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“The important thing is that our co-conspirators are no longer in Julian’s clutches,” Constance continued. “Though we cannot rely on them to prevent that rogue from accomplishing his criminal mission. I am afraid that will be up to us.”

“Us?” Neil echoed with a snap of unease.

Constance cocked an eyebrow. “Frogs,” she recited neatly. “Locusts. Gnats. Pestilence. Boils. A thunderstorm of hail and fire. Water turning into blood. The slaughter of the firstborn. Am I missing anything?”

Neil swallowed thickly. “Three days of darkness,” he replied. “And lice.”

“And would you like to abandon the legendary staff that caused all of that to an avowed villain?” Constance prompted.

“No,” Neil moaned in response, resisting the urge to curl up into a ball. “But how are we supposed to stop him? There are only two of us!”

“And I lost my last dagger when we fell into the river.” Constance pouted. “I am rather cross about being deprived ofbothof my knives. I had to go to some lengths to acquire them in the first place. I can hardly rely on finding yet another means of blackmailing the butler.”

Neil felt a pang of sympathy for the head of the Tyrrell household staff.

“I’m not like Bates,” he warned carefully. “Or Ellie. I’m not a hero. I’m just a…”

He trailed off. A few days ago, he might have finished that sentence with the word ‘scholar’—but how could he call himself a scholar when he had been so blind to such an enormous truth about the world of the past? He had just discovered that the magic of the old stories wasn’t fantasy but as true to life as the dusty genealogies and battle records on which he had based his life’s work.

Only one word felt right in his current circumstances, and it wasn’t ‘scholar.’

“Fool,” Neil finished flatly. “I’m just a fool.” He put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, fighting a rising headache. “I don’t know how to do any of this. But it’s my mess. The least I can do is try to clean it up.”

“How much of the tablet were you able to translate?” Constance asked.

“Enough,” Neil replied.

“Will it tell them where to go?”

Neil’s shoulders slumped. “If I didn’t manage to break it when I threw it at Mr. Jacobs, then it will give them the exact coordinates of the tomb of Neferneferuaten at Tell al-Amarna.” He winced, forcing himself to continue. “Where I think it increasingly likely that the Staff of Moses, or the Was-Scepter of Khemenu—whatever the dashed thing really was—has been hidden for the last three thousand years.”

“Well. I suppose that settles that, then.” Constance shifted, lying down on the stone floor with her arm tucked under her head. “Try to sleep. You’ll need the energy for tomorrow.”

“What happens tomorrow?” Neil asked uneasily as he flattened himself uncomfortably on the hard ground beside her.

“We find a way off these cliffs, steal a boat, and go after Julian,” Constance returned authoritatively.

“Why do we have to steal a boat?” Neil protested, hesitant to addpiracyto the list of frightening activities in which he was apparently to be engaged. “Haven’t you a wad of cash in your…”

The word ‘bosom’ stuck in his throat.

“I suppose I do.” Constance sounded disappointed.

Neil felt very far from capable of fixing the problems that faced them—problems thathehad made—but as he lay on the cold ground of the tomb, he realized he was going to try.

He only hoped he wouldn’t be as much of an abject failure at it as he’d been at so many other things in his life.

“Goodnight, Stuffy,” Constance said, closing her eyes.

Neil’s gaze lingered on the elegant curve of her hip under the still-damp fabric of her chemise.

“Goodnight, Connie,” he said tightly, then rolled over to put his back to her.

His wet trousers clinging uncomfortably to his legs, Dr. Neil Fairfax resigned himself to an utterly miserable night.

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Twenty-Eight