Chapter Four

I'd heard of the Edinburgh Seven before I crossed to this time. To discover I'd arrived in the very year they were making history? Kind of awesome, even if I'd only had the vaguest understanding of exactly what they did.

I know the full story now.

In March of 1869, two months before I arrived, Sophia Jex-Blake applied to study medicine. The academic board admitted her, only for the university court to reject her with the excuse that they couldn't make accommodations for just one female student. So she found six more. They became the Edinburgh Seven. They requested and received permission to write the admission exams. Over a hundred and fifty people wrote that exam, including five of the Seven. Four of the women scored in the top seven overall.

A few weeks ago, they signed the matriculation roll, and the University of Edinburgh became the first British university to admit women.

One part of the story I do remember involves a point still in their future, when during their final exams, male students will do everything in their power to help and support them. No, that's the story my happily-ever-after-loving soul wants, where the young men rise up against their narrow-minded elders to help their fellow students. That is not what happens.

Those male classmates will try to keep the women from finishing their exams by making as much of a ruckus as possible outside, including throwing a sheep—yes, a live sheep—into the room. It won't stop the Edinburgh Seven, so it's still a happy ending, but I'd prefer one where the male students don't go down in history as frat-boy assholes.

Isla is upset and unsettled by Miss King's accusation, and the best person to handle that isn't the brother who will commiserate or the female friend who will rage alongside her. It's McCreadie, the guy who might not fully understand why she is upset but will want to understand because she is upset, and sometimes, that is the best friend of all.

Once we are inside, McCreadie murmurs something about needing a drink and steers Isla off. Then Annis sees someone she needs to speak to. That leaves me at my first Victorian soiree with Gray to myself, and that is not the worst place to be, not the worst place at all.

We wander through the main rooms. The house is lovely—with decor that is downright tasteful for Victorian Britain. Yet the main scenery tonight is the guests in their party clothes. I am at a Victorian soiree, and it is… crowded? I guess I picture massive ballrooms, and this is a very different thing. I catch glimpses of bright fabrics and gorgeous jewels and luxurious whiskers, but mostly we are navigating through very tightly packed rooms.

"Would you like to see the artifacts?" he asks, leaning in to whisper as we head down the hall.

"The…?"

"Sir Alastair's artifacts from Egypt. I have heard he has organized a private display of them here, before they go to a museum."

Am I aware that museums in this time are filled with plunder from other nations? Yes, I am, and that does not stop me from going to them any more than the same problem does in my own day. I fully support all efforts to return them, and if asked to boycott an exhibit, I would, but I also know how much museums have contributed to my understanding of the world beyond my narrow borders.

Mark this particular relationship complicated, but I'm still in it, and I won't deny the spark of excitement that comes at Gray's words.

"Yes, please," I say with a smile.

He gives an exaggerated exhale. "Excellent. I feared you might wish to mingle instead."

I take hold of his arm as he navigates through the crowd. "Then you know me not at all, Dr. Gray."

"Oh, I suspect that if I offered you someone interesting to meet, it would be quite a different story, but the only interesting person I know here is Sir Alastair. And I fear that introduction will not be coming from me. In fact, I rather hope we do not encounter the man, as the last time I saw him, he said he had best never lay eyes on me again."

"Uh…"

"Yes, perhaps it seems I should have told Annis that, but if I did, it would only make her determined to perform the introduction herself. My sister does adore fireworks."

We're rounding another corner, and I realize Gray is moving swiftly through the house, as if he knows the layout.

"Dare I ask what you did?" I say.

"Me? Why must you presume it was me, dear Mallory?"

"Was it?"

"Not entirely. Sir Alastair led the charge taking umbrage at my unearthing of the body."

"Ah, the grave-digging incident. Sir Alastair was responsible for making sure you couldn't be licensed because of it? Then perhaps we had best not meet him, or I might be compelled to challenge him to a duel."

Gray looks over with a faint smile. "If I thought you actually would, I might be tempted, just to see him sputter indignantly. Yes, he led the charge, but he had plenty of support. The last time I saw him, he said he had best never see my face in the university again."

"But you go there all the time."

He shrugs. "Sir Alastair travels often. He said he had best not see me, not that I had best not go there."

"The devil is in the details."

"Indeed. I fully admit that Sir Alastair is a fascinating individual, but you will have to content yourself with his Egyptian treasures."

"Probably for the best."

We turn another corner and someone says, "Mr. Awad?"

A man steps in front of us, looking at Gray. "Mr. Awad. I had not heard you'd arrived." When Gray looks confused, the man says, "Oh! My apologies," and switches to address him in a language I don't recognize.

"I fear you have mistaken me for someone else," Gray says.

The man's eyes widen. "Oh! Yes. Given your accent, I most certainly have. My sincerest apologies."

The man retreats quickly, still apologizing, and is gone before we can say anything.

"Awad?" I say. "That sounds Egyptian. Do you think Sir Alastair brought someone from the excavation to speak? I would like to hear that."

"Let us hope so. If he has brought a local archaeologist or historian, that would cast this affair in a slightly less discomfiting light."

Gray waves toward a doorway. It leads into one of the rooms at the back, with what looks like gardens beyond, closed for the winter. Whatever the purpose of this room, everything has been cleared, right down to paintings on the walls being removed, leaving ghostly outlines on the wallpaper, as if that art might detract from the antiquities on display.

I turn to the first table… and gasp. Less than five feet away a set of canopic jars is just sitting there, with no glass box, no barrier, nothing between me and the jars.

"You know what those are, I presume," Gray asks as we step into the room.

"Canopic jars," I say. "Before mummification, the embalmer removed the organs through a slit in the corpse's side. And removed the brain through the nose." I look at him. "Can you do that?"

"The question, I believe, is ‘Would I want to do that?' And also ‘Why.'" He walks up beside me. "It is an intriguing concept, though. To be quite honest, I am not quite certain how they managed it."

"And you ask whether you want to do it and why?" I grin at him. "Because it's a puzzle. The problem would be finding a volunteer. Preferably dead."

"Preferably, yes."

"You'd need to have a reason to do it, I suppose. Beyond satisfying scientific curiosity. Or would you? It would make a valid paper. You should do it. You just need a body."

When I glance over, I can see that brain of his whirring. Then he shakes it off. "You are a bad influence, Mallory."

"I am the best influence, and you know it."

There are four jars, all blue-glazed pottery. Each jar lid is shaped like the head of a god. Fortunately, there are labels, or I'd never know which was which, much less be able to name the gods. On the one with the intestines is the falcon-headed Qebehsenuef; baboon-headed Hapi protects the lungs, jackal-headed Duamutef is in charge of the stomach, and human-headed Imsety takes the liver.

"See these?" I point to the line of hieroglyphics on each jar. "It's a spell naming the deceased and invoking the appropriate god."

I spend a few minutes with the jars. Then I realize I've been so wrapped up in the jars that I haven't looked up to see what else is in the room. Now I do, and I gasp again and take a running step forward, before I remember I'm not wearing jeans and sneakers… and not eight years old, setting foot in the British Museum for the first time.

Gray gives a soft chuckle behind me, and when he catches up, his smile is pure indulgence that somehow manages to avoid condescension.

"I've been trying to play this cool," I say. "Recognize the cultural concerns and all that, but when my parents went to London, they'd drop me off at the museum, I'd spend hours in the Egyptian exhibit. History in general isn't my thing, but I loved this stuff."

"Because it is suitably macabre."

"I'm so predictable." I look around. "Are we really the only ones here? This is…" I struggle for words as scan the room. "This is literal treasure, right here, to see and smell and touch—yes, I know better than to touch it and I won't, but I could. Where is everyone?"

He gives a vague wave. "Talking to people they have not spoken to since the last event a few weeks ago."

"Ugh. Do I dare hope they'll at least pay attention during the unwrapping?"

"Silly lass, of course not. They only want to say they were here. We will need to stand near the front of the exhibition if we hope to hear anything other than speculation on what Lady McDonald might serve at her winter ball."

"Well, I can't complain about having this whole room to ourselves. Wait, is that a funerary mask?"

I practically run over to gaze down on the golden mask that would have lain over a mummy's face.

"Really hope they didn't find this on an actual mummy and remove it," I say. "That's cause for cursing."

"For what?"

"A mummy's curse."

At his blank look, I'm about to tease that he needs to lift his head from his medical journals. Then I remember why he looks so confused.

"That's right," I say. "The curses weren't much of a thing before King Tut."

"King who?"

I glance around quickly, ensuring we are alone. "King Tutankhamun. He went on the throne as a boy and died before he turned twenty. After the turn of the century, an archaeologist will find his tomb. Then people will start dying, cursed for disturbing the sleep of the boy king."

"Is that a real story?" says a voice, making me jump. "Or a made-up one?"

Two small figures emerge from the shadows. Children, maybe ten or eleven. One is a girl wearing a child-sized replica of a ladies' gown, though shorter, with petticoats instead of a crinoline cage. She's tall, with light brown curls and skin that looks as if it has spent more time in the sun than one expects of an upper-class Victorian. Behind her stands a boy with dark hair and eyes, his skin the same shade as Gray's.

"I made it up," I say quickly. "Sorry."

"It is still a very good story," the girl says. "Continue."

The boy rolls his eyes. "You cannot command a guest to continue her story, Phoebe."

Her brows rise. "Then what good is being the host's daughter? If I must endure smiling and curtsying to guests, then I ought to be able to command them to finish the stories they began." She lifts her gaze to mine. "You were talking about a curse on a pharaoh's tomb. Does someone die? I do hope so."

"Phoebe,"the boy says with exasperation.

"What? It would be a very poor curse if no one died, and I think some of them should." The girl turns as footsteps hurry down the hall. "Would you not agree, Mimi?"

"Agree with what, Phoebe?" A woman appears and smooths the girl's hair. "Dare I ask what you two are pestering our poor guests with now?"

"‘You two'?" the boy squawks. "It was not me, Mama."

The woman who has entered is maybe our age. She resembles the boy, with slightly darker skin. She wears a gown even finer than mine, including what has to be an actual Egyptian artifact around her throat—a broad collar of multiple strands, each strung with dozens of tiny amulets.

Before the children can answer, the woman catches sight of us. Her gaze goes to Gray, and she blinks. Then she gives a light laugh and touches her lips, the gesture self-conscious, as if to hide the laugh.

"I am sorry, sir. For a moment, I almost mistook you for… someone else."

"I have already been mistaken for a Mr. Awad," he says.

"Uncle Selim?" Phoebe says.

"He is my uncle, not yours," the boy says.

"As our parents are now married, Michael, that makes him our uncle. If you do not wish to share him, I will take him, and you may have my uncle Thomas, who is a right old bore."

The woman sighs deeply. "I must apologize for the children. They have spent too long in Cairo and have quite forgotten how to be proper Scottish lads and lasses."

"Because we're not Scottish," Phoebe says. "I was born in Cairo, like Michael. We are Egyptian." She turns to us. "It is nicer in Egypt, where it is much too warm to wear all this." She pulls at her dress. "And that makes a fine excuse for not wearing it."

I turn to Gray. "Might we go to Egypt, Dr. Gray? Please."

The girl laughs, but the woman gives a sharp intake of breath.

"Gray?" she says. "Dr. Duncan Gray?"

Gray stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and I do, too, fearing what she has heard.

"Oh! Where are my manners?" she says. "I am supposed to be the evening's hostess, however little I might feel it. I am Miriam Christie. My husband is Sir Alastair. These are our children—my son, Michael, by my first husband, and my husband's daughter, Phoebe, by his first wife."

Anyone else looking at Gray in that moment would see only a very polite nod preceding his gracious greeting. But I know him well enough to see that flicker of confusion, and I suspect he did not know the first Lady Christie was dead… or that Sir Alastair had remarried.

"You are Dr. Duncan Gray?" Phoebe says.

"Er, yes." His tone says he's dreading what stories she might associate with that name. "And this is my assistant, Miss Mallory Mit—"

"Mitchell?" Phoebe says, her eyes rounding. She elbows her stepbrother and whispers, "It is Miss Mitchell."

"Yes," Michael says dryly. "That is what Dr. Gray was saying. You have excellent hearing when you choose to listen, Phoebe."

I'm opening my mouth to say they have clearly mistaken me for another Miss Mitchell, when Lady Christie beams and says, "We have been following your cases most ardently, Dr. Gray and Miss Mitchell."

"There is too much about Dr. Gray in them," Phoebe interjects. "And not enough about Miss Mitchell. You must speak to the writer."

"Writer?" That's the only word I can manage.

"I fear I do not know his name," Lady Christie says. "He publishes anonymously, and he has only just begun chronicling your adventures, working through your past cases."

"This is… news," Gray says when I cannot find words. "How… flattering."

"To you," Phoebe says tartly. "Not to Miss Mallory, who is described only as your flaxen-haired assistant. I presume she is there to do more than look pretty, which does not seem a very useful skill in a detective."

"Oh, you would be surprised," I say.

"Miss Mallory does far more than look pretty," Gray says. "I must take a look at these stories and correct any misunderstanding."

"Miss Mallory was telling us a story," Phoebe says. "About a curse on a pharaoh's tomb."

"A made-up story," Michael corrects. "And she was telling Dr. Gray. You interrupted and demanded she continue."

"Because it was a good story. It was about men who are cursed for breaking into the tomb and stealing the artifacts under the pretense of doing it for science. I think people should be cursed for such things." She looks at Lady Christie. "Would you not agree, Mimi?"

"Oh dear," Lady Christie says, her cheeks darkening in a flush. "I am so sorry, Dr. Gray and Miss Mitchell. My daughter has… very strong opinions. Ones that are…" She glances at Phoebe sternly. "Not appropriate at such a gathering."

"Why? Because I am saying that my father should be cursed for unwrapping a mummy as entertainment? He should. Nothing fatal, of course. Boils would do."

"Oh dear," Lady Christie repeats.

I smile at Phoebe. "I think a nonfatal case of boils would not be an inappropriate punishment in some cases." I lower my voice. "But please don't tell your father I said that."

"Please don't," Gray murmurs. "Sir Alastair already has a poor opinion of me."

Lady Christie frowns. "Why ever would he—? Oh!" Her eyes round. "You are that Duncan Gray. The one his sister—" Her hand flies to her mouth.

"Oh dear," I murmur, and I think it's too low for anyone to hear but Phoebe snickers.

"I am sorry," Lady Christie says. "I failed to make the connection. Not that it is anything of consequence. You were young, and his sister was a widow and…" Her gaze shoots to me and she clears her throat. "Nothing wrong with it at all."

Huh. Seems Gray left out part of the story.

"You are most welcome here, Dr. Gray," Lady Christie says firmly. "If my husband says otherwise, I will correct him. I am certain he is over it. Not that he had any right to be offended, as it did not concern him and…" She clears her throat again. "Enough of that. Did someone mention a story about a cursed pharaoh?"

Yep, nothing like a curse story to break an awkward moment.

"Shall I continue?" I say. "Or start from the beginning?"

Before they can answer, a man carrying a tray of glasses hurries in, those empty glasses clinking. "Lady Christie? We have been looking everywhere for you. There is a situation." He leans down to whisper something, and Lady Christie's eyes half close, telling me the "situation" is less cause for alarm than annoyance.

"Thank you," she says. "I will find him."

She turns to us. "Children, we must take our leave of Dr. Gray and Miss Mitchell. The demonstration is to begin soon, and there is no sign of your father."

"He will be trapped speaking to some bore who will not release him," Phoebe says.

"Likely yes, and so we must intervene."

"You must. I'm staying with them." Phoebe gestures at us.

"Phoebe, you cannot—"

"Miss Mitchell hasn't finished her story."

"But the demonstration will soon begin—"

"I'll watch it with them. Or, if you would prefer, I could wander about on my own, telling other guests what I think of unwrapping mummies…"

"She is fine with us," I say quickly. "That will free you to look for Sir Alastair."

Lady Christie hesitates. We both assure her it's fine, and she finally departs. Phoebe waits for her to be gone and then whispers, "You can tell me the curse story later. First, let us show you the ushabtis."

"Ushabtis?" I say.

Phoebe grins and points at a display of figurines. "Servants. For the afterlife."

"Well, that's better than taking the actual servants like the Vikings did," I say.

"We did that, too," Michael says. "The Egyptians, that is. During the First Dynasty."

"Tell them the story about these ushabtis," she says to Michael. Then she looks at us. "It has the most gruesome story attached."

"Now you are commanding me to tell stories?" Michael says.

"What else are little brothers for?"

"I am two weeks younger. Two weeks."

"And, having been tardy as always, you now find yourself forever cursed… with being my younger brother. Come now. Tell them the story."