Horus and the Curse of Everlasting Regret (11 page)

Peter went downstairs early the next morning, before anyone but Miss Cook was awake. He gulped down toast and then asked her for his chores. This punishment was harsher than his father intended; Peter had more pressing things to do that day than anyone knew.

“If you have any one-person jobs that would keep me away from the twins for a while, I'd appreciate it,” Peter said gloomily.

Miss Cook looked sympathetic.

She handed him a notebook and a pen. “I need an inventory of what's in the storeroom downstairs. You can lock the door to the cellar while you're in there, if you like.”

He grinned. It was too good to be true! He'd be on his own and out of sight—perfect for sneaking away. Peter thanked Miss Cook enthusiastically and went down to the basement with his knapsack and the notebook. He set WindUp to play a happy tune, for company, and began a detailed inventory list of all the dry and canned goods lining the shelves: Campbell's soup, Heinz vegetable salad, baking powder. He worked as neatly and quickly as possible; if luck was on his side, he'd be able to do his chores here and also slip out to the police station without anyone knowing.

Peter's father soon knocked on the cellar door. Peter climbed up and unlocked it. His father stood at the top of the stairwell and looked down at Peter through his glasses.

“Miss Cook tells me she gave you an inventory task that should keep you busy for a few hours,” his father said.

“Yes, sir. It'll be a while before I finish,” Peter said agreeably.

His father eyed Peter warily, seeming somehow mistrustful of Peter's calm acceptance.

“You know you can't just sit down there and work on WindUp. Your stepmother and I are going to run errands now, but I'll check on you when we come back this afternoon.”

Peter tried to look as innocent as possible.

“I promise I'll get it done, sir,” he said.

His father nodded and left.

Peter waited, counting cans until he heard his parents leave through the front door. He tucked WindUp inside his knapsack. Then he pulled a storage box over to the small garden-level window near the top of the wall, climbed up on it, and squeezed out. The window exited to a narrow alley between Peter's building and the next. A woman walking her dog on the nearby sidewalk looked at him strangely as he emerged from the base of their building. Peter smiled and jogged down the alley to the street behind his house, hoping to avoid his parents. He didn't have money for a streetcar, and the police station was about two miles away. There was no time to lose.

The morning was already hot, the air close. The boulevard that ran by the museum and the police station was busier than it had been the night before. Peter had to wait a long time to cross the streets on the way to the station. He kept glancing around, worried his father and stepmother might pass by and discover where Peter was before he had a chance to eavesdrop on Detective Shade.

Peter made it to the brick police station without incident, however. He glanced around and then dove behind the shrubbery below the window he thought belonged to Shade's office. It was cooler out of the sun, but not much. Peter was sweating as he drew WindUp from his pack and fiddled with some dials. There was a crackling sound and some static. Peter waited. Was it working but the office was empty? Or had something gone wrong with his design? He hoped it was only that Detective Shade hadn't come in yet.

Peter pushed a sharp branch away from his face and settled in the dirt, with his back against the building, the bush screening him from view. He opened a box of animal crackers to eat while he waited.

“Well, WindUp,” Peter said, “we're getting pretty good at spying on people. If I can't become an inventor, maybe I'll be a detective instead. I'd deal with all kinds of crooks—hatchet men, grifters, bank robbers, even murderers!”

He gestured enthusiastically with his cracker at this last word and bumped WindUp, who emitted a faint chime. Peter was on the verge of meeting true criminals, even earlier than he expected.

In a cupboard beneath the sink in the undersized museum kitchen, Horus had discovered a treasure. It was a paint-spattered plank of plywood with a splintery side and pockmarks along the bottom. Someone had stashed it in the cupboard's shadowy recesses, and Horus noticed it when he was hiding his beloved library books.

“However did I miss this?” Horus said aloud, setting aside his carved sling stone and dragging the plank out onto the floor with delight. He'd rifled through everything in the exhibit and the kitchen more than once, out of sheer boredom, and had never seen this before. Someone must have left it within the last month; he hadn't thoroughly searched for a few weeks.

Horus clapped. “It's perfect!”

He'd been wishing for a canvas of some kind, in order to make a surprise gift for Tunie. He had no way to go in search of a present, but he did have some artistic skill. It wasn't much, but it was all he had to offer.

Horus thought back to the gift his older brother had given him. Horus must have been about seven, and Taharqa gave him the braided sling he'd fashioned himself and the rock to throw, for practice. The rock was a smooth river stone, and his brother had carved a unique symbol into it. His brother set the rock and sling in Horus's small hand.

“You place a rock here, and you use this sling to throw it very far, like this.” His brother demonstrated. He placed the rock in the sling and whirled it. It whistled through the air, gray against the blue sky, and landed in the distant dirt with a brown puff. Horus ran to retrieve it.

When he returned, grinning, Horus looked into Taharqa's big brown eyes, so like his own.

“Now I can go fight with you!” Horus said.

Taharqa laughed. “Ah, you're still a child,” he said, almost wistfully. “This is for play.”

“I'm not a baby! I can fight, too!” Horus placed the stone in the sling and tried to throw it, but it hit the ground not far from them and bounced aside.

“It takes a lot of practice. You have time.” Taharqa sounded melancholy. He stood up, ruffling Horus's hair before he left.

“You should remain a child as long as you can,” he said.

Horus had glowered with resentment. He'd thought his brother was mocking him. Later he realized what war involved: violence, bloodshed, vengefulness, and rage. On plaques in his exhibit, he'd read about men who had spent their entire lives fighting. He knew now his older brother hadn't wanted Horus to hurry into that life. Such misunderstandings were what had led Horus to follow Turtanu around.

Horus placed one linen-wrapped hand flat on the plywood, brushing off dust and paint flakes. He would sketch out what he wanted to paint with the pen Tunie had brought him, and figure it out from there.

The mummy sat in front of the blank piece of wood, thinking. What should he paint? It had to be meaningful. It was nearly morning, and as he thought it over, he felt the strange pull of his curse calling him back toward his sarcophagus. He knew if he didn't obey, the curse would eventually yank him there and whisk the plywood back into the cupboard and out of sight.

He slid the plywood back in its place himself and padded over to his sarcophagus, holding the pen. If someone were to see it, he or she wouldn't question its presence. One would assume a visitor had dropped it. The magic of the curse worked to keep Horus's presence hidden from everyone but Tunie and Peter. He wanted to hold the pen and take time to mull over what he would paint. This was something else Tunie had done for him; she'd provided happy things to occupy his mind during the slow daylight hours. If only he could do something as nice for her.

This was what Horus was thinking when he realized someone was prowling around the exhibit.

Perch scouted the woods and path to the museum, then let Tunie know it was safe. She was exhausted, and her eyes felt dry from too little sleep. Even Perch flapped droopily alongside her. Still, Tunie felt encouraged. Things were looking up! There might be a way for Horus to alleviate his curse. She and Peter had reported what they knew about Dorothy James's kidnapping, and everything was in good hands. She hoped the police would find Dorothy quickly. With the reward money, Tunie could finally take her father to see a doctor—a good one—and pay for whatever treatment he needed. There would probably be money left over, too, enough for real food. She imagined a fish-and-chips dinner, and a fresh spinach salad, and ice cream for dessert! She wiped her forehead on her shirtsleeve as she opened the door to the museum. Ice cream sounded dreamy. It was a hot, sticky day already, a harbinger of the overwarm summer to come.

The door creaked open, and Tunie called up to George. “It's me—Tunie! I just forgot something down here last night.”

“All righty, Tunie,” George yelled down the stairwell.

Perch gave a yawn, showing the little white needles of his teeth. There was a dark nook in the stairwell, with a bar and hangers for coats, that made a nice snoozing spot for Perch.

“You need a nap,” Tunie said, giving Perch a gentle pat on the head. “Why don't you sleep a little? I'll see if Horus is still, uh, awake or animated or whatever.”

Horus had said something about being able to move only at night. It was still quite early in the morning—six o'clock—and the museum wouldn't open for another three hours. Given the inscrutable magic of his curse, she wasn't sure if he'd be up and about or lying unmoving in his sarcophagus. Tunie opened the door to the Ancient Egypt exhibit and closed it behind her, flipping on the light switch.

“Horus?” Tunie called softly. The exhibit was still. Then Tunie thought she heard a sound coming from the employee kitchen.

“Oh, good!” Tunie said. She hurried to the kitchen. She couldn't wait to tell Horus that there might be a way out of his eternal punishment. There would be a full moon that very night. If he could perform some act of kindness, it might help free him from his curse!

Stepping through the doorway, Tunie gasped. It wasn't Horus in the kitchen. She recognized the tall figure in his brimmed hat and unclean trousers. The thin, mustached man grinned evilly, grabbing Tunie and smothering her face with a cloth that smelled like some kind of awful chemical. Tunie drew in a breath and screamed for Perch, but the cloth muffled the sound, and the deep breath only made her inhale more of the chemical.

The world went dark.