Page 13 of The Stolen Queen

“Well, it still won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t have proof. Your theory is all well and good, but it’s just a theory. You need something specific, something that proveswhythe erasures were executed. Knowingwhenisn’t enough.”

As much as she hated to admit it, Frederick had a point. Charlotte’s throat tightened as she guessed what was coming next. “I see.”

Frederick tapped the folder with his index finger. “Unfortunately, the only way to present this properly is by going back to Egypt and doing the fieldwork yourself. You’d have to ensure your ‘selective erasure’ theory holds firm, as well as find some proof of motive.”

“But you know I can’t—”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Frederick’s expression toggled back and forth between relief and pity. Relief that his expertise would not be questioned, and pity for Charlotte for being so weak.

But when Charlotte thought of returning to Egypt, her insides recoiled. She couldn’t go back, not after what had happened. Not after the night that she’d screamed so hard her throat had burned for days, making it impossible to speak. Not after Egypt had taken away her soul.

Chapter Five

Charlotte

Egypt, 1936

Charlotte’s excitement at possibly finding an untouched tomb plummeted when she noticed that the door at the bottom of the steps had a broken seal. Someone else had been inside after the priests had closed it up. Still, it would be a new addition to the Valley of the Kings, and her name would be listed in the history books as the one who discovered it.

Mr. Zimmerman held up his lantern as he, Charlotte, and the inspector walked through the doorway and found themselves in a narrow tunnel. They all had to stoop, as the ceiling was only about five feet high. The hallway’s walls were covered in hieroglyphics, but most were so faded as to be unintelligible. The only exceptions were the two wedjat eyes painted across from each other about halfway down the incline. Charlotte had always loved the design: an almond eye with an elegantly raised eyebrow, a mark like a teardrop below, and a swirl that curved along the upper cheek that represented well-being, healing, and protection. It thrilled her to think that an ancientEgyptian artist had stood on the very spot where she was right now and carefully traced the outline before filling it in with a mixture of ocher and soot.

They continued deeper into the tomb, and she heard the voices of the other team members following behind, including those of Henry and Leon. The end of the tunnel opened to a burial chamber that Charlotte guessed to be around twenty feet square. She’d seen photographs of Tut’s burial chamber after it was discovered, a jumble of treasures from floor to ceiling, and this couldn’t be more different, completely bare except for a large object at the far end of the chamber and a long bundle that lay in the middle of the floor.

As light filled the space and her eyes adjusted, she let out a soft cry.

The large item was a sarcophagus, and the bundle lying beside it, a mummified corpse.

They drew closer. The mummy on the floor was wrapped in strips of linen, but the left thumb poked through the cloth, the thumbnail intact. After thousands of years, a perfect thumbnail. The Egyptian mummification process was a long one, lasting seventy days, but by removing all the moisture from the body, the embalmers were able to preserve it so well that, other than a natural darkening of the skin, the result was incredibly lifelike—even strands of hair were preserved.

The process was rather ghastly, in Charlotte’s opinion. All the internal organs were removed, including the brain, which was pulled out through the nostrils in pieces. The heart was left behind, while other organs—the lungs, liver, stomach, intestines—were placed in canopic jars, to be interred with the deceased. Then the body was covered in a type of salt and left to dry out, before being wrapped in hundreds of yards of linen and finally placed in a coffin.

And now she was looking at the result.

“Interesting,” said Mr. Zimmerman, kneeling down.

“What’s that?”

“One of the mummy’s arms is crossed over the chest, a sign of royalty in the Eighteenth Dynasty.”

“Do you think someone took it out of the sarcophagus?”

“Perhaps. Tomb raiders were certainly here at some point, looking for any amulets and jewels that the priests left in the wrappings of the body. Wonder what else they made off with.” He rose and together they approached the sarcophagus. “Will you look at that?” Mr. Zimmerman said, pointing at the side.

Charlotte translated the marking. “ ‘Great Royal Wet Nurse Bennu.’ ”

“The royal nurse of Hathorkare,” said Mr. Zimmerman.

Charlotte had heard of Hathorkare and the supposed curse associated with her, along with the accusation that she had stolen the throne from her stepson. Her mummy had never been found.

After another consultation with the inspector, Mr. Zimmerman called for two of the stronger workers to help lift the lid of the sarcophagus.

It turned out that the mummy on the floor had not been entombed alone. Inside lay another wrapped figure, arms straight along its sides. Which meant the mummy with the bent arm had had its sarcophagus stolen and been abandoned on the dirt floor, a terrible injustice.

“If the arm is crossed, could she possibly be Hathorkare, buried with the mummy of her former nurse to keep her company?” asked Charlotte.

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