Pushing aside the intoxicating hum in my chest, I forced myself to scan the museum further. To find the exits and a hiding place.
Amid all the glass cases were statues with hard faces and stiff poses. They were useless for hiding—too small and crammed together. But on either end of the entrance rooms there were more curtained doorways. I crept to the nearest one and peeked through. It was a long room lit by skylights.
Allison moved to my side, and I jerked my thumb into the room. “If we get separated for any reason, we’ll meet in there, all right?”
Allison nodded. “Next to that large stone thing.”
“You mean the sarcophagus? The one beside all those maces and clubs?” I squinted into the gloom. The sheer size and rectangular shape certainly suggested an Egyptian coffin.
Allison’s hand slipped into mine, distracting me. “Come on, before I lose my nerve.” She squeezed with bone-breaking strength. “And I daresay, I hope you are ready for a scene, for I fear I am about to make one.”
“And I daresay,” I said, squeezing back just as fiercely, “that if you can handle an airship crash and Hell Hounds, then a mere scene will be child’s play.”
She eked out a tiny smile, and we set off into the gala.
It turned out to an incredibly elegant affair. Cases and shelves were everywhere in the huge, high-ceilinged room, but they had been pushed aside to make room for a dance floor and small orchestra. Bright red and blue tiles blended into orange sandstone on the walls, the columns, the floor. Hieroglyphs and gold seemed to pop from the cases and shelves, but as far as I could see, there was no rhyme or reason to the placement of items within their displays.
Men and women in black suits and pastel gowns swept past us as we hugged the edge of the room and moved toward the center. My memories of the party at the Palais Garnier were hazy, but even that opulence seemed tame compared to this. Perhaps it was simply the Arabian atmosphere—that surreal feeling that I was in a completely different time.
But of course, the music was as Western as possible—a standard polka redowa—and the faces streaming past were no different from those of Paris or Philadelphia. Or rather, the wealthiest of Paris or Philadelphia.
Professor Milton was clearly a very important person.
And for some reason this amused me. As did Allison’s hand in my own. And the yellow glow of the lamps and dull murmur of voices. For some reason a giggle tickled my throat, and I had to clasp a hand over my mouth to trap it inside. There was nothing funny about this situation—was there? Yet I felt drunk off the moment.
I examined Allison, now awash in warm lamplight. She looked as determined as always. Yet unlike me, she did not look as if she might burst into laughter. I schooled my face into the same severe expression she wore: lips puffed out, chin up, gaze challenging.
Act normal, I ordered. Now was not the time to let this odd burst of giddiness take control.
“There he is,” Allison hissed, drawing to a sudden stop. She motioned to the very center of the room, to a stone sarcophagus—like the one we had seen earlier. This one, though, had its top off, and I could only assume that Milton’s surprise artifact lay within.
Behind the sarcophagus was a long table overflowing with exotic and traditional foods alike, and chatting happily beside it, a glass of champagne in hand, was Professor Milton.
Or I assumed the monocled man with the neat, peppery beard was he, for he was surrounded by a gaggle of fascinated men and women. And his tan, seamed skin was precisely as I imagined an Egyptologist must look.
He seemed to be telling a story, so I tugged Allison along, and we navigated our way around people and dancers until we were also in his crowd of listeners.
Yet before I could hone in on his story, I had to appease my curiosity. I slunk close to the sarcophagus. A placard before it read thutmose II, and excitement flickered through me. Milton’s unveiled artifact was a mummy!
Rolling onto my toes, I peered inside . . . and instantly recoiled.
I do not know what I expected since I had obviously seen many corpses before. Nonetheless, I suppose I’d hoped a mummy might be more impressive.
But it was not. Its skin was blackened and shriveled, with the ancient bindings that were mostly disintegrated. One of it legs was actually missing from the knee down, and it looked more like a sad skeleton (with skin and patches of curly hair) than it did a former pharaoh.
I glanced back at the placard. It would seem Mr. Thutmose II had died around 1480 bc.
At least that was impressive.
Allison’s fingers clamped onto my shoulder and wrenched me back to the circle of Milton’s admirers.
“And there I was,” Milton said, his voice quite bass and pleasant to the ear, “standing face to face with an imperial guard’s mummy! I daresay, it’s not often they come to life, but this one was most certainly awake—and ready to kill me for stealing his pharaoh here.”