The Curse of the Pharaohs (Amelia Peabody, #2)

by Elizabeth Peters

THE events I am about to relate began on a December afternoon, when I had invited Lady Harold Carrington and certain of her friends to tea. Do not, gentle reader, be misled by this introductory statement. It is accurate (as my statements always are); but if you expect the tale that follows to be one of pastoral domesticity, enlivened only by gossip about the county gentry, you will be sadly mistaken. Bucolic peace is not my ambience, and the giving of tea parties is by no means my favorite amusement. In fact, I would prefer to be pursued across the desert by a band of savage Dervishes brandishing spears and howling for my blood. I would rather be chased up a tree by a mad dog, or face a mummy risen from its grave. I would rather be threatened by knives, pistols, poisonous snakes, and the curse of a long-dead king. Lest I be accused of exaggeration, let me point out that I have had all those experiences, save one.

Before he could utter a word, Emerson said loudly, ”Sabâhkum bilkheir, Holy One. Have you come to bless the work? Marhaba—welcome.” Emerson maintains, justly or unjustly, that all religious leaders are showmen at heart. This man reacted to being “upstaged” as any skilled actor would, conquering the anger that flared in his eyes and replying, with scarcely a pause, “I bring no blessing but a warning. Will you risk the curse of the Almighty? Will you profane the dead?”

“I came here to excavate, Amelia, not to play Sherlock Holmes, a role, let me point out, for which you are no better equipped than I. If you wish to assist me, get to work. If you do not, return to the house and drink tea with Lady Baskerville.”

It is a misconception that the innocent sleep well. The worse a man is, the more profound his slumber; for if he had a conscience, he would not be a villain.