Read The Honey Mummy (Folley & Mallory Adventure Book 3) Online
Authors: E. Catherine Tobler
Gasps and applause and Eleanor could only watch as Cleo joined in. Something was afoot, but Eleanor could not yet say what.
Throughout the process, she wanted to stop Pettigrew each and every time he moved to open a sarcophagus. This desire was not diminished when he offered Eleanor the blatantly cocky grins he worked; he knew how vexed she remained and did not care. With each sarcophagus, he grew more bold in his expressions; once his men had removed the lid with crowbar and hammer, he encouraged those who came up to dig their hands inside, to touch the linen wrappings and the hard bones beneath. Eleanor had rather hoped the sarcophagi would prove empty, but so far they had not. Pettigrew’s audience was not disappointed; each person who helped unwrap was allowed to keep the treasures that spilled from the wrappings. Rings, beads, flakes of gold, panels of painted the papier-mâché-like cartonnage. Eleanor could only stare. Egypt was being lost here, bit by bit.
As they wheeled the last sarcophagus into place, this the stunning serpentine stone that bore no family mark, Eleanor suspected Pettigrew’s attention would turn once more to her. She was not surprised when he stepped from the dais and headed her direction, a hand outstretched. The idea that he knew how this vexed her and would still ask for her assistance in front of a room of others was nothing less than an insult. Eleanor stiffened at Mallory’s side, wondering how she might politely refuse, or if it was better to accept so she could ensure that nothing was taken from this sarcophagus.
Her throat tightened, but when Pettigrew offered his hand to Cleo rather than her, nausea claimed Eleanor. Cleo who had watched transfixed the entire evening; Cleo who would never say no. Surely Pettigrew knew Eleanor would not stop her, and she didn’t, pressing herself back into the chair as Cleo took his hand and was guided to the dais to a round of applause. Eleanor swallowed a growl, trying to focus on Cleo and her continued odd reactions. Pettigrew remained his arrogant, flourished self.
“We come to our final treasure,” he said, stroking his long fingers over the serpentine lid of the sarcophagus. “How could we not ask a woman who has been named for Cleopatra herself to assist in its opening?”
The applause were scattered this time, the crowd as eager as Cleo to have the sarcophagus opened. As with the others, the stone lid was too much for two people; Pettigrew’s bevy of young men approached again with their tools. As they worked, Pettigrew made loose and gross translations of the meager writing that adorned the casket. Cleo was capable of only staring, until the lid was notched open. Then, she drew in a sharp breath.
“Here rests one who gave everything, it says,” Pettigrew translated.
The lid was so large, the young men could not move it more than a handful of inches. A slim wedge of darkness near the head of the sarcophagus allowed Cleo to peek inside, but she shook her head, black ringlets of hair brushing her cheeks.
“I cannot see anything,” she said.
Pettigrew’s mouth split in a wide grin; Eleanor could not even tell if this one were genuine, for he remained in the midst of his performance, Cleo still deep in his thrall. “And shall you stick your hand into the black to see what rests inside?”
Cleo gave no answer and Pettigrew turned to the crowd. “Should she venture forward?” he asked, demanding answers. He received an abundance of vocal “yeas!” in return.
Eleanor thought Cleo looked frozen. Beside of the serpentine sarcophagus, she looked strangely small, as if two of her would fit inside, pressed one against the other. Of course, asking Cleo to dip her metal hand into the black interior of an unknown sarcophagus was unlike asking anyone else; she would not touch any potential mummy as another person would. Her fingers would not damage anything, so precise was her touch.
When Cleo did slide her hand into the gap, Eleanor found herself holding her breath. She was being entirely ridiculous, she supposed, because she found herself clutching Mallory’s hand, imagining the worst was to come to pass, that Cleo would have her hand removed at the wrist, eaten by whatever lay inside.
Metal-devouring mummies, Folley?
she asked herself.
But the intake of breath from her other side—from solid Auberon—confirmed that she wasn’t entirely mad for thinking so. There was no telling what might be inside; the Egyptians had often trapped their tombs and caskets to thwart robbers; this one might well be the same.
Cleo flinched and Eleanor came out of her chair as the rest of the crowd gasped. Eleanor realized then that Pettigrew was watching her, not Cleo, and she forced herself to sit again as Cleo abruptly withdrew her hand from the sarcophagus.
Her miraculous hand had not been removed at the wrist by any kind of vicious mouth, but instead, every single finger, gear, and cog, dripped with golden honey. The honey drizzled in long threads, back into the gap of the sarcophagus lid.
“Whatever have we discovered?” Pettigrew asked, but it was plain to Eleanor he already knew, or had suspected. “Miss Barclay, dare you taste this confection?”
The crowd gasped at the indecent question and Eleanor was aware of Auberon tensing at her side. He was having just as much trouble not walking up there and pulling Cleo away. What game was this, Eleanor wanted to know, but only watched as Cleo drew a clean metal finger down the length of a honey-coated one. She brought this glob of honey to her mouth, and swallowed it whole.
“It’s honey,” Cleo whispered, but the acoustics of the room were such that everyone heard her plainly; every breath in the room was suspended, as they waited for what they did not know. “The oddest…tasting honey.”
And with this, Cleo swooned and collapsed to the floor.
Cooling evening air washed over Cleo as she stood on the hospital balcony that overlooked the harbor. She tried to count the ships that were docked, but her thoughts kept straying to her arms, to the way she could no longer feel anything from the elbow down, at least not as she had once done.
She looked down at the metal fingers resting against the balcony’s stucco edge, and did not dare move them. How could she? Were they even a part of her? She held her breath, watching the sunset light slant over the delicate metal work; she had never seen anything like it, not anything that wasn’t an actual machine. Something like this, attached to a person… How could it be?
She could not reconcile what she saw and what she sensed. She remembered the impact of the statue and the way her arms had buckled under its immense weight. The next thing she could recall was this room and the way the evening sun illuminated the pale ceiling into brightest gold. She recalled the weight of another person against the bed and the way she could not move; cocooned, she had called it. Wrapped, tight like a mummy might have been. Submerged?
It was this last memory she could not discern. It made no logical sense, beyond the helplessness she must have known; perhaps her mind had likened this to being held underwater, for in such a circumstance, she would also find herself unable to move.
The next memory was full wakefulness, with these arms that were not her arms at all. Machines. Extraordinary ma—
“Miss Barclay?”
If there had been a knock on the door—and surely there had been, knowing the doctor as she had come to—she had not heard it. She glanced from the balcony to find Doctor Peregrine Fairbrass standing just inside the door, looking her direction. He was as ever, tidy and sharp, though his face carried a certain exhaustion to it. His collar was still neatly buttoned, his golden beard brushed into order. Cleo could not say how old he was for certain, for the weariness in his eyes cloaked all else. Neither did she know how many patients he had here, for she had not ventured far from her room. She didn’t want to establish a relationship with anyone here, not when…
She looked from the doctor, to her arms.
“May I come in?” Fairbrass asked.
Cleo nodded, because she had questions, and even if she didn’t know how to ask them, perhaps the doctor’s presence would help. He closed the door behind him and joined her at the balcony, where he placed her file upon the ledge between them.
“It’s good to see you out of bed,” he said, “as I had wondered if you and the mattress were going to merge into one entity.” His mouth moved in a smile, but Cleo’s did not.
“There was—” She tried to ask, but the words rushed out of her and clogged her throat. She looked again to the ships, watching as one pulled away from its mooring, sailing for the mouth of the harbor. “No saving them?”
She did not look at the doctor but caught the dip of his head from the corner of her eye. Saw the way he scrubbed a hand over his beard and destroyed its tidy nature. He said nothing for a long while, content to watch the ship with her; it did not occur to her until then that answering her questions might be just as difficult as asking them.
“When I arrived on scene,” Fairbrass said, “you were…”
There was another long silence, the light in the sky fading by degrees before he continued.
“I don’t believe any doctor would question—”
But she wasn’t a doctor, and he exhaled, understanding this, too.
“I had never seen anything like it,” he said. Here, his voice took on an edge of honesty Cleo had not yet heard from him. While she was certain he had been honest in their prior conversations about treatment and outlook, she had never heard the emotional side of the experience from him. And how could he not be just as emotional as she? She could not imagine putting a person back together after such an accident.
“The statue was immense and there was simply no way to salvage your arms,” he continued softly. “Maybe in the future, such a thing will be possible, but this…” He reached toward her fine metal fingers, but drew back before touching one. “This was the best I could do, and even this is experimental.” His brow creased with a frown. “How are you? Has the nausea passed?”
“Yes, on that front I am improving,” Cleo said.
She had no time to consider what happened next; Fairbrass reached into his pocket, withdrew an orange, and lobbed it toward her. Instinct took over; rather than get hit in the face with the fruit, her hands came up. The intricate gears and levers did their work, fingers closing effortlessly around the orange. She could not quite appreciate its skin or yet judge the pressure required to hold it; one finger pressed too deeply, sending an explosion of sweet orange juice into the air between them.
“I believe that if you lean more toward instinct,” Fairbrass said, “you are going to be just fine. ‘Just fine’ is, by definition, wholly and forever inadequate, as you will never be what you remember being only a month ago.” Fairbrass opened her file and made a careful note upon the page, then looked back at her. There was another long moment of silence, the call of loons from the water carrying to them. “I was faced with two choices, Miss Barclay: allow you to perish in that catacomb, or take the action I did. I regret what I was compelled to do within the scope of that action, but if these mechanical arms come to serve you and allow you to lead the life you would have, I will have done my job.”
Cleo eased her hold on the orange, but did not release it. She could perceive its weight within the cage of the metal fingers, if not the juice that ran down one of them. It dripped a steady, fragrant puddle onto the balcony.
“I don’t question why you did what you did, only that…such thought was given.” There were tears in her eyes and she lifted a hand to brush them way, before she realized she could not. She turned away from him, so he would not see. “Agent Auberon was there?”
There came the rustle of a handkerchief and when this was offered, she plucked it from his grasp neatly between two metal fingers. She managed to both set the orange down and dab her eyes dry, though not before having a good cry within the shelter of the handkerchief.
“He remained the entire time,” Fairbrass answered. “Your entire team…they refused to leave you, didn’t even care for exploring the catacomb as we hoisted you out.” He took the handkerchief back when she offered it, then said, “If you have questions about such things, I suggest you write him, Miss Barclay.”
This suggestion was pointed and with the way her breath caught in her throat, Cleo thought she had been tossed off the balcony’s high edge. Having fallen into a catacomb beneath Alexandria, she suspected she knew what the outcome of such a thing would be.
“Doctor, I cannot possibly…” She lifted her hands and stared at them; they were alien just then, and she had no idea how she might come to hold a pen and put words to page.
But Fairbrass only smiled at her and gathered his files. He nodded, looking at her hands with appreciation. There was no question he had done fine work, and yet.
“I am certain it will take you time, but you can consider it part of your healing.” With this, he strode toward the door. “You can’t remain here forever, Miss Barclay. Hospitals are for healing, and then leaving.”
With this, he left the room and closed the door firmly behind him. With a snarl, Cleo grabbed the orange from the balcony’s ledge and lobbed it into the street below. Her shoulder screamed in pain, but she grit her teeth.
“Healing and then leaving,” she said, watching the ship slip free of the harbor at last. “Healing…and then leaving.”
Dear Mister Auberon,
Your letter of late April helped ease my mind considerably; knowing the state you found me in clarifies a good many of the impressions I remember from that time—impressions that are otherwise frightening. I thought I was swimming and plainly I could not be, not in the middle of Alexandria. But perhaps the honey goes to explain this sensation. Also that of being bound up like a mummy.
You asked me to describe my arms. They are nothing short of a wonder. As you will see from this ink-stained mess, I am still learning how the hands operate; my daily personal requirements such as brushing hair or teeth, have turned in to quite a production, though I am managing well enough. Doctor Fairbrass tells me I was lucky to sustain the injury in the way I did—while the arm below the elbow was unsalvageable, everything above was reasonably fine. The joint was also saved, so the doctor seems to have simply given me new bones, these of brass and steel.
“Simply.” I am certain there was nothing simple about the procedure; indeed, he looks vexed most days as he studies the work he did. You almost cannot see where flesh and leather are joined; the joint is heavier than a normal elbow, bulkier, but this covers a good many scars, literal and figural. The forearms are lengths of steel and brass, and one can see every gear; when I move a finger (their delicacy reminds me of da Vinci’s sketches for his magnificent flying machines and pulleys, if you have seen them? There is some shape of the bird’s wing in my hands now, and I cannot say this is disagreeable, for it is beautiful, even if they are not yet my own hands. Neither can I take to the sky—not yet.), this sets off a chain of events up the entire length of arm, involving gears and pulleys, much like a flesh and bone arm! It is because of this open nature that I hope to procure some gloves, so that I can one day work in the field again. This is my hope, that my work will not be lost even if my arms have.
I trust Paris treats you well. Tell me of the city when next you write? I have never been.
C. Barclay
Virgil Mallory paced a long path through the room, past the couch where Eleanor sat with Cleo’s limp hand in her own, to Auberon who stood guard at the door. He had not made a point of guarding them—surely they were all quite safe in Pettigrew’s temple of a house, but plainly Auberon
was
on guard, and would only cease to be on guard when Cleo roused.
“It was
only
honey?” Virgil asked as he paused beside Auberon.
Auberon’s gaze was darker than usual, hooded and narrow. “She said it tasted odd, but given that it was inside a sarcophagus…” His eyes slid toward Cleo and Eleanor. “Miss Folley?”
“I’m not a doctor, Auberon, I’m an archaeologist. I deal with the dead, not the living—and she is living, to be sure, but…”
There came a knock on the door and Virgil and Auberon turned as one toward it. Virgil allowed Auberon to notch the door open, well-schooled in how one became territorial about places and people both. The expression on Auberon’s face when Cleo had hit the floor—something Pettigrew had allowed to happen, because he could have caught her two times over, but had still let her fall—was a thing Virgil would not soon forget. Nor would he forget the way Auberon fixed Pettigrew with a glare now. Pettigrew stood in the hallway, and lifted his hand to show what he was carrying, a tightly capped bottle.
“Smelling salts for the lady,” he said. “If only you would allow me into my own parlor…”
The parlor looked like an Egyptian garden, with its palms and columns, and furniture that was modern yet also managed to draw one back to ancient times. The walls here were painted in green, as vibrant as Osiris’s skin, as capable as turning Virgil’s stomach.
Virgil touched Auberon’s arm, a silent statement that said it should be all right to allow Pettigrew inside. After all, the man had already had his fun and games, hadn’t he? Drawing Cleo to the stage as he had, encouraging her to dip her hand into the black maw of the sarcophagus. Virgil exhaled through his nose, keeping a tight rein on his temper. Pettigrew was the lowest sort, of this he was certain.
Auberon drew back and opened the door to allow Pettigrew entry. Pettigrew was no fool; he entered slowly, nodding to both Auberon and Virgil. He held Virgil’s gaze and Virgil lifted his own chin, to study Pettigrew in return. Arrogance knew arrogance, Virgil supposed; he took in a low breath, but Pettigrew smelled like any man; there was no fear, no sweat, nothing to indicate he was out of his element.
“How is she?” Pettigrew whispered before he looked toward the couch. “Oh, Sleeping Beauty, what a mish-mash of stories we have here tonight!”
He crossed to her side and knelt. Virgil noted the way Eleanor examined the jar of salts before she allowed him close to Cleo; it was something of a relief to see he wasn’t the only one cautious about Pettigrew. Given everything they knew about him, it would be good to compare notes once they had left his residence.
Pettigrew opened the jar beneath Cleo’s nose and a moment later, she came to with a spluttering gasp, pushing him away. She gravitated toward Eleanor, a known element within the unfamiliar room, but even this didn’t put Pettigrew off. He lingered close, kneeled on the floor.
“Miss Barclay, I owe you a tremendous apology,” he said. He slipped the jar of salts into his pocket and spread his empty hands before her. “One never knows what one will find when they unwrap such treasures from the past—you know this as well as I! Every single sarcophagus and box is a mystery, for despite what we think we know, we often know nothing at all. Oh, Miss Barclay. If I have placed you in jeopardy or caused you harm…” One hand fluttered in the air, toward her temple and the beginning of a bruise. “You would have my most sincere apologies.”
Cleo remained near Eleanor’s side, but her eyes did not waver from Pettigrew. “How did you know?” she whispered.
Virgil did not understand the context of the question; much like the sarcophagi, it was unattached to anything that might explain it. When Pettigrew offered no reply and Cleo did not ask again, Auberon crossed the room, to join the scene. Virgil and Auberon could both make guesses; they were terribly skilled at guessing. This came with the job, Virgil supposed, but the anger in Auberon’s voice was usually a thing left behind.
“Did you send the invitation, Pettigrew?” Auberon asked. “The auction catalogue that came to Cle— Miss Barclay?”
Pettigrew regarded Auberon in a way that Virgil recognized: a predator believing he had stumbled upon easy prey. The prey’s apparent weakness had been discovered and lo, Pettigrew meant to exploit it. Given the way he had already used Cleo—Virgil had not missed the way he baited even Eleanor with Cleo during the unwrapping of the sarcophagi—he didn’t believe Pettigrew meant to stop now. Virgil held his place, watching. If Pettigrew had not yet realized there was another predator in the room, Virgil had no need to alert him to the fact just yet.
“Mister Auberon, I am certain I don’t know—”
“Denials don’t suit a man like you,” Auberon said. “Did you send the auction catalogue to Miss Barclay?”
Pettigrew’s hands came to rest easily on his thighs, still crouched beside the couch. It made for a strange picture, Virgil thought; Pettigrew kneeling before Auberon and his demands. Pettigrew tipped his face up and though he did not smile again, there was a simmering expression upon his face, one that spoke of games and amusement.
“I received the catalogue much as did every attendee, Mister Auberon,” Pettigrew said. “I presume whomever sent it to me also sent it to you and yours?” He paused, considering, and Virgil watched, alert for any change in his posture or bearing. “Make no mistake, I am well aware of your…affiliation…with Mistral. Mistral is an organization that gathers artifacts much as they do agents—from whichever gutter is nearest to hand.”
Pettigrew came to his feet, slowly, but the motion was enough to cause Virgil to take a step closer. His attention within the room narrowed to Pettigrew alone; he knew Cleo was safe at Eleanor’s side, and Auberon knew to how to allow Virgil space should anything untoward occur.
Pettigrew did smile now, slanting it in Virgil’s direction. He kept his empty hands spread before him. “Down, boy. I mean no harm here, least of all to Miss Barclay. I have welcomed you all into my home, believing you shared an interest in the sarcophagi given your bidding at the auction. You could not own them, but why not see what was to be seen? If I have given offense, you will forgive me.
You
are giving offense here and now, making these outlandish presumptions as to my motives. I have none, but for a fellowship of knowledge. You…even your ladies…possess knowledge I do not regarding such artifacts. Despite Miss Folley’s earlier accusations against my character, I have no wish to destroy these things, only to understand them, so that we
all
might benefit. You presume because of my connections—connections severed by the grave. Howard Irving is well and truly dead, is he not? My allegiance to the man was not so deep, Mallory.”
The problem, Virgil decided, was that it sounded entirely reasonable. Much as Irving’s own conversations had always contained an edge of reason, a cloak of respectability. This was the trick, ensuring that everything did appear reasonable, even logical on the surface. Given Pettigrew’s interactions with Irving, it wasn’t a surprise Pettigrew might know them. Given their failed bids at the auction, it was also not a surprise that the winner might invite them to the unwrapping, to at least partake in some of the excitement.
But on another level, the level that involved baiting Eleanor by using Cleo, Virgil was more disturbed than he would admit to Pettigrew. This was a level that didn’t speak of logic at all; it was primal, as if Pettigrew knew exactly how a beast would react. Would Irving have told others about Virgil’s affliction? Virgil rather hoped not, but also could not say. Despite the man having been his father by marriage, he did not know. Irving’s inner circle had likely known, but Pettigrew claimed no such close ties.
This too was a thing easily glossed over or denied.
Still, Virgil nodded and did not press. “You will forgive us our suspicions,” he said, and nodded toward Cleo. “When one witnesses a friend collapsing into a heap after daring to have tasted…was it honey?…from a sealed sarcophagus… It is outside the realm of normalcy, Mister Pettigrew. Given that you extended the challenge…”
Pettigrew inclined his own head, folding his hands together. “Showmanship for the crowd, yes? My parties have become something of a legend in Alexandria, if I so say so myself. The people expect a certain amount of flourish and fancy.”
“It isn’t enough that you have ancient mummies to unwrap?” Auberon asked.
Pettigrew laughed, the sound of a dandy rather than a polished gentleman. “Oh gracious no. Not now. If one knows where to look, one can find mummy unwrappings in any corner of the city. It’s become quite a business, Mister Auberon. Why, just last week there was a mummy bonfire, and the week before, they were launching burning mummies into the night sky upon balloons.”
Virgil did not miss the expression on Eleanor’s face; it was hard to ignore the fury that simmered there. Still, she did not launch herself at Pettigrew, possibly mindful that now would be a poor time to tackle him to the floor and chew on his neck until he grew silent. Eleanor turned her furious gaze to Cleo’s injured temple, but Virgil had no doubt she was paying just as much attention to the conversation at hand.
“So you need to ensure your spectacle is at least as impressive,” Virgil said.
“Spectacle—did you find it to be such?” Pettigrew exhaled and made quite a show of loosening his necktie. His fingers stroked over the jet tiepin and held it a moment, before he continued. “It is exhausting, I will have you know. I try to be responsible with the artifacts I obtain, keeping them so they aren’t launched into the air or set on fire. Can you imagine the losses Egypt has already incurred based on such vile actions? It sickens me, absolutely sickens me. No, I much prefer to open the sarcophagi with some semblance of control and order, so that we might learn. Isn’t that why we love Egypt—she has so much to teach us.” Pettigrew’s eyes moved back to Eleanor and Cleo. “The past holds court here, despite the march of years. I would know every secret buried in that past, yes I would. Surely none would find fault with that.”
Eleanor’s chin came up and Virgil could see by the way she held herself—her shoulders back, her spine straight—that she was making every effort to not unleash herself upon Pettigrew, who implied he knew more than he should with the words he spoke.
“Only with your methods, Mister Pettigrew,” she said.
At this, Pettigrew bowed slightly from the waist. “Forgive my offense, and also that I have other guests who require my attention. You are welcome to remain here as long as you will—my home should be considered your own. If you would excuse me.” With that, Pettigrew took his leave of the room, and Auberon closed the door behind him, taking up his post once more.
“I dislike that man.” His gaze settled heavily upon Cleo, who pressed her mechanical fingers against her temple.
“When you are able, we will go,” Eleanor said to her.
This idea, however, didn’t sit well with Cleo, who tensed. Virgil watched her, wanting to question her at length, but he remained mindful of her injury.
“How are you?” he asked her.
“Off balance,” Cleo snapped and drew away from Eleanor when she made to look again at her injured temple. “I will be fine, it’s only that…”
She did not say what it was, however, and no one in the room pressed. Eleanor removed herself from Cleo’s side, crossing toward Virgil. He couldn’t read all the unsaid things upon her face and within her eyes, but he could see that she very much wanted to run. Wanted to drop her human form and bolt into the night. He knew the inclination all too well; he likened it to the relationship he kept with opium. It was a splendid escape.
“Why would an Egyptian sarcophagus hold honey?” Virgil asked her in a low tone.
Eleanor shook her head, a tendril of loose dark hair catching against the collar of her jacket. Virgil congratulated himself on not reaching out to draw it free; this touch would lead to others and he was not so strong in the wake of the confrontation with Pettigrew.
“Only one reason comes to mind,” Eleanor said, “but it’s…a legend only. I’ve only ever seen reference to it in a handful of scattered, written works. Mummies have been used for a variety of things—kindling, ink, but many also regard them as medicine. There was a belief that a substance such as honey could be…transformed, but…”
The way she trailed off, her mouth curling in a sneer, made Virgil wonder. “Well this should be tremendous.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes, but managed a smile. “It was said that to make a honey mummy, one began when the body was still alive. You started with an older person who consented to the process—of eating only honey, until it oozed from their body and eventually killed them. They were then sealed into a sarcophagus, where they oozed and…steeped.”
“The way one might tea?” Auberon asked.
“Not too terribly different, I suppose,” Eleanor allowed, “but we’re talking for hundreds of years. A very strong and insistent …tea.”
“And what was this honey said to do?” Virgil asked. “You mentioned medicine.”
“Using the human body as presumed medicine isn’t entirely new,” Auberon said. “I’ve read accounts of the livers and hearts of gladiators being eaten, their very blood being consumed for the benefit believed contained therein.”
Eleanor nodded. “And honey is well suited to long term storage. This particular confection was said to cure a variety of ills, anything from broken limbs to sealing open wounds. Restoring a man’s…vitality. One account said a woman who could not bear children had a dozen after enjoying the honey upon her morning bread for a year. These sarcophagi date from the Ptolemaic era—though it is possible they have been repurposed. We have no idea if there is a body within the honey, or from when that body dates.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Virgil said, “given the apparent generosity and curiously innocent exploratory nature of our host.” He was proud that he didn’t roll his eyes or sneer; so very proud, the way Eleanor must’ve been when she hadn’t taken Pettigrew by the throat earlier. “We ask to conduct a few tests.”