Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos-Theo 1 by R. L. Lafevers, Yoko Tanaka Page A
Book: Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos-Theo 1 by R. L. Lafevers, Yoko Tanaka
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Authors: R. L. Lafevers, Yoko Tanaka
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Magic, Family Life, Occult fiction, Adventure and Adventurers, Great Britain, Egypt, London (England), Antiquities, Good and Evil, Occultism, Blessing and Cursing, Egypt - Antiquities, Museums, London (England) - History - 20th Century, Great Britain - History - Edward VII; 1901-1910, Incantations; Egyptian, Family Life - England
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hallway, I tried to remind myself that this was an excellent chance to try and get to the bottom of the Isis situation.
I hurried through the corridors, then went downstairs to the reading room library. But when I reached out and turned the handle, it was locked. Bother! Which idiotic curator took it in his head to lock the library up at night?
Probably that rat, Fagenbush.
Discouraged, I went back upstairs to my room. I lit the oil lamp and climbed into the sarcophagus, making myself comfortable by pulling a blanket up under my chin. I unrolled the scroll and began to read:
Hail, O Seth, Master of Chaos, hail Mantu, Destroyer of our enemies, hail Anat, whose terrible beauty strikes fear into the heart of our enemies, hear our pleas.
Through Thutmose, our land's most powerful ruler, the land's power has grown great, our enemies bow down before us, beseech us for mercy, which flows from Thutmose...
I was soon lost in Amenemhab's theories of how to bring death and destruction to one's enemies. Famine, plague, flood, locusts, pestilence—he had them all covered with curses and amulets and secret rituals designed to bring his enemies to their knees.
After hours of reading, my eyelids began to grow heavy. I missed Isis terribly. She normally curled up at my feet, and it just wasn't the same without her. I missed the warmth of her small furry body. The comfort of her contented purring. I tried my best not to think of her ricocheting around the museum in a cursed frenzy. However, if she was feeling demonic, at least she wasn't feeling lonely. Or scared.
As I drifted off to sleep, I had to remind myself that sleeping in a sarcophagus wasn't creepy. Not really. Not if you don't think about it...
Besides, even if it was scary, it certainly was safer with three tons of solid stone covered with protective symbols between you and whatever spirits lurked in the museum at night.
Fagenbush Gets an Unexpected Bath
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING with a fuzziness behind my eyes that let me know I hadn't slept well. And no wonder! My dreams had been filled with images of marching Egyptian armies and other horrors of war. That Amenemhab fellow certainly was descriptive; his writings made for rather questionable bedtime reading.
Worse yet, I was still in the sarcophagus, which meant Mother and Father never went home last night. Or they had forgotten to come and get me. That thought had me sitting bolt upright, heart pounding. They wouldn't really forget me, would they?
I scrambled out of bed, then poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin and splashed it on my face, washing the sleep out of my eyes and, hopefully, any clinging memories of my strange dreams. That was another thing that had kept me awake last night. The museum had been positively lively with creaks and groans, as if all the artifacts had decided to throw a party. I couldn't help wondering if it had something to do with the new collection. Finding out would be my first order of business for the day. (After making sure my parents hadn't forgotten me!)
Oh, dear. Make that my second order of business. My first and most important task was to locate Isis and try to set her right.
I brushed the wrinkles out of my frock as best I could, frustrated at having to wear the same one two days in a row. Honestly, it made me feel only one step up from a street urchin. I slipped my cleanest pinafore off its nail and shrugged into it. Lastly, I buttoned up my gloves, then headed round to the sitting room, hoping for a sign of my parents, or at the very least, a bit of leftover pasties. But no such luck. No parents and no leftovers. I used the last bit of jam to make a quick sandwich. As I ate, the sound of Father's voice drifted down the stairs from his workroom. The tightness in my chest disappeared. They
hadn't
left me behind.
On my way to the reading room, I decided to stop and pay Edgar Stilton, the Third Assistant Curator, a visit.
In spite of being named after a cheese,
I hurried through the corridors, then went downstairs to the reading room library. But when I reached out and turned the handle, it was locked. Bother! Which idiotic curator took it in his head to lock the library up at night?
Probably that rat, Fagenbush.
Discouraged, I went back upstairs to my room. I lit the oil lamp and climbed into the sarcophagus, making myself comfortable by pulling a blanket up under my chin. I unrolled the scroll and began to read:
Hail, O Seth, Master of Chaos, hail Mantu, Destroyer of our enemies, hail Anat, whose terrible beauty strikes fear into the heart of our enemies, hear our pleas.
Through Thutmose, our land's most powerful ruler, the land's power has grown great, our enemies bow down before us, beseech us for mercy, which flows from Thutmose...
I was soon lost in Amenemhab's theories of how to bring death and destruction to one's enemies. Famine, plague, flood, locusts, pestilence—he had them all covered with curses and amulets and secret rituals designed to bring his enemies to their knees.
After hours of reading, my eyelids began to grow heavy. I missed Isis terribly. She normally curled up at my feet, and it just wasn't the same without her. I missed the warmth of her small furry body. The comfort of her contented purring. I tried my best not to think of her ricocheting around the museum in a cursed frenzy. However, if she was feeling demonic, at least she wasn't feeling lonely. Or scared.
As I drifted off to sleep, I had to remind myself that sleeping in a sarcophagus wasn't creepy. Not really. Not if you don't think about it...
Besides, even if it was scary, it certainly was safer with three tons of solid stone covered with protective symbols between you and whatever spirits lurked in the museum at night.
Fagenbush Gets an Unexpected Bath
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING with a fuzziness behind my eyes that let me know I hadn't slept well. And no wonder! My dreams had been filled with images of marching Egyptian armies and other horrors of war. That Amenemhab fellow certainly was descriptive; his writings made for rather questionable bedtime reading.
Worse yet, I was still in the sarcophagus, which meant Mother and Father never went home last night. Or they had forgotten to come and get me. That thought had me sitting bolt upright, heart pounding. They wouldn't really forget me, would they?
I scrambled out of bed, then poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin and splashed it on my face, washing the sleep out of my eyes and, hopefully, any clinging memories of my strange dreams. That was another thing that had kept me awake last night. The museum had been positively lively with creaks and groans, as if all the artifacts had decided to throw a party. I couldn't help wondering if it had something to do with the new collection. Finding out would be my first order of business for the day. (After making sure my parents hadn't forgotten me!)
Oh, dear. Make that my second order of business. My first and most important task was to locate Isis and try to set her right.
I brushed the wrinkles out of my frock as best I could, frustrated at having to wear the same one two days in a row. Honestly, it made me feel only one step up from a street urchin. I slipped my cleanest pinafore off its nail and shrugged into it. Lastly, I buttoned up my gloves, then headed round to the sitting room, hoping for a sign of my parents, or at the very least, a bit of leftover pasties. But no such luck. No parents and no leftovers. I used the last bit of jam to make a quick sandwich. As I ate, the sound of Father's voice drifted down the stairs from his workroom. The tightness in my chest disappeared. They
hadn't
left me behind.
On my way to the reading room, I decided to stop and pay Edgar Stilton, the Third Assistant Curator, a visit.
In spite of being named after a cheese,
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