Page 2 of Tomb of Ancients
“I know that, and Iwilltell them, Mary, just... in a manner that doesn’t involve them stepping all over a pile of dead spiders.”
I had snapped at her. She recoiled and slipped back toward the foyer, hugging herself tightly with the shawl. It had been happening more lately, my temper fraying, the endless battle to quiet the voices in my head turning me into an exhausted meanie.
“That was unfair, Mary, I apologize. I’m simply upset.” And exhausted. And overwhelmed. I found the broom, carrying it quickly to the door and outside, glancing around again for signs of life on our property as I brushed the tiny black bodies into the hedges.
“As you should be,” Khent grunted. His English had improved so much over our travels and subsequent move to London that he had only a trace of an accent. His penmanshipstill needed considerable attention, but that was far less of a priority. “From now on I will sleep outside. They will not feel so bold and clever when I catch them red-handed.”
“That’s absurd,” I said, closing the door again and hiding away from the chilly fog. “We can take turns, can we not? Keeping some kind of watch.”
“It almost makes me miss the Residents,” Mary whispered, referring to the shadowy monster creatures that roamed our old home. They had kept a constant vigil, though I had from time to time managed to evade them. “I’m sure Mrs. Haylam would know some magicks to keep us safer—wards or something.”
“We don’t need wards,” Khent replied, taking the broom from me and returning it to the cupboard. “We have...” He cleared his throat, checking over his shoulder to make certain Agnes and Silvia were not near enough to overhear. “Me. We have my nose. You’ve been kind enough to let me stay in this house, shelter me. Let me do something in return. Besides, you are...”
He was staring at me so intently, it almost made my skin itch. His unusual eyes pulsed with purple light, a side effect of his condition, the ability to shift into a jackal-like giant with razor claws and fangs. Then it dawned on me what he meant—me. My voices. My problem.
“Finish your thought, if you please.”
“You should not take offense,eyachou. You have the voice of amad god in you; that would test even the strongest Fae.”
Mary took a step back from our bickering, still hugging herself.
“You know I hate it when you call me that.” My temper was causing more of this, too, more fights, more disagreements. It burned to know that both Mary and Khent could see me struggling. I was supposed to be the head of the house, the one who had inherited the fortune that paid for our newer, shinier lives in London, a caretaker and someone to be depended upon. But it was becoming clear that my hidden fight was no longer so hidden.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath, shoving the voices away, trying to bundle them and lock them up tight. But it was like trying to pick up water, and one or two sly whispers always slithered free.
They question you. They dare question you?
The voices, quite obviously, were rarely friendly.
If I wanted my companions to consider me capable, then it was time to act like a leader. I pulled back my shoulders and calmly looked at them each in turn, folding my hands in front of my waist.
“We will attend the ball this evening, so as not to alarm Agnes and Silvia. Tonight, Khent will take the watch on the property, but tomorrow we will discuss a more permanent solution. In the morning, I will let our staff know that something is amissand question them to see if perhaps they’ve noticed anything strange lately. Mary, maybe you would be so good as to write Chijioke? I’m sure he could either make suggestions of his own or talk to Mrs. Haylam.”
Mary’s eyes lit up at that. I had been surprised when she agreed to stay with me in London and not return to Coldthistle House. She had obviously made the decision with some regret, having discovered a kindling feeling for the groundskeeper of the boarding house. Their frequent correspondence since then had not slipped my notice.
“Diversion then,” Khent said, giving me a toothy smile. “And libations!”
“One or two,” I warned the Egyptian gently. “I shall remind you that this is not one of Seti’s feasts.” Khent had told me all manner of incredible stories about kings and queens whose names were as beautiful as they were unusual. I wondered if even half the tales were true, but he recalled them with such conviction and detail that I decided to believe. And anyway, it felt like a secret between us, these stories of ancient grandeur that he had witnessed firsthand. I was the only person lucky enough to hear these tales, their truth lost to time and, according to Khent, the persistent sandy winds of the desert. I attempted to read Terrasson’sThe Life of Sethoswith him, but he insisted the inaccuracies were too much to bear.
He snorted and winked, and then held out his arm for meto take. “His parties were tame compared to those of Ramesses. Have I ever told you about the time I ate two scorpions on a dare from His Radiance?”
Taking the proffered arm, I stepped with him out into the misty chill. “I do not think there will be scorpions to swallow at Lady Thrampton’s ball.”
“Vipers?”
“Nary a one,” I said with a laugh. A few spider corpses remained on the stoop, but I tried not to look at them. A cold shiver slid down my spine.
Khent made a face, helping me down the short stairs in my dark crimson silk gown. Mary had been wise to bring a shawl, and now I was wishing for one of my own.
“Are we going to a celebration or a funeral?” Khent groused. “Damned English.”
He would hear no rebuttals from two Irish lasses. We reached the gate at the edge of the lawn, and I grinned up at Khent, who seemed distracted by thoughts of grander, wilder fetes. With his rapidly expanding English vocabulary and friendly demeanor, I sometimes forgot that he had lived a lifetime ago and spent hundreds of years in frozen isolation, imprisoned by my father—by the cruel god now taking up residence in my head.
Turning down the lane toward our destination, he noticed my staring. Mary giggled softly behind us, but I ignored it. There was that shoulder-pinching sensation of being watched as wewent, but I ignored that, too, chalking it up to the strangeness of living once more in the city and not in the secluded country fashion.
“What is it?” he asked, smirking. “That look makes me nervous,huatyeh.”
Shrugging, I finally peeled my eyes away. “I’m simply glad you’re free. And here. That we’re all here.”
