#i still think treacherous being track 3 is a hint though!

[mysparklingsummer]

Idk why I thought speak now was track 3, I'm so sorry back to december

[sokkascroptop]

traitor. (sokka x f!reader) pt 3

A/N: Finally we get to see Azula’s true nature! Also, the first time we get to see Zuko!! To be clear, Azula is in this fic a lot, but this is far from a redemption fic. 

part 1 | part 2 | part 4

Zuko caught Y/N’s eyes like he wanted to ask her a million questions. But she was too embarrassed about everything to hold his gaze. She looked away hoping she didn’t look too guilty or shameful. She joined Azula in staring out the window. The cherry blossom trees were in bloom. They covered every square inch of sky as she looked out. It filled the room with a sweet scent that Y/N knew was going to permeate their clothes when they left. If she let her eyes go unfocused it looked like there was a raging fire in front of her. 

Y/N found herself outside in the palace gardens. She was running from something, but it wasn’t scary. She was laughing and she heard other girls laughing around her. She began to climb a tree, stifling her giggles the entire time. For some reason, she had to be quiet.

“You’re going to get in trouble for being up there,” Someone said from below. 

Y/N looked down between the branches to see a boy her age. He was wearing a high ponytail held with a small fire pin. 

“Why?” she asked. She jumped down to the lowest branch and sat there hanging her legs over the side. She didn’t want to get down just yet. 

He arched one eyebrow. “Just ‘cause. If the palace gardener sees you climbing the trees, he’ll yell at you.”

“Well I’ll just tell him that my new friend is Princess Azula and that’ll shut him up.” Y/N laughed again and made a start to go back up the tree.

“Well, I’m her older brother Prince Zuko and I’m telling you, you’re gonna get in trouble.” He looked like he wanted to emphasize his sentence by sticking his tongue out at her. 

“Why aren’t you playing hide-and-explode with us?” Y/N asked. She jumped down and landed lightly in front of Zuko. They were the same height, which made her feel oddly proud. 

“I don’t like playing games with Azula,” Zuko said. “I’m ten–”

“–well I’m nine and a half and I can still have fun,” Y/N interrupted. 

“You’re almost my age and you’re friends with Azula? What happened? Did you get held back?” Zuko taunted.

“No!” Y/N made a face. Suddenly she felt very self conscious. She didn’t know what ‘held back’ meant but it didn’t sound good, not when he was laughing at her. “This is the first time I’ve ever gone to real school. I just got put in her grade.” 

Suddenly a fireball landed at Y/N’s feet; sparks flew up and singed her pants and burnt her legs. She squealed, a mix between surprise and pain. 

“Azula!” Zuko snarled. He half stepped in front of Y/N, all hints of the earlier teasing gone. Zuko produced a similar fireball and threw it at Azula’s feet but she kicked it away, making it land in a nearby bush. 

“You’re it, Y/N,” Azula ordered. 

“It’s not fair, Azula. She’s not a bender,” Zuko argued. 

“Neither are Mai and Ty Lee. And they don’t whine like babies.” The last part she directed at Y/N with a sneer. 

“I’m not whining!” Y/N protested. She pushed Zuko out of the way and covered her eyes, beginning to count to twenty. She peeked at Zuko at fifteen. All the girls had already scattered but he just stood there watching her. “I’m faster than Azula anyways. I can catch her.” 

She paused and looked at Zuko who stood there awkwardly. “Are you going to hide or what?” She asked. When she covered her eyes again she heard him run away, looking for a hiding place. She waited a beat before counting again, “–SIXTEEN, SEVENTEEN..”

Y/N woke to darkness. But it was always dark below deck. The only light came from candles and lanterns hung in the hallways. Her own candle was only an inch high and fading fast from the accumulation of wax. She could feel the familiar rock of the ship lulling her back to sleep… Y/N sat up quickly. She could tell that it was morning, possibly very early but she couldn’t risk going back to sleep. She tucked the covers under her neck and over her shoulders to snuggle down to ask the important questions. Why was she dreaming of Zuko? 

The day they met was probably one of their most innocent and least notable moments. At least that’s what she thought. Or it was possible her brain was trying to make her feel guilty about what she and Azula were going to do today. That day wasn’t the last that Zuko had tried to protect her from his sister, it actually set the stage for years of him standing up to Azula in her place. Not that she needed it, she could hold her own plenty, but it felt nice to be protected. 

Sometimes she wondered if they had more time together, if they’d have become better friends than her and Azula. Even though he was a fire-bender too, he spent a lot of training with his dual swords. Time that was spent with her on the training grounds. They sparred daily until his banishment; spirits, Y/N was sure they’d even sparred the day of the war meeting that started everything. Now she was going to find him, and lie to him, knowing that what awaited him at home was not a crown but a prison cell. Y/N shook her head to clear it and slid out of the bed and into her clothes. No use in thinking of the past when her future was all that was necessary. Honor and glory and all. 

Y/N could hear Iroh and Zuko arguing a mile away. Azula and her had gotten there an hour before and broke inside the little cabin they were living in. They’d not so inconspicuously gone through all their stuff and upon not finding anything worth while, sat around just waiting. 

“We don’t need any more useless things. You forget we have to carry everything for ourselves now!” Zuko lamented as Iroh dumped a bag of seashells on the table by the door, that looked suspiciously like the same seashells next to Azula on their dining table. Neither one had looked up to see them inside. 

“Hello, brother,” Azula said. “Uncle.” Both of the men jumped. 

“What are you doing here?” Zuko asked as he stepped his body in front of Iroh’s. He looked from Azula to where Y/N was sitting in the window sill behind Azula. Her stomach dropped. This was the first time she’d seen his scarred face. Pink and red scars circled his left eye and wrapped far back enough to cover his ear. His hair was no longer long, but shaved around his ponytail. He looked so much older even though it had only been three years. Y/N wasn’t sure what made him look so different, whether it was a scar that marred his face or the anger that seeped deep beneath his pores. 

“In my country we exchange a pleasant hello before asking questions.” Azula picked up a seashell and inspected it. She glided across the room to stand in front of him. She was so much shorter than Zuko and Y/N but she carried so much power. “Have you become uncivilized so soon, Zuzu?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“To what do we owe this honor?” Iroh spoke up, breaking up the fight between the siblings before it started. Y/N moved to stand behind Azula. 

“Hmm, must be a family trait. Both of you are so quick to get to the point.” Azula was still playing with the men like they were rabbit-mice. She snapped the shell she was holding in her hands. “I’ve come with a message from home. Father has changed his mind. Family is suddenly very important to him. He’s heard rumors of plans to overthrow him–treacherous plots.” Y/N looked to Zuko to gauge his reaction. His face had softened at hearing the news from his Father.

“Family are the only ones you can really trust,” Azula told him earnestly. “Father regrets your banishment. He wants you home.” Azula paused to look out the window. 

Zuko caught Y/N’s eyes like he wanted to ask her a million questions. But she was too embarrassed about everything to hold his gaze. She looked away hoping she didn’t look too guilty or shameful. She joined Azula in staring out the window. The cherry blossom trees were in bloom. They covered every square inch of sky as she looked out. It filled the room with a sweet scent that Y/N knew was going to permeate their clothes when they left. If she let her eyes go unfocused it looked like there was a raging fire in front of her. 

When no one said anything, Azula whipped her head back around to stare at her brother. “Did you hear me? You should be happy, excited, grateful. I just gave you great news.”

“I’m sure your brother simply needs a moment–”

“Don’t interrupt, Uncle!” Her voice changed from sickeningly sweet as she plied Zuko with the words he wanted to hear to savage as she screamed at Iroh. Azula had never learned to be patient, and she wanted them on the ship now. “I still haven’t heard my thank you,” She growled at Zuko. “I’m not a messenger. I didn’t have to come all this way. I could have sent Y/N for this.”

Y/N tensed at her words. She bit her tongue so hard that she tasted blood. How dare Azula think she was her messenger hawk?

“Father regrets? He wants me back?” Zuko muttered. Y/N felt like this was a conversation with himself that they were all intruding on. Y/N had to admit that the words that Azula used to trick them were sweet as honey, but also not very believable. 

Y/N touched the back of Azula’s arm. “I think that he needs time to take this in. It’s all very sudden for him.” She sent a smile in Zuko’s direction that he did not return. 

“I’ll send Y/N to call on you tomorrow.” Azula concluded and she and Y/N took their leave. 

“Why are you sending me tomorrow?” Y/N asked once they were out of range of the house. 

“Zuko trusts you more than he does me,” Azula admitted. “I figure even if he decided he doesn’t want to come, you’ll be able to sweet talk him down the hill to our little ship.”

“Zuko and I were–” 

“Oh shut up, Y/N. You two always had an eye for one another.”

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up. “I–”

“Besides that’s the reason my Father wanted you to come anyways.” They had reached the wooden dock that the ramp to their ship rested on. 

Y/N stopped dead in her tracks. “What?” 

Azula cocked her head. “Well, I figured you’d caught on to that already the way you were making moony eyes at my brother up there.”

“I wasn’t–How was I supposed to know I was only brought here to flirt Zuko’s ass all the way back to the Fire Nation?!” 

“Just back to the ship. Once he gets here we’ll put him in a jail cell.”

“AZULA!”

“Look,” she snarled. “You’re good with a sword but what the hell is that going to do against a fire bender? It’s a fact that you being a non bender means you’re a liability in a fight.” Azula turned and marched up the ramp. That was the end of the discussion even if Y/N had more to say. 

She looked down at her toes at the blue-green water between the slats. She could feel her eyes burning with unshed tears. She blinked them away and followed Azula onto the ship. 

Y/N fisted her hands in her tunic and stalked to her room. Control your anger, control your anger she repeated over and over in her head. She wasn’t like Azula or Zuko, she couldn’t make something with the anger that grew and festered in her chest. She couldn’t throw a fireball at the nearest wall and hope that her anger dissipated like the sparks that fell to the floor. She shut her door and immediately balled up her fist and let it slam home against the wall. The thin metal crumpled easily under her hand. It stung, but that was good. Y/N let out a breath she thought she’d been holding since the dock. She collapsed onto her bed and pulled her knees to her chest. 

It wasn’t a secret that she was a non-bender. But it’s not like it didn’t hurt to be reminded that she wasn’t as worthy because she was one. 

Please like/reblog!!

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle Part 10/? - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/? - Athens in October Part 12/? - The Man in Black Part 13/? - Mr. Neustadt Part 14/? - The Other Side of the Story Part 15/? - A Favour Part 16/? - A Knock on the Window Part 17/? - Sir Stephen and Buckeye Part 18/? - Books of Alchemy Part 19/? - The Answers Part 20/? - A Gift Left Behind Part 21/? - Santorini Part 22/? - What the Doves Found Part 23/? - A Thief in the Night Part 24/? - Healing Part 25/? - Newton’s Code Part 26/? - Montenegro Part 27/? - The Lost Relic Part 28/? - The Homunculinus Part 29/? - The End is Near Part 30/? - The Face of Evil Part 31/? - The Morning After Part 32/? - Next Stop Part 33/? - A Sighting in Messina

Arriving on Sicily, our heroes get a hint that they’re in the right place.

The clerk took their luggage to put in the lockers, and the others headed for the restaurant while Jim stayed to stand guard and Natasha went through the last few numbers the desk phone had called.  There was a laundry service and two taxi companies, the airport – and then a number that was answered by a man who said “Hotel Isabella, Taormina.”

Nat wrote down the name and hung up.

“We got it?” asked Jim.

“We got it,” Nat agreed, pulling a page off the notepad to tuck into her pocket.

The clerk reappeared in the doorway.  “Was there something else you needed?” she asked, surprised to still find them there.

“Only a pen,” Nat replied, slipping it back into the cup.

Though it might look shabby from the outside, the Europa Palace Hotel had four and a half stars and the dining bore that out.  The locally-made bread was particularly lovely, and upon learning that one of the dishes had nuts in it, Clint called the waiter over to ask about the best places to get pistachios.

“So what’s Taormina?” asked Jim.

Sam was flipping through an English-language tourist brochure he’d taken from the front desk.  “Says here’s it been a resort town since Roman times and is well-known for its shopping,” he said.  “It’s also pretty close to the volcano.”

Clint looked up from scribbling down addresses of nut vendors.  “Wait, we’re going closer to the volcano?” he asked.  “We want to live through this, don’t we?  What was the point of healing me with that goop if we don’t?”

“If she’s in Taormina, then yeah, we are,” said Nat, mentally arranging her map of Sicily.

“That might be the point,” said Jim.

“You think so?” Nat asked.

“Well, I doubt she’s looking for Swarovski crystal or designer shoes,” Sam said.

“Is there a reason?” Nat asked Jim, “or just an intuition?”

He shrugged.  “It just feels right,” he said – the same way he’d known that Newton’s notebooks were in Greek, or where to go to look for the man in Athens.  “Maybe it’s because alchemists are associated with fire.”

Natasha had already observed that a volcano was a giant furnace.  “When we catch up with her, we’ll ask her,” she said.

“Are we gonna be able to get there?” asked Clint.  “There might not be any buses or anything.  If the volcano is active, people are probably trying to get away from it.”

“I bet there’ll be more buses than usual,” Nat said.  “Tourists come from all over the world to see Mount Etna.  To see it erupting we’ll be lucky to get seats.”

Clint shook his head.  “Incredible,” he said.  “I know I’m no genius, but even I know that you don’t sit next to a volcano!”

“If people knew not to sit next to a volcano, Pompeii wouldn’t get millions of visitors each year,” said Sharon.

“Where is Pompeii?” asked Sir Stephen.

“It’s in Italy, at the foot of Mount Vesuvius,” Natasha explained.  “There was a Roman city there that was buried in 79 AD, and it’s perfectly preserved.”

She hadn’t known how he might react to the idea of Pompeii – Sir Stephen was not a fan of digging up the dead.  To her surprise, he was enthralled.  The people of his time had considered the Roman Empire a sort of lost golden age, and the idea of an intact city of that era, one where you could walk down the streets and get a feel for the décor in the houses, both fascinated and horrified him.

“At the rate we’re going, that’ll be the next stop on our Mediterranean’s Greatest Hits Tour,” said Clint.  “There were cruise ships at the docs – was ouro friend there?”

He was referring to the Scorpio II they’d seen in Santorini and at Kotor.  “I didn’t see it,” Nat said.  Of course, she hadn’t looked.

“Well, at least we’re not being stalked by the idle rich,” said Clint.

Nat had been right about the buses – even though it was late in the afternoon, all the regular ones scheduled for Taormina was full, and the Sicilians had been obliged to add extras.  Rather than cram themselves in with fifty volcano-mad tourists, the CAAP decided to rent a van,  The woman at the rental agency commented that it was a good thing they needed a large vehicle, as almost all the smaller ones were already gone.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sharon announced, as they threw their luggage in the back and piled in, “when we get back we should probably present Fury and the Queen with a list of things we’re gonna need on future investigations.  I’m thinking number one will be staff vehicles.”

“You’re assuming we haven’t already used up our annual budget,” said Clint. “I don’t know how much money we have, but I doubt it’s very much.”

“Then that’s the first thing we should ask,” Sharon said.  “Once we know what our budget is, we can figure out how to allocate it.  We probably should have asked before we got on the train with the mummy.”

“You guys aren’t very good at this secret government bureau thing, are you?” asked Jim.

“They’re new at it,” Nat told him.

They were moments from the turnoff to the coastal highway when Sam, who was driving, suddenly stamped on the brake hard enough that both Allen and Jim yelped. Sam didn’t apologize.  He just pulled over, threw the door open, and hopped out with the engine still running.

“That way!” he pointed down a side street.

“What that way?” asked Natasha, already in the process of climbing out of the vehicle.

“Neustadt!” said Sam.  “Newton! I saw him, I’m sure of it!”

He took off up the street, with Nat right behind him and Jim directly behind her.  “Sam!” Nat shouted.  “What was he wearing?”

“Light blue t-shirt with a Greek temple on it!” Sam shouted back.

They reached the next intersection.  Roads went off in three directions, all of them choked with traffic both in cars and on foot, almost all of it on the way out of Messina towards Mount Etna.  At the time he was born, Sir Isaac Newton had been of average height, but in the twenty-first century he was quite short and vanished quickly into the crowd.  Natasha, who was short, herself, couldn’t see any sign of him.

“Split up,” Sam said.

Nat went straight ahead, Sam left, and Jim right.  The others, bringing up the rear, also divided – Sharon and Sir Stephen went with Jim, Clint with Sam, and Allen with Natasha.  The two of them followed the street they were on almost all the way to the Piazza del Popolo, but saw no sign of Newton.  Each asked several people, Allen in English and Nat in Italian, if they’d seen a small white-haired man in a beat-up hat and a tourist’s shirt, but everybody they spoke to had been too busy getting where they were trying to go.  If the man Sam had seen had indeed been Newton, he’d slipped through their fingers.

It was soon clear that they weren’t going to be able to find him again.  Nat and Allen trudged back to the car to find that Sam and Clint were already there, looking morose.  The rest of the party didn’t show up for several more minutes, until Sam finally rang Sharon to ask if they were coming.  She replied that they’d followed a man in a light blue t-shirt for several blocks before the crowds allowed them to catch up with him, only to find he was somebody else.

The group was in low spirits as they climbed back into their rented van, enough so that Allen apparently felt the need to cheer everybody up.  “Look at it this way,” he suggested.  “If Newton is in Sicily, we must be on the right track.”

“Either that, or we’re all so worked up we’re seeing things,” grumbled Sam.

“Maybe you are,” said Jim.

“We know Desrosiers is here,” Nat pointed out.  “Or at least that she was here not long ago.  If Newton’s here, too, she’ll know about it.” Something very important must be going on in Taormina… or perhaps Jim was right, and there was something important about the volcano itself.  Could a volcanic crater be used as an alchemical furnace, or was there something else going on here?

They set off again, heading south towards Taormina.  Like European towns of any size, no matter how recently built, Messina did not sprawl.  Soon they were out of the city and into the rugged countryside beyond.  Volcanic Sicily was a hilly place, all sheer cliffs and dry riverbeds, with vegetation that ranged from colourful oleanders and bougainvillea to gray olive trees, tall palms with their curtains of dead leaves hanging below the crown of green ones, and even prickle pear cactus, brought back from the Americas by sailors long ago.  The road snaked along the coast rather treacherously in places, with the slopes soaring away on their right and arches supporting the pavement high above towns and beaches on their left.

“So,” Jim asked, as the countryside rolled by, “this may be a stupid question, but… what is it that you people actually do?”

Nat glanced at Sam, sitting next to her in the driver’s seat.  He shrugged, and his shoulders shook a little as he chuckled quietly.  She smiled back – even they weren’t quite sure what it was they did.  They’d certainly gone far beyond their initial mission on this trip.  “Well… I guess we appraise archaeological peril,” she said.  “If something’s old and looks like it’s weird and magical, I guess it’s our job to keep an eye on it and figure out what to do if it starts causing trouble.  We got involved in this expecting a mummy’s curse.”

“That’s right!” Sam exclaimed, chuckling out loud this time.  “I totally forgot about the mummy.  I wonder what they’re doing with that.”

“Conservators in Paris have been gluing the sarcophagus back together under the supervision of Egyptian specialists,” said Sharon.  “So far the news websites haven’t said another about the mummy itself.  I suspect it was beyond saving.”

“That is better for her than being gawked at by travelers in a museum,” said Sir Stephen.

“What about pilgrimages?” Nat asked him.  “People in your time used to go visit holy sites and the relics of saints. How is visiting Egypt to see a mummy any different?”

“For one thing, you seek no benefit to your soul,” Sir Stephen said.

“That’s not true,” said Sharon.  “I’ve always thought traveling was very good for the soul, so to speak.  You get to relax a bit, you have a change of scenery, meet some new people and try some new things.  As long as you’re getting out of your hotel or off your boat once in a while to mingle with the locals, it’s a learning experience.”

Nat was glad she added the caveat.  Thinking about the cruise ships, she’d observed that there were probably people on board who’d spent the whole trip in the casino with a drink in one hand and a slot machine lever in the other.

“What if you’re saving the world?” asked Clint with a smile.

“That’s not even travel,” Sharon snorted.  “That’s work.  That’s the whole concept of a Mediterranean vacation ruined for me forever.”

[best-left-hook-jones]

It Is Not Yet Evening (5/?)

Summary: Historical AU. It is 1917, and with the Russian empire on the verge of collapse, Emma - a former maid for the Imperial family - means to escape the imminent revolution and start a new life in London. Desperately fleeing the Bolsheviks and armed with fake documents and a new identity, she sets out to find the mysterious man with the power to grant her her freedom. But the road to Moscow is a treacherous one, and a chance encounter with a wealthy British businessman may change her life forever.

Words: 21,000

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

0.8km East of Tosno; March 14th, 1917. 4:57pm.

They had had to sprint to his cabin when the locomotive finally came to a stop at the station in Tosno; the train would only be stalled a short while before they were due to depart again, and Emma had not been keen on weathering the same storm that her strange new companion had. In fact, as Killian had paused for the fourth time to help her across the platform between the train carriages, Emma had had to wonder how he had managed to cross the first time unaided and barreling down the slick track at full speed. She hoped he wasn't completely insane.

Then again, perhaps she was completely insane for agreeing to this madness to begin with.

Admittedly, she had been taken off guard by his offer. When the train had begun to decelerate into the station, she had attributed his initial look of disappointment and frustration to his wavering regard for her. The wealthy man was probably missing his luxurious, first-class cabin now, she had thought wryly. Though he had been facing away from her, she had easily imagined the look of disdain on his face. Emma had met more than enough dignitaries to know the look; it was the torn expression of someone who was used to gossiping about the vagabonds but, on the rare occasion that they were forced into the same breathing space, had the good sense to at least hold their tongues. Well, at least until they had passed out of their presence.

So when he had instead expressed his wish for her to accompany him, she had - quite understandably, she thought - mistaken his proposition as something less than gracious. The quick clarification had not been enough to dispel the rather inappropriate visions that had immediately filled her mind and she had not been able to stave her blush.

He was handsome - there was no denying it - but that was not reason enough to follow a stranger into their cabin on a fairly fantastical promise. A lump sum of rubles to act as a temporary translator and to stay in first class accommodations? The deal sounded too good to be true and her walls had immediately been thrown up.

But the businessman had been correct; she did, in fact, need the money. The trip to London was going to be long and she was going to need to keep a tight hold on her funds as it was. Besides, she was exhausted from the earlier trip and she was already dearly missing her bed. She had been cramped and uncomfortable curled up on the wooden floor, and the idea of a soft bench nearly made her groan in anticipation.

As the circulation began returning to her limbs, her mind began compiling boundaries and rules concerning her new position. He had only asked for her to accompany him to Moscow, and there was no reason for that to be an issue for her. He hadn’t asked for any papers or documents from her, and he did not seem to either know or care about the possibility of her being a fraud. As long as it remained that way, her cover would remain intact.

The walls she worked so hard to maintain were not going to be felled by a handsome face.

Still, Emma thought. Perhaps it would be easier to make her boundaries clear without his ridiculously blue eyes staring her down.

She piped up as they entered his cabin, turning to slide the lock on the door into place.

“I have some conditions, if I am to be your guide.”

“Already? Well, that was quite quick, wasn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes, even though he wouldn’t see it with her back to him. “Firstly, I am in charge of my own travels. Whatever tasks you demand of me cannot interfere with me getting to my destination.”

“Why, love? Do you have somewhere you need to be?” There was something halfway between curiosity and amusement in his tone. She ignored the comment, turning back to face him.

“Secondly, wha- what are you doing?”

The businessman was turned away from her, his head bowed as his hands worked away in front of him. He had already removed his vest, the wet garment crumpled in a heap on the bench, and was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.

Years of etiquette training screamed at her to look away, but she couldn't seem to peel her eyes away from the smooth muscles of his back outlined by the clinging white shirt. Outside of the rather explicit descriptions of male anatomy from Ruby, Emma had never laid eyes on an adult, nude, male body before. He was sleek and toned like the marble statues she had often gazed upon at the palace, the muscles in his shoulders rolling as he moved to strip off his shirt. She turned quickly before he could notice her stare.

“As you said before,” he started, seeming unconcerned, “I must change my clothes. You may turn your back if you would like.”

“That was not an invitation to begin undressing in front of me!”

“Well, I would have asked your permission, but it is my cabin -”

“ Our cabin.”

“Yes, of course, our cabin, and I believe you were in the middle of listing out your demands.”

“Secondly, there will be no undressing in front of me!”

“Too right, love.”

“Do not call me ‘love’.”

“Is that another one of your rules?” He was smirking, she was sure of it.

Emma felt her cheeks flush with anger. Was he trying to provoke her, or was he simply an ass?

“Is this how you treat all of your personal staff, Killian Jones?” Emma shot back, unable to hide the venom in her tone. “With ridicule?”

He stiffened, the corners of his mouth turning down and his head turning to the side ever so slightly. “What makes you think I have any staff?”

“You do, do you not?”

“No.”

Emma went silent. There was a finality, an honesty, in his voice that she hadn’t missed. His face had hardened slightly and for a moment he almost appeared offended at her accusation. Surely he had to have someone at his beck and call back home, she thought, but the piercing look in the British man’s face said otherwise. Could a man as well dressed and wealthy as Killian Jones appeared to be really not have staff?

“Well,” Emma continued, a little more softly, “you must have business partners.”

“Aye, of course.”

“Then you should consider me as one of them. We may not have a legal contract, per say, but it is just as binding as one and you will act in the same manner that you do with all of your partners. Is that clear?”

Killian seemed to sober at that, the look of irritation fading from his face and slowly being replaced by hints of shame and embarrassment. He reminded her now of a naughty schoolboy who had been caught cursing in the halls. It was almost humorous to see a grown man react to her caregiver voice in the same way that the young Romanov children had.

“I apologize if I was rude. I only thought that…” He trailed off, seeming to reconsider his next words. “Well, anyhow, it was not my intention to offend you. Please, continue.”

“Thirdly, there will be no discussion of private matters.” When he nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly, she continued. She listed off her set of conditions, finding more and more terms coming to mind as she went along. There was a certain level of comfort that was gained as she laid out the terms of their arrangement - which included everything from sleeping arrangements to prohibited topics of discussion - though a small voice in her head noted that she was building her walls up so high it would be a wonder if she could even see the sky any longer. She shoved aside the intrusive thought and instead started on her rules regarding dressing and undressing in the cabin.

Killian scratched idly at his beard as he considered each of her terms. When she was finished, he reached out his hand to shake hers. He looked a bit ridiculous standing before her, half dressed in nothing but his trousers, black gloves and loosely buttoned shirt, but she grasped his hand in hers and sealed the deal with a firm shake.

“A business woman, through and through,” Killian noted. “I can respect that.”

“I should hope so, Killian Jones,” she warned. Emma turned and began laying her possessions on one of the benched seats. She was just removing her own coat when she heard him speak again.

“I have a condition of my own, if you will allow it.”

Emma turned to eye him. His face betrayed nothing of the nature of his request. ‘Alright,” she agreed, slowly.

“Please, call me Killian.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. The use of Mr. and Mrs. was not customary here, with Russians preferring to address others by their full name instead. Emma knew what British customs dictated, but she hadn't thought anything of it. Either way, it was such a simple request that it caught her off guard. “Is that all?”

“If you would, please,” he shrugged almost sheepishly. “I cannot say I am particularly fond of formalities.”

“Alright,” Emma agreed again. Surely there was no harm in that? It did not mean that they were friends by any means, and she had just given him a long list of demands that he had readily agreed to. It would be a sign of bad faith, she thought, to deny him this. “Killian.”

He grinned at her use of his name.

“Thank you, Miss Nolana. Now, if you please, I really would like to change into something warmer and I would not wish to break one of your terms already.”

“Oh, right. Yes, I - I will wait outside, then.”

Making doubly certain that her papers were tucked away in her bag, Emma stepped outside the cabin and shut the door to wait. It would be a nuisance to have to switch every time they needed to change, but it would have to do. She had set the boundaries firm for both of their sakes, and a few moments spent loitering in the narrow hallway was certainly worth the extra bit of privacy it provided. She only hoped Killian would not be too long.

Killian .

Even in her thoughts, the name had a nice ring to it.  

Emma Lebedeva was no fool; she had seen the look of want that had filled his eyes more than once already. It was nothing like the puppy eyed longing that August had shown back at the train station. It was surely something hungrier than that, and she did not doubt the sincerity that coloured his tone every time words of good grace left his mouth. For whatever reason, he truly did believe she was a marvel.

Despite the British man’s clean cut appearance, there was a distinctly roguish side to him that he seemed to find hard to keep under control. She felt it in every smirk, in every wise cracking comment. And the deal that he had made with her -  a vaguely large sum of money for an unspecified job - could only mean one thing; the man was nouveau riche.

Emma had been around enough of them in her lifetime to know the signs and the dangers that came with that title. The impulsivity always seemed to emerge first, as the person began testing the limits of their new wealth. Automobiles, clothes, and even new homes would be bought on a whim, and Emma often wondered if they had the chance to really appreciate them before they were shoved off to side to make way for the new plaything. Most of the time, she thought not. It was the revolving door of women that had always pained Emma the most, however. Bigger houses meant more rooms to fill and more spacious beds to keep warm. Emma had been relieved that her background role in the palace had meant she had never been tasked to recall the names of the many mistresses that had been ushered through back doors to the awaiting guest apartments. Never for the Tsar, of course; he had only ever had eyes for his Tsarina.

She couldn’t help but look towards the door and wonder how many young ladies were waiting at home for the man currently redressing in their shared room. What would they think if they saw him now, leading a new young thing by the hand without a second thought? Perhaps he would never admit to having been with her at all. She wouldn’t blame him; upholding one’s reputation was a serious matter, and he was clearly taking a risk as it was. Still, Emma’s stomach turned sour at the thought of being swept under the rug as someone’s dirty little secret.

Boundaries. Boundaries were going to be essential if she were going to make it through this trip in one piece.

Just then, another large rocking of the train had her reaching for the walls to steady herself. She managed to keep upright, but she thought she heard a muffled ‘thump’ followed by a faint ‘bloody hell’ from the other side of the door.

“Are you alright?” Emma called through the door. “May I come in now?”

She took the small grunt that followed as a yes, and slid the door open just enough to slip through. He had claimed the bench across from where she had left her belongings and was dressed again - well, mostly . He hadn’t replaced his vest, which remained in a heap with the rest of his damp clothes where he had abandoned it, but he had changed into a black button up shirt and similarly dark trousers. The chill of the cold winter air must have been bothering him more than he had let on, as he had pulled his gloves up tights to his wrists and had put on his coat.

The businessman was riffling through his satchel, appearing to be searching for something. Unsure of what to do herself, she allowed her old habits to guide her and moved to pick up the mass of wet clothes next to him. The cabin was not entirely warm, but Emma hoped that by hanging the articles on the coat rack that they would dry in time. She lit the small mantle lamp affixed to the wall just in case, the scent of kerosene strong and immediate as it flickered to life.

“You did not need to do that.”

Emma turned and noticed the man’s blue eyes watching her intently. She wasn’t entirely sure what he was referring to, but he quickly clarified. “My clothes. It is not one of your duties as my translator.”

“Are you afraid that I will charge you for the service?”

“No, but I do not want you to feel obliged -”

“I assure you that I do not.” Emma frowned at the look of uncertainty on his face. “Are you unused to having favours done for you?”

“I am a businessman,” he pointed out. “Favours are my stock and trade.”

“But surely you expect some sort of payment from your business partners after you grant them a favour, do you not?”

“Naturally, yes.”

“Then they are not favours. They are deals. Trades.”

He eyed her curiously, his mouth set in a firm line, before turning up into a humourless smile. “Point taken.”  

With that he gestured for her to take the seat across from him, which she took.

“Where did you want me to start?” She asked, thinking it better to inquire about her role now rather than later.

He looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“As your guide. Would you like me to begin preparing an itinerary now? Or when we arrive?”

He hesitated before answering, looking a bit disappointed that the conversation had veered back toward the terms of their arrangement. “As you wish. We have more than enough time to prepare for that.”

Emma couldn’t help feeling a bit surprised. He had invited her to his cabin to be his assistant, had he not? What else was she meant to do for the next dozen hours or so? Emma Lebedeva was no one’s escort.

“You may sleep if you would like,” Killian continued, his focus back to rifling through his bag. “Travelling is always exerting, and you must be tired.”  

She was, but the stubborn voice in her head prevented her from acquiescing. “Perhaps in a little while.”

“In that case, perhaps we could do something to pass the time?” Killian held up a deck of cards, evidently the object he had been searching for in his bag. “Do you know how to play?”

“No.”

“I could teach you,” he offered with a slight shrug.

Emma blinked. Teach her how to play? She had watched the men at the palace play before, but no one had ever bothered to teach her how to play.

“Alright,” she agreed slowly, rubbing her palms along her skirt to smooth out the imaginary wrinkles there. He continued on, apparently unperturbed at her novice.

“Now, I thought we could start with something simple. Do you know how to play blackjack?”

She shook her head.

“Well, it’s quite easy. But tell me, Miss Emma; are you a gambler?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Then allow this to be the moment you succumb to your darker impulses.” He waggled his eyebrows dramatically, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes in amusement.

“I would hardly call this a high risk endeavour. We do not even have anything to wager.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Pride?”

“Oh, then perhaps this is high risk for you indeed,” she teased back, earning her a playfully affronted look.

“Now, Miss Emma, the trick to this game is luck.”

Emma looked unimpressed. “How can luck be a trick?”

“Believe it or not,” he began, expertly shuffling the square cards in one hand, “luck is a skill that can be acquired. Much like your affinity for languages, I would wager.” He must have noticed the skeptical look on her face. “You do not believe me?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Alright, Miss Emma, then I will prove it to you.” He held the deck upright in his palm before her. “Choose a card, if you would, please.”

She picked up the top card and placed it face up as instructed. Despite the larger size of the first class cabin, there was little room to spare and the two were forced to use their laps as makeshift tables. Killian explained the game and Emma was surprised to find the objective relatively simple. He played the part of the dealer, admitting that the game was usually more enjoyable with more players but that they would have to make do.

Unsurprisingly, she lost her first hand badly, though Killian was quick to reassure her that he hadn't expected her to win on her first try. He was right of course, and Emma soon managed to to make calls that brought her hands nearer to twenty one. She had caught on quickly to the game, and she hoped he wasn’t imagining the impressed look on her travelling companion’s face as she turned up a perfect twenty one for the third time in a row.

They continued their game, Emma’s brow furrowing further and further as Killian suddenly began winning each round without fail. For every call she made, he was right there with a card that brought him one point closer to the target. Emma finally threw down her cards as Killian flipped over his second card to reveal an ace of spades, giving him another perfect blackjack.

“I am not sure I am all that fond of this game,” she muttered, as he collected her cards to shuffle.

“Would you like to know my secret?”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “If it is ‘luck’, I must tell you that I am still unconvinced.”

“Not quite,” he hummed. Killian laughed as he watched her jaw drop comically as he pulled a Queen of Hearts from the edge of his sleeve.

“That is cheating!”

“Only if you get caught,” he shrugged, unconcerned.

“I believe it is cheating either way.”

“I did warn you. I make my own luck.”

“By cheating.”

“Only a little bit.” He was still smiling, clearly happy to have gotten away with his deception. “But you are right, I apologize. I was only trying to impress you.”

Impress her ? “Why on earth would you need to do that?”

His grin faltered a moment, something in her question having thrown him. Though, for the life of her, Emma could not place what it was.

“Where would we be if the master was beat out by the student on their first attempt?” He answered simply. Emma’s internal lie detector sensed it was not the whole truth, but she chose not to push it. His secrets could be his own, she supposed.

Killian placed the cards in front of her. “Would you like to play again? I promise to play fairly from this point forward.”

Perhaps she should have been angry at his earlier deceit, but something told her that it wouldn’t do any good. Instead she picked up the cards and began shuffling them in the way she he had seen the men at the palace do. By some miracle, she managed to keep the entire deck from spilling out onto the floor as she did so.  

It was strange to think that only hours earlier she had been sitting alone, facing an uncertain future on her own. Though these were not the circumstances she would have chosen, she was grateful for the company. It couldn’t last long, of course; she would be back to her solitude the moment he no longer had use for her, but by then she hoped to be finished with him as well. The moment her contract with him finished, her new life would begin. It was comforting to know that she would be a few steps ahead of her plan on that front; a purse full of rubles would be an asset if she was going to locate the man who held her exit papers.

Still, she relished the idea that she would be able to keep some sense of normalcy over the next few hours. The threat of discovery still loomed over her - there would be no changing that until she was safely outside of the empire’s borders- but she couldn’t deny that the sense of imminent danger seemed to fade somewhat in Killian’s presence. If she closed her eyes, Emma could almost imagine she was back at the palace, the seat cushion beneath her nearly passable as Ruby’s mattress on the many nights that the two maids spent gossiping together like schoolchildren. Emma nearly sighed. Even though her friend had had valid reasons to stay behind, Emma couldn’t help but wish that it was her wolf eyed friend seated on the bench across from her.  

It wasn’t all bad, she reasoned. As they continued round after round of their game, settling into their seats as the train rattled and swayed around them, she had to admit that out of all of the passengers that could have accosted her along her journey, she was grateful it had been Killian Jones.

‘Killian’ , she reminded herself. Just ‘Killian’ .

Only moments later, however, the comfortable silence that had fallen over the pair was broken as the sound of creaking wood began emanating from the other side of the wall behind where Killian was sitting. It started low, and for a moment Emma wondered if it was an occupant’s nervous pacing that was causing the rhythmic noises, but the addition of a distinctly female moan clarified the situation rather quickly.

Oh lord, why was this happening? She couldn’t help the deep blush that began to colour her cheeks as the unseemly activities escalated further.

If Killian noticed, he did not say as much, his attention focused solely on the cards in his hand. Perhaps he was used to it? The thought sent an unnerving chill down her spine. Was the man in front of her the type of man to take a woman against the wall of a train? There was certainly no reason to rule it out.

It was only when the noises reached their peak, a solid thump of a body against their shared wall that Emma lost her patience.

“Oh, how vile!”

Killian only chuckled, dealing himself another card from the deck. “They were gossiping earlier. Perhaps they ran out of topics of conversation.”

Emma made a face as she glared at the wall that separated the two parties.

“I would not wish to hear what they were discussing,” she muttered.  

“I could not understand them. Not that I would ask you to translate that anyways,” he quickly clarified.  

She gave an appreciative hum as she turned her attention back to her cards. Now that Killian had stopped his tricky sleight of hand, she was actually doing fairly well. Though she was still convinced that the game involved more luck than skill, she couldn’t deny that her judgement was becoming better as the game went on. Emma grinned at his fake annoyed sigh as she laid down another winning hand, his own falling just short.

“How did you manage this far without a translator?” She asked suddenly, the question long overdue.

“My partner speaks Russian. It appears I am much slower at picking it up.”

“Your partner?”

“My business partner. Will. He travelled with me the first time, but unfortunately for me he had to leave Petrograd early to go to Moscow. I am to meet him there.”

“Ah so I am only to babysit you until you reach your friend?” She teased. “That should not be too difficult then.”

Killian snorted. “I promise to be on my best behaviour until then.”

It was at that moment that Emma’s stomach began to protest against the late hour. She threw her arm across her stomach to silence the sound, but it was too late. Killian’s eyes flicked up to hers at the noise and he immediately reassembled the deck he was about to reshuffle into a neat square.

“Well, Miss Nolana,” he started, brushing his hand across his trousers as he rose to stand, “I am famished. What say we go for dinner, hm?”

“You may go ahead. I will stay here, I think. I have some food in my bag.” Granny had insisted that she take along a small parcel of food with her before she left the palace, and the boiled eggs and cheese would not keep.

Just as he looked ready to argue, the lurid noises started up again in the cabin next door. From what Ruby had told her - which had been admittedly more than Emma ever would have dared to ask - Emma was surprised at how quickly they had recovered from their last tryst. And if the mumbled “bloody hell” from her companion was anything to go by, Emma wasn’t the only one to be disappointed by that fact.

She quickly tucked her bag in the corner of the cabin where he had only moments ago stashed his own.

“Perhaps it would not be too horrible to dine with you tonight,” she admitted, checking that her change purse was on hand.

The grin on his face was nearly enough to distract her from the sounds next door.

“I am glad you have reconsidered.”

He opened the door and gestured for her to lead the way.

“Shall we?”

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again

The mummy reappears, but under circumstances that raise more questions and answer absolutely none - and our heroes already had no answers.

Sir Stephen wasn’t the only one who’d had a particularly nasty shock.  Natasha may not have seen the first man disappear, but she’d definitely seen Allen’s reaction to it, and had noticed how he refused to take the gas mask off the one who looked like Barnes for fear it would happen again.  So in the afternoon, while Sam and Clint went to an arcade and Sharon took Sir Stephen to the Louvre to try to distract him, Natasha took a cup of coffee up to their room for Allen.

He had been gazing mindlessly out the window at the boats on the canal. She set the cup down on the sill and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.  It was still something she had to decide to do and then make herself, feeling more like part of an undercover identity than something she would do naturally.

“I know Sir Steve’s upset,” she said.  “How are you?”

 Allen shrugged.  “It’s like he said.  I just keep seeing it.  I wonder if I’ll do that when I die.”

That thought hadn’t occurred to Natasha, and it was a bit of a shock. Allen wasn’t quite a real person, he was something she’d constructed by accident.  He felt like flesh and blood.  He ate and slept and remembered an entire lifetime that had never happened.  He hadn’t vanished when they’d shut the Grail down, so it didn’t seem likely that he would just disintegrate when he died – but when Barnes had touched her hand, Nat hadn’t noticed anything odd about him, either.  Was there any way to know?

Maybe there was.  “The blood on the cloth vanished when the rest of him did,” she said.  “You bleed and it hangs around – I’ve seen it.”

At that, Allen actually managed a small smile.  “That kind of helps, actually.”

Nat patted his shoulder.  “I think we need to do some research,” she told him.  “Want to find a library?”

“Research on the mummy?” he asked.

“No,” said Nat.  “On true crime.  I want to know if anything like this ever happened before, and if so, what was the motive behind it.”

Just a couple of blocks to the southeast was the Bibliothèque Crimée, which seemed appropriate enough.  It was a modern building with blue and white tiled walls and a rainbow-painted railing at the sidewalk.  Nat settled down with her laptop at one of the pale wooden tables, and connected to the library wi-fi to read up on art heists.

Over the course of the afternoon they dug up news stories about art thefts in France, the UK, and the Americas – and not one of them was anything like what had happened to the mummy.  Art thieves took small things, easily transported and hidden, and ones that were not too famous unless they were planning to ask for a ransom.  The sarcophagus of Sitamun was the exact opposite of that: huge, unwieldy, and instantly recognizable.

“What are you thinking?” Allen asked.

“I’m thinking it had to be a heist for hire,” said Nat, resting her chin on her hands as she scrolled through an article in French about the theft.  “Somebody out there wanted it specifically, saw the opportunity, and hired Barnes and his brother, or whoever they were, to get it. The question is, what do they want it for?  The sarcophagus valuable, but they can’t sell it or show it off for fear of being reported.”

“Maybe it’s a very complicated murder attempt,” Allen suggested.  “Maybe they’re going to give it to somebody they secretly hate and see if the curse works.”

Nat chuckled.  “Now there’s a plot for a heist movie!” she said.

“Or maybe it’s something in this.”  Allen poked the newspaper photograph of the sarcophagus, indicating the inscriptions. “Maybe there’s some special magic or something in there?  They want to learn how the curse works and use it themselves?”

Natasha hadn’t thought of that.  “Somebody’s gotta have a translation,” she said.  A google search was unable to find it, so they emailed the curator of antiquities at the Victoria and Albert Museum to ask.

Much later, when they were back at the hotel, Natasha’s phone dinged to tell her the reply had arrived.  The contents, however, were disappointing.  All that was written on the sarcophagus was the usual list of Princess Sitamun’s titles, her relationships to various other members of the royal family, and some standard blessings for the afterlife.  There was no hint of a curse, or of anything unexpected at all.  Nat finished reading it for the second time, then set her phone on the bottom bunk next to her and flopped back onto the mattress.

“No good?” Allen guessed.

“Nothing,” said Natasha.  “What the hell did anybody want with that mummy badly enough to pull such a dramatic stunt?”

“Maybe just the thrill of the chase,” said Allen.

“It’s almost looking that way,” groaned Nat.  “The thing about Barnes is still bothering me, too.  There are hundreds of guys named Jim Barnes in the United States, so it’s not like I can track down just one of them easily.  I looked through the Times website and they’ve got two guys by that name on their staff, but neither is a reporter and neither is in Europe right now.”

“So we know he was an imposter, and practically nothing else,” said Allen.  “That’s a shame.”

“Don’t start,” Nat warned him.

“Start what?” he asked innocently.

“Teasing me about almost making a date,” said Nat, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him.  “I’m still mad that he tricked me.  I don’t want to hear about it, or about grandchildren, or any of that stuff.  You’re not allowed to be that kind of father.  Understand?”

Allen looked startled, but he nodded meekly.  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

It was very early in the morning on their third day in Paris when Nat was awakened by her mobile phone ringing.  She opened her eyes when the tone began to play, then buried her face in the pillow and groaned softly.

The jingle played a second time, and from the bunk above she heard Allen ask in a sleepy voice, “you gonna get that, Ginger Snap?”

“Yeah,” she grumbled, and reached to pick it up off the table at the end of the bunk.  Nat had a very short list of people she would be willing to answer the phone for at this hour, but the caller turned out to be one of them – it was Fury.  She swore under her breath, then pressed the button and put the phone to her ear.

“I hope it’s a reasonable hour where you are,” she said.

“No, because I’m still in England,” he replied, “but I figured you guys needed to know as soon as possible – they found the mummy.”

Nat was suddenly wide awake.  “They did? Where?”

From the bunk by the window she heard Clint mutter something, followed by, “what kind of stupid time is it?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you outright because they don’t want sightseers gathering,” said Fury, “but since it was stolen by disappearing guys with the same face and all, I asked the Gendarmerie to let you take a look at it.  They’re sending a car, so you’d better get dressed.”

“We don’t know what was going on with those men,” Nat protested, although she was already getting out of bed.

“Nobody else does either,” said Fury, “but you’ve dealt with stuff like this before.”

“No, we haven’t!” said Nat.  The Grail had been completely different.

She wasn’t going to pass the opportunity up, though, so after hanging up she reached up to give Allen a shake, then crossed the room to wake Sir Stephen.

“Everybody up,” she ordered.

“Why?” asked Clint.

“They found the mummy,” said Nat.

“So?” he asked, from the top window bunk.  “It’s not like she’s getting any deader.”

Fortunately everybody else was a little more enthusiastic.  They dragged Clint out of bed with the promise of espresso, and there was just enough time for everybody to wash their faces and throw on some deodorant before the Gendarmerie cars pulled up outside the hostel. The French police looked just as annoyed at having to get up before dawn as the CAAP, and nobody spoke much as they drove out into the countryside for what felt like hours.

In fact, it was hours – by the time they arrived, the sun was coming up.  They pulled over to the side of the country road, just above a steep slope down into a wooded valley.  Through the trees, Nat could just barely see yellow crime scene tape.

“There,” one of the cops said, pointing.  He had a heavy accent and somehow managed to imply that this was at least a third of his English.

They had to be very careful climbing down the hill.  It had been raining overnight, and the autumn grass and fallen leaves were slippery and treacherous.  Clint would have fallen on his face and slid the whole way if Nat hadn’t been in time to grab him, and a moment later she had to pass him on to Sir Stephen so that she could take Allen’s hand before he lost his footing on the slick ground.  There were several scrapes and bruises before they finally came to the tape, and ducked under it.

From the top of the hill, the yellow tape had been visible through a break in the trees.  Now that they were up close, Nat could see that it was literally a break: branches had been smashed by something heavy crashing into them.  The fallen thing had rolled down the hill, hit the trees, and then shattered on a boulder in the middle of the small stream at the bottom.

It was the sarcophagus of Princess Sitamun.

“Oh, no!” Natasha exclaimed.  She hurried forward the last few steps, climbed over a broken tree trunk, and pushed aside a white-suited forensics specialist who tried to stop her.

She had hoped for a moment that it was some trick of light and shadow that made the sarcophagus look broken, but it wasn’t.  The lid had snapped in two and was lying in the gravel on the shoreline, while the body was broken into three large pieces and countless tiny ones, leaning on the boulder and strewn across the shallow stream bed.  In the middle of it all, half-in and half-out of the water, was the mummy itself, broken in pieces and twisted almost beyond recognition as a human body.  Nobody would be getting any DNA, or anything else, out of it now.

“Madame!” the specialist said.  “You must not touch!”

“Non, pas vraiment,” Nat agreed, drawing her hand back.  “Je m’excuse.”  The stream had probably already washed a lot of evidence away and her poking around wouldn’t help.  The police had to figure out who had done this terrible thing to such a treasure and punish them for it… but whoever it was, she thought, when she found the guilty parties Natasha would break their necks herself!  The spy in her had been angry yesterday.  Today, the archaeologist was livid.

She must have looked it, too, because as she rejoined the others back at the tape, they all moved away from her – except for Allen, who put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her.

“So somebody took the mummy and the sarcophagus,” he said, “and then just threw it away?  That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” Natasha agreed.  “None of this makes sense.”  They had to have missed something important… but what?