterbooks and architectural drawings.”
“That’s all I could find from Hawksmoor. Architecture isn’t, of course, my specialty, but I’m happy to help you, Kate, in any way possible.”
“It’s exactly what we need,” she said, as Simon settled at the table and pulled one of the heavy books in front of him. “I do have another question that’s a bit more to your specialty, which is why I contacted you.” Kate pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and handed it to Thomas. “Does this look familiar to you?”
He took the sheet with a gleam of excitement and looked at the hieroglyphics written there. Both Kate and Simon watched with anticipation. Finally, he said, “It does.”
“What is it?” Kate asked quickly. “It’s beyond me.”
“I don’t know.” Thomas scrubbed a hand through his hair. “It seems familiar, but I can’t remember why.”
“Can you read it?”
“This symbol here is an Old Kingdom variation for the word rise. However, these other symbols are unknown to me, and they could alter how one reads rise. So it might not be the rise after all; it might be a letter in a completely different word. It’s a difficult language and script, as you know.”
“Could you look into it for me?” Kate asked. “I would be grateful for any light you can shed on it.”
“Of course.” He concentrated on the paper. “I just wish I could remember where I thought I saw it. Most peculiar.”
“I’m sure it will come to you.” Kate sat across from Simon and reached for another folio.
“Well,” Thomas said, backing away, “I’ll leave you two to it. Oh, Kate, how is your sister?”
Kate bolted up straight and turned abruptly. “What do you mean?”
Thomas pulled back in surprise at the vigor of her reaction. “I … I just wondered. I haven’t seen her in several years.”
“Oh.” Kate took a deep breath and gave an embarrassed laugh under Simon’s steady gaze. “Oh, I see. Yes. I’m sorry. Imogen is well. She … she sends her best wishes.”
“Does she?” The young man brightened. “If she is ever in London, I would be grateful to call on her for tea.”
“I don’t …” Kate began, then smiled. “Of course. I’ll tell her. I fear she has little time for the city these days.”
“I’m sure.” Thomas sighed. “She’s probably engaged to some handsome squire, eh?”