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“It’s… possible that I might have engaged in a little theoretical speculation in some of my reports to the British Athenaeum,” Neil admitted uneasily.
Adam’s tone went dry. “In other words, you wrote your bosses a nice report about all of it.”
“Itismy job,” Neil pushed back crossly, and then caught himself, his shoulders sagging. “Wasmy job.”
“But does any of this tell us where we can actually find the damned thing?” Adam pressed. “You know—the dangerous artifact that can unleash plagues of boils and locusts on the world if the wrong guys get hold of it?”
At the mention of the staff’s purported magical powers, Neil stiffened.
“Perhaps the inscription in the box will help with that,” Ellie suggested uncertainly.
Mr. Al-Ahmed sighed with a note of frustration. “This hieratic is a variety mostly seen in letter-writing, and it is positively rife with abbreviations and shortcuts—a bit like your English shorthand. I will need to consult some of my father’s old notes before I can hope to make any sense of it beyond those first few words.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Al-Ahmed,” Ellie pleaded. “We must know whether there is anything else in that text that might help us.”
“Call me Sayyid,” he corrected her tiredly. “If we are to be working together on the mystery behind the life of one of the world’s greatest prophets, we might as well dispense with the formalities.”
“Of course, Sayyid,” Ellie agreed gratefully.
“I will see what I can do with the hieratic.” Sayyid cradled the box as carefully as he might an infant as he rose and headed for his study.
His wife stood as well, casting a ruefully assessing look over the rest of them. “And I will find you all somewhere to sleep.”
“Is there anything to eat?” Constance asked, yawning. “All of this history has made me a bit peckish.”
“I will put on some rice,” Mrs. Al-Ahmed conceded, flashing another irritated look at her husband as he settled down at his desk in the next room.
“I can help!” Constance brightly offered, hopping to her feet.
Constance looked at Ellie expectantly.
Ellie’s stomach sank at the thought of being asked to assist. She was an absolutely rotten cook. “I can… er…”
“I got it, Princess,” Adam cut in a little dryly.
At the sound of that comfortable nickname—Princess—Neil stiffened. He put his fingers to his temples as though fighting a wave of dizziness.
“I need some air,” he declared abruptly.
He pivoted on his heel and hurried out of the house at a pace that was barely short of a run—as if he might somehow escape all the various ways that his life had taken a turn over the last two hours.
Adam watched him go, his expression flashing with guilt and unease.
Ellie was feeling much the same herself.
Constance hooked a hand under each of their elbows, steering them after Mrs. Al-Ahmed. “Come on, then, you two. Let’s see if Sayyid has any dates.”
??
Thirteen
With two bowlsof lentils in his hands, Adam set out to face the music.
Neil hadn’t come back to the house since he’d run out an hour before. The lion’s share of Neil’s angst seemed to be coming from the whole busting-into-his-tomb and possibly-costing-him-his-job thing… but Adam knew the revelation that he’d been running around with Neil’s sister hadn’t helped.
At all.
When Adam had first shown up at Cambridge University, he’d been a big, awkward American who couldn’t spend more than ten minutes staring at a book before he realized he’d just read the same sentence six times and gave up. He hadn’t fit in with the guys who didn’t bother even trying to read, because they were mostly stuck-up rich kids in need of a good dunking. And he’d figured the ones who actually did read were probably a lost cause, since it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that all Adam knew about history was what he managed to pick up during lectures when his mind wasn’t wandering.
