Horus and the Curse of Everlasting Regret (7 page)

“The headband,” said Peter, sounding surprised.

“Oh. Perch found it somewhere and brought it to me. He's always bringing me pretty things he finds,” Tunie said, smiling fondly at her bat. Perch preened.

“It looks like the one that Dorothy was wearing when she was kidnapped. I mean, from the description of it,” Peter said. “ ‘Light blue ribbon headband.' ”

Tunie took the headband off and examined it.

“I never heard anything about what Dorothy was wearing!” she said.

Peter opened his backpack and pulled out a newspaper article. It showed a picture of Dorothy James's parents at the fairgrounds. Dorothy's mother was shading her eyes with a white-gloved hand. Her father was clutching a handkerchief in his fist and speaking to police with an anxious expression on his face. Peter pointed to the description of Dorothy in the article beneath the photograph.

Tunie read it aloud. “ ‘Last seen wearing a light blue satin party dress and matching blue ribbon headband.' You mean…this headband might be Dorothy's?” Her voice grew quieter. “It feels like I've been wearing it for a while. I hate to think about how long she's been missing, and how scared she must be.”

“Her family, too,” Peter added.

Tunie looked up from the headband. “Perch, where did you get this?”

Perch shrilled and flapped. Tunie nodded.

“He's going to show me tonight,” she said.

“Can I come?” Peter asked.

“Sure,” said Tunie. “Let's meet in the museum at nine o'clock.”

Tunie had a stop to make before she went home that evening. The museum had closed at six, but Tunie let herself in, calling a hello to George before heading down to the mummy exhibit. She couldn't wait to show Horus what she'd brought.

A brownish teardrop leaked from one of Horus's gleaming golden eyes and traveled in a zigzag along the bandages of his face. His hands were clasped before his chest, and his voice trembled with emotion. “These are the most beautiful things I have seen in my endless life.”

Tunie surveyed with pride the stack of worn library books she'd found for Horus, a hardbound rainbow tower of reading.

“It's a little of everything,” she said. “Pirates, explorers, fairy tales, mysteries, survival, outer space.” She didn't want to raise his hopes, so she left out the part about borrowing some books on curses for herself, to see if she and Peter could help Horus. “You can tell me what kinds of stuff you like, and I'll look for more next time. I brought you this pen so you could make me a list. Oh, rats,” she said, peering inside the now empty knapsack she'd brought. “I forgot paper.”

Tunie was almost knocked off her feet by the little mummy's hug. It was a bit like embracing a papier-mâché mannequin, but it warmed Tunie's heart.

She smiled as Horus stood back and wiped away his tears. He spoke quietly.

“Thank you. I don't deserve your kindness.”

“Everybody deserves kindness,” Tunie said. She told Horus how she'd noticed earlier that kindness seemed to travel along between people. The butcher whose window she'd cleaned today had given her more chicken than the work was worth, and a woman buying meat had overheard Tunie say she'd use the chicken to make soup for her sick dad. Seeing the butcher's kindness, the woman had given Tunie some bruised tomatoes and somewhat withered vegetables from her stand to make the soup. Tunie was going home to make soup, and there was enough to feed her father and herself for days, so she'd bring some over to old Mrs. Shrubinski and George.

Horus seemed struck by Tunie's observations.

“Kindness travels, indeed,” he muttered, resting one wrapped hand on the book stack. “I'm beginning to realize how incredibly lucky I am to have encountered someone like you, after so many millennia. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder whether it was luck at all.”

Tunie slung her bag over her shoulder.

“Maybe it's fate,” she said, smiling. Her eyes dropped to the sling stone in Horus's hand. “That's the rock you were holding before. It's for a sling weapon, right? How exactly did you get it out of the display case? Why do you carry it around?”

Horus unfolded his bound fingers, revealing the stone in his palm. “Every night, I use a skillet from that kitchen to smash the display case glass and retrieve this stone. Every day, it disappears from my hand and returns to the case, which mends in a blink, as if it were never shattered.”

Then Horus traced the symbol carved into the stone. “This is my only remaining possession. It was a gift from my brother.”

Tunie studied the stone and smiled. “Really? And it survived all these centuries? What luck!”

Horus continued, “It reminds me of how badly I treated my brother, and of certain…misdeeds.”

Tunie stopped smiling. “Oh. Not good luck, then.”

Horus closed his fingers over the rock and shook his head. “Well, that's ancient history, so to speak! Can I offer you some tea?”

“Hate to rush, but I need to check on my dad. I'm meeting Peter back here in a few hours, though. See you soon, Horus!”

“Goodbye, and thank you!” Horus said.

On her way out, Tunie looked back and saw Horus clutching a library book to his skeletal chest. Who cared if he'd been a thief? She was starting to like that little mummy.

“Do not slurp your soup, Randall,” Stepma said. Larry, who was sitting at the dining table next to Randall—and had been the one making all the impolite noise—smirked.

Peter had just finished hiding two dinner rolls stuffed with ham in the napkin on his lap. He was feeling grouchy, as Miss Cook had chastised him for getting blood on his shirt and made him change before dinner. As if he'd intentionally set out to injure himself and destroy his own clothing!

His stepmother continued, “I've decided to accompany your father to New York when he leaves, to see him settled. Miss Cook has kindly agreed to look after you all for a few days. Luce will come with us, of course.”

“Can I come, too?” Peter asked quickly, looking from his father to his stepmother. If he and Tunie failed, he wouldn't be going to Camp Contraption, and if he wasn't at camp when his father and stepmother left, he'd be stuck home alone with the beastly twins.

“Aw. Is the wittle baby scared to be left alone with us?” Larry taunted.

“Larry,” his mother said with disapproval.

Peter gritted his teeth, feeling a flash of fury. “I'd rather be locked in a cage with a grub-eating gorilla than in this house alone with you two. Compared with you, a hairy gorilla is positively
civilized.
”

“Peter!” Stepma and his father said at the same time.

“You're the gorilla!” Larry shouted back, spitting a little, his narrow face turning red.

Peter's anger got the best of him. He leaned over his soup toward Larry. “Compared with you, a gorilla is a towering intellectual! Compared with you, a gorilla is a model of hygiene!”

Larry lunged across the table and launched his bowl of soup so it splattered in Peter's face.

Peter wiped his eyes with his sleeve and yelled, “At least a gorilla knows not to waste his food and only throws poo! Oh, wait, I forgot—you do that, too, you poo-flinging primate!”

Peter's father stood and said at full volume, “That's enough! All of you, to your rooms—now!”

Peter managed to keep the ham sandwiches hidden beneath his shirt as he folded his arms and stormed away. He heard his stepmother usher the twins into their rooms across the hall. In his bedroom, he took the sandwiches, wrapped in his cloth dinner napkin, and placed them in a wooden box so he didn't crush them. He wished he had something more to bring—a thermos of hot chocolate, maybe. The metal thermos they'd had for years was up in a high kitchen cabinet, however; there would be no way to sneak it out.

The thought of the thermos made Peter pause. He had a distant memory of his mother unscrewing the gleaming metal top and pouring chocolate milk into it. She sat on a picnic blanket beside his father, and there was a river nearby. She sang a song about rainbows. Peter thought he remembered chasing a duck and falling in the water. He must have been young. His throat began to tighten, and he pushed the memory away.

He began packing a canvas bag with things he'd need for his meeting with Tunie, when a knock sounded on his door. Peter rapidly shoved the bag under his bed and sat at his desk with WindUp.

“Come in!” Peter called.

Peter's dad walked in and sat on the bed, across from Peter. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt and put them back on, then took a deep breath. “That was quite a scene you made. Your stepmother is very upset.”

Peter shrugged. To his dismay, he could feel the onset of tears again. He gripped WindUp tightly and said nothing.

His father softly touched one of Peter's clenched hands.

“Listen,” he said, “I know it's hard for you, having Stepma in the house. I know you miss your mom. There have been lots of changes here, and it will take a while to get used to them.” He cleared his throat. “I can tell that the twins are giving you a hard time.”

“I hate them! They're monsters!” Peter hadn't planned on saying that, the words just burst out. “Living with them is worse than living in our old house without Mom!”

Peter's father shook his head. “They lost their dad just like we lost your mother. They've had a rough time, too. People handle things in…different ways. Try to be nice to them. For me. Please.”

Peter didn't want to argue with his father, so he only nodded. They'd been living with the twins for almost a year, and he hadn't really considered that the twins might be missing their dad. They never mentioned him. Peter's dad almost never mentioned his mother anymore, either. He wouldn't play the music she'd loved on the record player. Sometimes that made it even harder, like she'd never been there in the first place. For a moment, Peter considered asking his dad about the picnic, and whether he'd fallen in the stream. Before he could summon the courage, his father stood and ruffled Peter's hair.

“All right. As punishment, you all will spend the rest of tonight in your rooms, and all day tomorrow helping Miss Cook clean the house.”

Peter drooped. He should have known better than to yell at the terrible twins in front of his parents. Now he'd be losing a precious day of detective work because of it. His father gave Peter a hug and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Well, WindUp,” Peter said softly. “We'll have to get as much done as possible tonight.” Peter felt slightly guilty about disobeying his father, but he had little choice.

He set WindUp on the bed. The robot played two pleasant music box notes of agreement.