She loved him.
She couldn’t say it, but she loved him. He could feel it. She loved him, and he loved her.
With a burst of speed that would have surprised anyone who knew him, he rushed towards the dais, throwing himself at the wooden platform as the doors swung open. There was the sound of laughter – and then of someone calling his name. There was a hand on his shoulder, and there was a shout. Footsteps somewhere behind him. So many footsteps, muffled by the thick, soft carpet, but then only the thump-thump, thump-thump of a heartbeat filling his ears as the world went black.
In the galleries of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, two curators stood in front of a newly-installed exhibit. One of them was sweating slightly, the other pulling on a pair of nitrile conservation gloves.
“I swear it wasn’t like that when we set it up,” said the sweatier of the two, running a hand back through his hair.
His companion simply frowned and dropped into a crouch alongside the case, peering through the glass to get a better look.
“Better start praying it’s London’s fault and not ours, then. Open it up.”
The Princess lay in the stillness of her climate-controlled coffin, just as she had in London, in Paris and Berlin, in Cairo and in Rome. But what no-one could explain was how – despite the care, despite the precautions and the expertise of all involved – the cat-headed canopic jar containing her heart had cracked clean across in the night, spilling dry grey dust onto the black velvet of its plinth.
Mysterium Tremendum
Molly Tanzer
May first came, and it was still snowing. Marjorie Olenthiste was sick of it, of the storms that kept blanketing Arkham in identical, endless, silent white drifts; of needing to change her shoes after trudging through the resulting slush to the university library every morning; of woolen coats and hats and woolen scarves and gloves and woolen skirts and woolen underwear and wool in general. That afternoon, when the flowing white clouds again clotted into dreary leaden masses, and the first flurries began swirling down, she found herself musing on whether it was ever going to stop snowing – or if springtime would pass her by, and hot, muggy, cicada-haunted summer, and autumn with its rainstorms, until winter was the only season in her life.
Though, she mused, if it had to snow this late in the year, there couldn’t have been a better day for it. The weather had ruined her father’s meticulous plans for his annual spring garden party. Alas; even that was cold comfort – as it were. Professor Olenthiste would never disappoint his guests, especially when they were comprised of Arkham’s academic elite. More snow simply meant that instead of ambling through the wisteria trellises, swatting at early mosquitoes, Marjorie was stuck inside in a dungeon of dark wood and cigar-smoke, sipping a hot toddy and wishing she could get away from her father. The ticking of the various clocks maddened her, a metronome letting her know precisely how often she was contemplating escaping to her room so she could do some work on her proposal for an in-library display of apotropaic hippopotamus miniatures.
But work never excused Marjorie’s absence at a social engagement, not to Professor Olenthiste. Therefore, she was about to claim her tried-and-true standby of “a headache” when Harriet Quildring, the old battle-axe her father was trying to butter up, said:
“I am indeed looking to sell some of my late husband’s collection, Thomas – but nothing that would interest you, I’m sure. I adored Geoffrey’s taste in Tiffany glass and plan to keep the lot. On the other hand, his collection of mummies, especially the animals… they’re just too ghastly for me to enjoy. I’m hoping to find a buyer for them soon.”
To Marjorie’s great, if childish, pleasure, her father’s hopeful expression soured, though his face was still rendered softly beatific in the light of the Favrille and floral lamps he’d spent many years acquiring. He was clearly searching for the right way to push his enquiry further, but before he could say a word Marjorie swooped in like a hawk to change the subject from Art Nouveau interior decorating to something she cared about, and thus hadn’t expected to discuss that night: Archaeology. If her father wanted to keep her by his side like she was his wife and not his daughter, he could certainly deal with her speaking every once in a while.
“Did you say animal mummies, Mrs. Quildring?” Marjorie smiled cheerfully when the old woman peered at her with as much distaste as if Marjorie had asked if the widow had considered mummifying her husband instead of laying him to rest in the family mausoleum. “Forgive me, but I’m currently very interested in them – especially if they’re for sale.”
“Ah, yes.” Professor Olenthiste’s tone was indulgent. “My daughter has recently been promoted to – what is it? Junior Acquisitions Librarian for the Francis Morgan Antiquities Collection at Miskatonic’s library, yes? You see, Marjorie’s set her cap for a career rather than a man; she’s got herself a job – and told me only yesterday she’s saving up to move out and live on her own. For someone so concerned with the ancient world she shows a distinct lack of filial piety, don’t you think?”
By the time he’d finished, Marjorie was regretting speaking up. Blushing furiously, she was all set to back down, like she always did, when Mrs. Quildring unexpectedly saved her.
“Are you done, Thomas?” Mrs. Quildring held her glass out to the now twice-defeated professor. “I seem to have finished my champagne – do be a dear and get me a fresh glass while Marjorie and I chat about why she’s so curious about my disgusting menagerie?”
As Professor Olenthiste stalked off, Mrs. Quildring put a rose-scented arm around Marjorie’s shoulders and led her to a quiet corner of the parlor. There, she said, they could more easily hear one other above the din. Though they settled on a divan large enough for three, when Marjorie’s father returned with Mrs. Quildring’s drink she bluntly shooed him away. Then she patted Marjorie’s tweed-covered knee.
“Now then,” she said. “Oswald was obviously an Egyptologist, which explains his fascination in preserved creatures. As for you? Something to do with the library, according to your father?”
“We – the library, I mean, of course – we’re seeking to expand our collection of Egyptian antiquities, and one of the things we really need right now is animal mummies.”
Marjorie fell silent, recalling just how she’d come by that information: Lingering out of sight of Dr. Ingelstadt’s office door as he spoke with Richard Warston, the other junior acquisitions librarian. Somehow, though he had fewer connections and was infinitely less of a go-getter, Warston was always informed of library needs and wants, while Marjorie was kept more or less in the dark. She’d be inclined to believe Dr. Ingelstadt was purposefully funneling all the good leads elsewhere, but she didn’t want to be paranoid about it. He had hired her, after all. Thus, Marjorie had come to the conclusion that she would just have to prove she was worthy of the kind of work they always gave Warston, and if she had to get tips by eavesdropping, then so be it.
“I see,” said Mrs. Quildring. “Well, I’d be happy to let you come by and take a look at the lot. I know Oswald had several foxes, some … weasels, or something like that, a few birds, a baboon – horrible, looks like a child – and of course, some cats. Those are the worst, in my opinion. I adore cats, I have several.”
“Dr. Ingelstadt mentioned specifically wanting cats.” Suddenly cold, Marjorie shivered; farthest from the fireplace, this divan was likely empty as it stood against a large window that was leaking in the chill from outside.
“Well, you’re in luck… depending on your budget, I suppose.” The older woman’s smile was sly as she sipped her champagne. “The prize of our collection is a mummified cat said to have been the personal pet of Nehesy, also called the Black Pharaoh.”
The electric lights flickered and then went out entirely. Marjorie shivered as a weird prickly sensation suddenly flowed up her spine while guests gasped at the sudden darkness; a few wits in the parlor made spooky ghost noises, ooooOOOooooh, and there was the tinkle of a glass breaking. But j
ust as Professor Olenthiste was announcing he’d find someone see to the problem immediately, the lights came back on.
Squinting in the sudden brightness Marjorie rubbed at her right eye with the back of her hand. When she could see again, she found two gentlemen standing in front of the sofa where she and Mrs. Quildring still sat. One was a paunchy youth with fair, messy hair. He was smiling, displaying uneven teeth, and was listing slightly to his right. Marjorie suspected he’d had more than a tipple that night. His companion, on the other hand, was sober, well-dressed, slender, and mustached. His dark hair had been parted precisely down the middle; indeed, everything about him was precise.
“What is it, Edgar?” Mrs. Quildring’s tone was icy.
“Oh, Auntie, don’t be like that,” slurred the blond man. “I just want a bit of oof, you know, for cab fare home. I’m ready to go but you’re still socializing with the eggheads.”
“You will not take a cab.” She sighed and turned to Marjorie. “Young men these days don’t seem to understand that when they take a woman somewhere, they should see her home.” Marjorie, for her part, was more annoyed that just as her prize was in sight these two had come and interrupted her conversation with Mrs. Quildring. Things had been going so well. Looking everywhere but at the bickering pair, she caught the other man’s eye. He shrugged and smiled slightly, as if to say what can you do?
“Let me see you home, then,” urged Edgar.
“All you want to do is put me to bed so you can go straight back out again with your disreputable friends.” Mrs. Quidlring seemed to notice Edgar’s associate for the first time. “Though I concede that this one looks all right, for once. Who are you, sir, that you voluntarily choose the company of my repugnant nephew on a Friday night?”
Marjorie noticed that Edgar startled a bit when he saw the man standing beside him, as if unaware of his presence until that very moment. He stammered, then seemed to come back to himself.
“This is Maestro Petar Zupan, of course.” He spoke as if the name should mean something, and indeed, it did sound somewhat familiar. When Edgar went on to say, “We’re going to his show tomorrow, remember? He’s the famous stage magician who’s been impressing everyone from New York City to Atlanta this winter,” Marjorie realized she’d just read an article in the Advertiser about this man’s arrival in Arkham.
Zupan’s magic was said to be mesmerizing, full of tricks with light and sound and colored vapors. The piece had made a lot of hay out of the supposedly strange reactions of audiences to his show; the reporter had claimed that during Zupan’s performance in Baton Rouge a man had begun to scream and speak in tongues, resulting in his being hospitalized for a fortnight, and that in Chicago, a woman had allegedly returned home from the opening night only to decapitate her beloved Pomeranian and parade its head on a stick through her neighborhood, calling all to worship the “true god.” The stories had sounded like a load of hooey to Marjorie, and she discredited them even more upon meeting the man. A milder-seeming creature she had rarely encountered.
Zupan, as if to confirm her impression, inclined his head in a little formal bow. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. Quildring. And you, Miss…”
“Olenthiste,” supplied Marjorie. She smiled at him, she liked his faint European accent and quaint, formal manners.
“Ah, my hostess, I did not know,” he said, extending his hand. She offered him hers, but instead of shaking it he turned her wrist gently and kissed her knuckles. “You have a lovely home.”
“Quite a fellow with the fillies, isn’t he?” remarked Edgar to no one in particular, which brought a blush to Marjorie’s cheeks. She was sure Zupan had only meant to be polite.
“So in all ways your opposite,” cut in Mrs. Quildring. “Not only am I told that you are the rottenest magician ever to pull a rabbit out of a hat, you seem to enjoy driving all decent women away with your rudeness every chance you get.” She shook her head. “Stupid boy, I suppose you’ve achieved your goal. You’ve exhausted me, go get the car. But I’m driving home.”
Edgar, red-faced, opened and closed his mouth several times. Zupan looked appalled. Marjorie felt a little bad for him, too, even if he was a boor.
“Please,” she said, getting to her feet, desperate to smooth things over, “let me–”
“There’s nothing you need to do, Marjorie,” said Mrs. Quildring, tugging her back down again. “You stay here with me. Mr. Zupan – I’d appreciate you making sure my nephew describes the correct car to the valet? It’s a green Bentley 8 Litre.” She sighed as Zupan bowed once again, and the two men retreated, Edgar stony-faced and stiff-legged as they walked off, Zupan looking back at them over his shoulder. “Edgar is hopeless,” she said, shaking her head. “Magic! God help us all. I suppose I should be pleased he doesn’t spend all his time chasing girls and spending his money in those disreputable ‘speakeasies’ downtown. But card tricks? Those clinking rings? What he needs is a sensible young woman in his life to, keep him in check, reign him in…”
The older woman paused, then smiled. Marjorie suddenly felt uncomfortable.
“Do you… do you enjoy magic, Marjorie? You seem so studious and serious – are you able to get out much and socialize?”
“Well, as for your first question, I’m not sure.” Marjorie had had her fill of people attempting to set her up on dates. She didn’t have time to be frivolous, she had work – no, a career to keep her busy. How had they even gotten on this topic of conversation? All she wanted from the old bat was to see her cat mummies and get some price quotes to see if the library could afford them. “My job does tend to keep me busy, and I work until late most–”
“Surely not on a Saturday? Are you free?”
“Um…”
“You see, I was just thinking, I don’t particularly care for magic, but Edgar is obviously dying to see this charlatan perform his little tricks.”
Marjorie’s heart sank. She didn’t want to go anywhere with Edgar, he seemed like terrible company. But she couldn’t refuse without reason, not since she needed to stay in Mrs. Quildring’s good graces. She fumbled for words, but before she could get out more than an “Oh, I–” Mrs. Quildring cut her off.
“It would be so lovely if you two had a nice time together, wouldn’t it? Then you could come back for a nightcap, and I could show you Oswald’s collection of mummies.” Mrs. Quildring smiled. “As I said, the best of the bunch will cost whoever wants it a tidy sum – but of course, I’d be more likely to haggle with a friend of the family.”
“Want a sip?”
Edgar’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he took a few swallows of his own before surreptitiously offering Marjorie the flask.
“What is it?”
He glanced at the well-dressed theatre-goers surrounding them, and grinned. “Apple juice. It’s the eel’s hips. Hits the spot on a warm night.”
It was warm, she realized – the snow had all melted away, and spring had seemingly arrived overnight. Funny how she hadn’t noticed it before.
Edgar was still proffering the flask, but Marjorie declined. A drink would be nice, but then again, she wanted to be keen for Zupan’s show. The opening act, a short silent film, had been excellent if exceedingly strange, featuring women and men in black, body-hugging outfits dancing wildly to music played by an orchestra of masked demons.
“Enjoying the show so far?” Edgar tucked the flask back into his jacket’s breast pocket.
“Oh yes. And it’s a beautiful venue, too – I’ve never been to the Coliseum before.”
Edgar made no reply, and they stood in silence for a few moments. Marjorie felt like she should be making more of an effort to be pleasant and sociable, since he had been treating her more than kindly, and scrambled to keep the conversation going.
“Have you performed here?” she asked.
Edgar’s face fell. “No,” he said, after a moment. “I… mostly do smaller events.”
“Like what?”
His cheeks reddened. “Well, you
know, there are so many, I tend to forget, but – oh, look, the lights are dimming. We should… we should go back in.”
Marjorie fell in behind him as he trotted back to their seats. She felt bad, she hadn’t meant to make him feel ashamed, though she didn’t see exactly what was shameful in being a hobbyist at something like magic. Maybe his distress was related to his friend being such a legend. Hoping it would do something to dispel the tension, after they took their seats she leaned toward him.
“How do you know Zupan?”
Again, Edgar got that confused, faraway look in his eyes. “I can’t recall,” he said slowly. “Isn’t that funny? But we’ve known each other for a long time. Terrible good friends, he and I, that’s why… why I brought him to your party.” He raised his hand to his breast pocket, slowly, like he was moving it through water. “Did I mention we have backstage passes, for after?”
“How lovely!” Marjorie’s enthusiasm was genuine. She’d never been backstage at a theatre. Maybe Mrs. Quildring’s requirement that she spend time with Edgar before getting a peek at her collection wouldn’t turn out to be a waste of time after all.
Edgar had gone all quiet again, and Marjorie was just contemplating what next to say when the lights went down – all of them, even the footlights – and the same bizarre, prickly feeling she’d experienced last night once again made her shudder. Then, from behind the curtain, there was a popping sound and bright bluish-white light streamed from the sides of the red cloth, and down the middle, where it would part. Marjorie squinted; she could have sworn she saw the faint outline of a tall, skeletally thin man wearing some sort of elaborate headdress.
After the blaze dimmed the curtain parted, and for a moment the phantom of the tall man remained – but when the real figure on stage moved, stepping forward with his arms outstretched, though it was only Zupan in a formal evening wear the remaining illusion was just as unbelievable. Lightning appeared to be shooting from each of his four fingers and his thumb, writhing like white serpents reaching up to lick the vaulted ceiling of the Coliseum. Zupan’s top-hatted head was bowed forward, and as he reached the edge of the stage, he looked up. From his wide eyes flowed yet more lightning, and when he opened his mouth, a massive bolt shot out, drawing gasps and screams from the audience.
The Book of the Dead Page 7
