The Honey Mummy (Folley & Mallory Adventure Book 3)

by E. Catherine Tobler

  “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.

  * * *

  February 1887 – Alexandria, Egypt

  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 ta
ke 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.”

  Chapter Six

  1 May 1887 – Alexandria, Egypt

  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 th
e 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.”