Page 6 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

6

Eyes were on her, boring down hard, staring into her soul. Usually, Ami preferred late evening as the best time to work, but not so much tonight, not in this cavern of a room where crates hulked like monsters in the shadows. The hair at the nape of her neck prickled as she swept a glance from corner to corner. Other than the slight flutter of curtains from the open window, nothing seemed amiss, so why the unease?

She smirked at the golden griffin on the table in front of her. “Probably because of you, eh?”

Her little story of the curse of Amentuk had been meant to prod Mr. Price into selling this lot of goods to the Cairo Museum where it belonged, not to frighten herself. What a goose—or so Polly would say.

With a half smile, Ami pondered the small statue. The griffin, a creature of myth, seemed almost sentient, its golden gaze challenging her skepticism. In her faith, she found strength, a conviction that transcended the bounds of mere reason. Still, no matter how strong her beliefs, there were moments like this when her scholarly pursuits seemed to clash with her faith and send a shiver down her spine.

She straightened her shoulders. Bosh! She would choose to trust God instead of pagan stories no matter how many shivers tried to attack her.

She reached for her gloves, and for a moment relived the feel of Mr. Price’s touch sliding along her fingers. Even now her heart raced— and she still cringed inwardly at her bold move of taking his hand into hers. Not that she was never impetuous, but honestly, what must he think of her? An Egyptologist ought not act so unprofessionally. Besides, he was her employer, and she was no coy young miss in search of a man.

Disgusted with herself, she tugged on her cotton gloves and drew the golden statuette closer. Father always mocked her use of gloves, but to her it was an act of respect. These ancient pieces had been important to people— real people, who lived and laughed and loved just as anyone did today. It didn’t seem right to handle such antiquities without extra care.

Picking up a small paintbrush, she dipped the tip into a vial of nitric acid, then gently eased the griffin back and placed a small dot on the bottom. Slowly, she counted to sixty and ... nothing. Perfect! She smiled. Had the liquid turned a brackish green, it would prove the griffin wasn’t gold. So far, so good.

She dabbed away the acid with a clean cloth, then examined the relic for a maker’s mark or inscription that would verify her suspected date of origin. The base was dented, probably from some grave robber on the run, which made the symbol on the bottom corner hard to read. Only half a circle remained with the partial image of a knot at the bottom. A shen most likely, a hieroglyphic designating protection or divine power, another indicator this was part of the Amentuk hoard. Aside from that, though, there were no more engravings, making it difficult to irrefutably label this as the authentic golden griffin and not merely a copy.

Yawning, she leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. Other than waiting around for curses to happen—which she doubted would occur—how could she verify this as the one and only griffin that’d supposedly been lost for centuries? Her father would know, of course, but it seemed a bit of a cheat to ask. Of course, it would take a while to hear back from him, and by then she might have figured something out. His letter would merely confirm it, so at that point it wouldn’t actually be cheating ... would it?

She shoved back her chair and strolled to the side table, when once again gooseflesh lifted on her arms. Someone was watching her! She was sure of it.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the open window and whipped back the curtains.

“Who’s there? Show yourself.”

Nothing moved out on the lawn. Nothing even made noise save for a few chirruping crickets and the bark of a dog from afar. Ami sighed as she slammed the window shut and locked the latch. Perhaps it was time to quit for the night, for clearly she was overtired.

But first the note to her father.

She settled back at the large table and penned her request for information about the Golden Griffin of Amentuk. Hopefully Father would send a timely response, but there were no guarantees when he was elbow deep in a dig.

She’d just finished addressing the missive when footsteps padded into the room.

“Oh, Miss Dalton. I hope I’m not interrupting. I expected you to be abed.”

She rose at the butler’s nasal voice and held out her letter. “Actually, Barnaby, I am on my way to retire. Would you see this gets into the post in the morning?”

“I’d be happy to, but speaking of the post—” He held up his index finger, then strode from the room.

What an odd fellow.

By the time she capped her ink and oxide bottles, he returned, a small envelope in his hand. “This came for you not long ago. I would have delivered it straightaway if I’d known you were still awake.”

She arched a brow as she took the paper. “It seems you’re a nighthawk yourself.”

“I’ve never been one to sleep overmuch, which gives me time to pursue other interests.”

“Such as devising pranks for your staff?”

He grinned. “You have a very clever mind, Miss Dalton.”

“I suspect you do as well, Barnaby. Good night.” She swept past him while unfolding the note. Familiar handwriting scrawled across the page.

Tomorrow evening. Half past eight.

Physic Garden fountain.

Five pounds for a collection of faience amulets.

—Dandrae

Hmm. She refolded the paper as she climbed the grand stairway. The museum was always happy to purchase amulets, and five pounds was a steal—literally.

She padded down the corridor, biting her lip. How could she reconcile taking time away to broker a deal with the fact that Mr. Price had made it abundantly clear she was to have all his artifacts catalogued and valued within the month?

Bother. She huffed a sigh as she reached her bedroom door. Should she take hours away from her job here? And if so, how would she explain her absence to Mr. Price?

She forced open her door harder than necessary. This was exactly the sort of dilemma she’d been hoping to avoid.

Of all the bloomin’ greenery a wealthy Oxford estate could have planted beneath a window, it had to be rosemary? Brudge glowered as he duck-walked in the thin space between shrubbery and stone wall, the scent churning the beans he’d eaten for dinner. Bad memories barreled back of his mother forcing spoonfuls of vile rosemary oil down his throat, claiming it was good for a lad. Bogger! She may as well have whacked his head with a brick for all the good that had done him.

He edged closer to the only window with a lamp yet glowing in the big house. Blast that Scupper. They should’ve gotten here hours ago when there would have been more glass-peeping opportunities, but the oaf had insisted they stop by a barber for a quick yank of his sore tooth. What a blubbering baby. And he’d better not still be whimpering while he minded the horses. If the big dolt gave away their presence, he’d knock loose a few more of the man’s teeth.

Anchoring himself beneath the windowsill, Brudge slowly rose, stopping when he barely cleared the wooden frame. What luck! There she was, the devious little Shadow Broker, sitting at the far side of a table that could seat at least fifty. A fortuitous find if expensive. Parting with that fiver to Dandrae to discover her whereabouts had considerably lightened his money purse.

Without warning, her gaze shot to him.

Brudge dropped. Then waited, ears straining for the woman’s footfall, and ... Ahhh, blessed silence from inside.

Once again he eased upward. This time his gaze locked on the ugly statue in her hands. Lamplight glinted on its golden surface. Now, there was a right royal piece! Quite an improvement from a hunk of carved rock.

His gaze drifted upward, mind whirring to calculate if he could stuff his body through the narrow gap of the open window. It had to be just shy of two handspans. He would wriggle through no problem, but she’d likely hear him. Not that a skirt could best a strapping man like himself, but one rip-snapping scream and who knew who’d come to her rescue. And at such a distance from the window to that golden gem, he’d never make it back outside before getting collared. No, snatching the thing now was out of the question ... but besides a true-aim hand in a game of darts, patience was his strong suit. He’d simply wait her out. Slip in once she left the room.

And leave her to brunt the blame for a missing golden trinket.

He smiled at the thought. Served her right for crossing him. Thighs cramping, he shifted his position. He’d been hunkering down for who knew how long when footsteps clapped on the tiled flooring.

“Who’s there? Show yourself.” The woman’s voice drowned out the crickets.

Brudge held his breath. If she spotted him now, would he be able to make it back to the horses before the gamekeeper released the dogs? Then again, with one quick swipe, he could simply jump up and yank the girl outside, knock her in the head, then—

Slam.

He winced lest shards of broken glass rain down from such a rude closing of the window. None did.

Well. That put an end to things.

For now.

Brudge waddled out of the bushes, rosemary branches scratching his face. Once cleared of the demon shrubbery, he paused while scanning the open lawn between the house and wood line. Satisfied no one was about, he sprinted. By the time he reached Scupper, his lungs heaved.

Scupper rose from where he’d leaned against a tree, one hand pressed to the sore side of his mouth. “Ye find ’er, guv’ner?”

“Aye.” He huffed for air.

“So—” The big man turned aside and spit a mouthful of blood. “Where’s the doll?”

“Don’t want it no more. The woman’s got something bigger. Better. It’s a hideous-looking bauble, all right, but melt ’er down, and it’ll bring in enough to set us up real fine, mebbe even for life.”

“I dunno, guv’ner. Oof.” Once again Scupper pressed his palm to his jaw, then tipped his head toward the big house. “Nipping a piece from a toff such as lives in that castle is a fair sight different than snatchin’ it from a skirt. Ain’t like we can jes’ waltz in there and hold out our hands fer it.”

“Din’t say we would, ye daft slab o’ meat.”

“Then what’s yer plan?”

Brudge rubbed the back of his neck, flicking away stray leaves. “Dunno yet, but I do know this. That gold statue will be mine, and somehow that woman will take the fall for it.”