“Oh my,” a woman squealed. “Was it one of Thutmose’s own guards?”
“In all likelihood, no.” Milton patted the edge of the sarcophagus with a proprietary fondness and sipped his champagne. “The mummies that guard many of the tombs are meant to protect any of the pharaohs, and judging by the mummy’s headdress, he was a nineteenth-dynasty guard.”
“And wha dynath-ty wath Thutmoth the Thecond?” asked a tiny man through a mouth full of pastry.
Milton smiled indulgently. “Eighteenth.”
“But,” the first woman said, “whatever did you do about the awakened mummy?”
“Why, I ran, of course!” Milton gave a deep, throaty laugh, and the party guests all giggled along with him.
Allison and I exchanged glances of mutual disdain—which only turned darker when Milton proceeded to say, “Once I was out of the cave, I hurried to our camp—which was all the way at the southern edge of the Valley of the Kings. Then I sent my dragoman, which is what we call a native Egyptian guide, of course.” A second indulgent smile. “I sent the dragoman back to deal with the wretched thing. I daresay, I have never run so fast or so far in my life. Though it could have been much worse had I awakened one of the queens’ guards. I never would have survived.”
“Zey are more dangerous?” asked an elderly woman with a French accent.
“Absolutely,” answered a British gentleman with muttonchops. “The queens’ guards were all women, and for whatever reason, their mummies are much better preserved than the kings’.”
“Just so,” Milton agreed. “They also carry much more frightening weapons. I try to avoid any excavations that might bring me near queens’ guards. I always send my dragoman instead.” He gave a smug chortle, and his listeners joined in.
Allison’s nostrils flared, and with no warning, her mouth popped wide in a shrill shout. “How very cowardly of you, Professor Milton.”
Instantly his laughter and the crowd’s broke off. Despite the low, almost magical hum that still remained at the base of my spine, I suddenly felt quite sober. I had not considered how very outnumbered we were or how exposed one feels with so many eyes turned upon you.
Milton’s lips pruned, but he did not bother to move—or even shift his body our way. He merely met Allison’s gaze and asked, “I beg your pardon?”
“I said,” Allison declared, lifting her voice even higher, “that it was very cowardly of you to run from the mummies. And to force your poor dragoman to deal with them—why, that’s not so different from how you treated the Wilcoxes, is it?”
Milton’s eyes narrowed even more. “I am afraid I haven’t the faintest idea to what you refer.”
“Clay Wilcox of Philadelphia. He invested ten thousand dollars in your excavation of . . . of . . .”
“Saqqara,” I whispered, thinking back to the booklet at Shepheard’s.
“Saqqara!” Allison thrust a finger in the air. “Ten thousand dollars, and yet you never paid him back. What do you say to that, sir?” She cast him her nastiest stare . . . yet Milton showed no sign of embarrassment.
In fact, after a moment, his lips burst wide in a laugh. “Of course! That’s why you look so familiar—you must be Clay’s daughter.” He took a step toward Allison, his gaze raking over her. “You do look like him, don’t you? Same coloring. Same ridiculous demands.”
“Ridiculous? You promised my father you would double his money.”
“Yes, well.” Milton tugged at his waistcoat. “Some investments do not pay off as well as others. I would imagine a man such as Clay could find other sources of income—if you take my meaning.”
“I most certainly do not take your meaning.” She advanced on him, her face scarlet and eyes bulging. But before she could part her lips, Milton called out, “Guards! Get this nuisance of a child out of my party.”
And with that simple command, everyone reared away from us. A moment of panic seized my lungs. . . .
Then came cool action. Getting thrown from the museum would leave us with no airship and no carriage ride, so we must not be thrown out. Snatching Allison’s wrist, I yanked her—hard—after me.
“We’re leaving!” I shouted, in case anyone cared enough to listen. Then I dragged her back through the dancers. Fortunately, people cleared out of our way.
“You’re a criminal!” Allison shrieked over her shoulder. “I hope a mummy eats you, you coward!” I wrenched her into the entrance hall just as two guards reached Milton’s side.
“Hush,” I snarled, “and run.”
She must have spotted the guards as well, for she instantly shut pan and bolted behind me. Our heels hammered much too loudly for stealth, but we raced into the dim side room . . . and back, back, back until we finally ducked behind our chosen sarcophagus.
Then, my heart pounding against my lungs, I held my breath and listened. The orchestra had stopped playing, the party guests had grown quiet, and there was no missing Milton’s bellows to find us.