Well this weekend, I stumbled upon a fix to this conundrum. I decided that instead of creating a collage board for this Theodosia book, I’d create a travel journal such as Theo herself might have kept to record her trips.

(Sorry about the glare.)

So now I’ve been cutting and pasting all the old photos I’ve found in my research into this book, then making notations and observations in Theo’s voice next to each picture.

This is doing two things. It’s a great way to accumulate all the research visuals I need in one place and in chronological order, and it’s allowing me to focus on seeing them through Theo’s eyes. It’s really helped me “get into the mood” for writing this book.

The Grand Prize Winner of a copy of THEODOSIA AND THE LAST PHARAOH and a copy of THEODOSIA AND THE EYES OF HORUS is…Eaden!

The Second Prize Winner is Raelynn, who will receive a copy THEODOSIA AND THE LAST PHARAOH

And the third prize winner of a copy of THEODOSIA AND THE EYES OF HORUS is Olivia!

You guys did so good on these contest questions! I was quite impressed. I used Random Number Generator to select the winners. All nine of you who got all the questions right were put in the hopper for the Grand Prize, then all eleven of  you were put into the hat for the second and third prize.

Please email me (using the contact page on the website here) with your name and physical address so I can mail your books to you. Be sure and get your parents permission first!

Thanks so much for participating! And for being such awesome readers.

Theodosia considers herself something of an expert on Egyptian magic. This contest will test your knowledge of Theodosia’s magical practices and skills. There will be nine questions taken from the first three books. Whoever answers them correctly will be put in a drawing for a grand prize of both a signed copy of the new THEODOSIA AND THE LAST PHARAOH and a copy of the new paperback THEODOSIA AND THE EYES OF HORUS.

The second place prize will be a signed copy of THEODOSIA AND THE LAST PHARAOH and the third prize will be a signed paperback of THEODOSIA AND THE EYES OF HORUS.

The rules are this: Answer as many of the below questions as you can in a comment to this post. The comments are on moderated status so no one else will see your answers–that way no one can peek or cheat. (Not that any of you would ever cheat!) Being the first to answer them does not increase your chance of winning, so take your time with finding the right answers.

If no one gets them all right, then whoever gets the most right will be the winner. If more than one person gets the same number of answers, then all those names will be put into a hat and the winners drawn from those names.

1. What substance does Theodosia use in the Second Level Test?
2. What do curses smell like?
3. What color threads did Theo use in one of her many attempts to undemonize Isis?
4. What did Theo use to put the statue of Anubis back to sleep?
5. When Theo was cataloging the items down in the catacombs, she found a highly valued object inside some canopic jars. What were they?
6. While researching the Staff of Osiris, Theodosia learns that Ramses III used the staff to create—what?
7. What is another name for the Emerald Tablet?
8. What sort of glyphs and symbols are etched on the Emerald Tablet?
9. How many oils does Theo need for the Opening of the Mouth ceremony?

The contest will run until next Saturday night, April 9, at midnight. Good luck! And have fun!

Chapter Two: The Mother of All Museums

If you’ve ever had the experience of being given a lovely apple, all rosy and full of promise, only to bite into it to find a wormy rotten core, then you will understand the feeling I had when I first stepped into the Egyptian Museum.

It was a large, impressive building full of hundreds—if not thousands—of ancient artifacts I would never see anywhere else. However, when I stepped inside, the force of the black magic, heka, and lingering mut nearly brought me to my knees. In fact, I actually stumbled as the magic rising off of centuries’ worth of discoveries pressed down on me. It felt as if every artifact in the place had left a trace of itself behind in the vestibule of the museum, like Mother’s perfume when she leaves the room. Only this wasn’t the charming smell of lilacs or lily of the valley.  This was a thick miasma of magic and curses. Far removed from the source of their power, they buzzed faintly through the air, an invisible swarm of tiny malevolent insects. With so much of it contained in such a confined space, there was the distinct sense of pressure building—like the air just before a thunderstorm.

“Theo, are you all right?” Mother asked, the worry in her voice overlaid with a tinge of annoyance. The word peculiar lay unspoken in the air between us.

“Yes, Mother. Just missed a step, that’s all.” I held myself as still as possible and let the noxious brew wash over me, trying to get acclimated to it.

Mr. Bing peered down at me. “Are you certain? You look rather pale . . .”

I waved my hand dismissively. “I’m sure it’s the heat. I’m not quite used to the weather here, and then the sudden cool of the museum. It will just take me a moment to adjust.”

“Well, if you’re sure, Monsieur Maspero’s office is this way.” Bing led us through the vestibule, past a large, tantalizing room lined with rows and rows of sarcophagi. At the far end of the room, two large statues sat, as if holding court over all the tourists who dared to interrupt the rest of the ancient pharaohs. My feet itched to turn down those steps, but Bing was moving along at a brisk clip, and I had already been scolded once for dawdling.

We proceeded down a hallway lined with offices until Mr. Bing finally stopped in front of a large door. “Madame Throckmorton,” he said. “You may go in as Monsieur Maspero is expecting you. While the two of you meet, perhaps you would allow me to give your daughter a tour of our museum? And perhaps find her some cool refreshment.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Bing,” Mother said. “That would be lovely.”

I was torn. If I went with Bing, I would not hear what Mother and Monsieur Maspero discussed. However, Bing might have an important message from Wigmere. Not only that, this could be my only chance to see all the wonders in the museum. Besides, I already knew the bulk of Mother’s plan—it had been my plan first, after all, to come to Luxor and look for clues to what we suspected was a grand temple built by Thutmose III. In the end, I decided I could afford to take Bing up on his offer. “Thank you, Mr. Bing. I would like that very much.”

He opened the door for Mother, then closed it after her and turned to me. “This way.”

As we made our way back down the hallway, I was dying to ask if he carried a message from Wigmere, but a public hallway didn’t seem the right place for such a question. Especially since I had no idea how many at the Antiquities Service were part of the Brotherhood of the Chosen Keepers. It was a brilliant cover, I thought, hiding a secret organization dedicated to minimizing the corrosive effects of ancient magic and keeping it out of the wrong hands inside the Antiquities Service.

However, the longer I thump-bumped along behind Bing, the clearer it became that he was leading me far away from the exhibits. Perhaps we were heading for the refreshment first. I certainly wouldn’t begrudge something cool to drink and a place to sit down and grow accustomed to the thick pool of heka I was wading through.

Except, as we went further and deeper into the museum, we seemed to have passed all the offices altogether. A faint niggle of concern settled along my shoulders and I remembered the rather maniacal look he’d had in the train station when he’d first spotted us. “Mr. Bing, where are you taking me, exactly?”

He looked over his shoulder at me and I was struck again by his intense eagerness. To make matters worse, his hair had escaped the confines of whatever tonic he’d combed it with that morning and was starting to stick up in odd places, which made him look slightly demented. “We’re almost there,” he said.

I know he meant it to be reassuring, but instead it was as if someone had just flipped a caution switch inside me. I wasn’t sure I should be following him.

I mean, what did I know about him, really? He said Wigmere had sent him, but surely any of the Serpents of Chaos could pretend they had been sent by the head of the Chosen Keepers. I abruptly stopped walking.

It took Bing a half dozen steps before he realized I was no longer following him. He stopped, then looked around. “What are you doing back there?” he asked.

I folded my arms and tried to look implacable. “I’m not taking another step until you tell me exactly where we’re going.”

He quickly retraced his steps until he was standing right in front of me. “I told you. Wigmere sent me,” he said in quiet tones.

“Yes but anyone could say that, couldn’t they? And I would have no way of knowing whether or not they were telling the truth.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again. He looked crushed. “You mean you don’t trust me?”

I hated to hurt his feelings, but if there is one thing I’ve learned in the last few months it is that everyone is suspect until proven innocent. I thought briefly of asking to see his wedjat eye tattoo—the one that all Chosen Keepers had—but decided against it. For one, if he was an imposter, I didn’t want to be the one to spill the beans about their secret tattoo. Secondly, it was beyond scandalous—even for me—to wander around, demanding to see strange men’s chests. “Let’s just say I have a cautious nature.”

His smile put me a bit off balance. “And so you should, but really, there is nothing to worry about. We’re almost there and then you’ll see. Here, come.” As he spoke, he reached out to grab my arm.

I tried to leap back out of his reach, but he had rather longish arms and was able to snag me anyway. “Let go,” I said, pulling on my arm with all my strength.

“I told you,” he grunted, trying to tug me down the hall. “We’re almost there.” Suddenly, he seemed to remember something and stopped tugging. Without him pulling on me, I tumbled backwards, nearly ending up end over teakettle.

“I forgot! I’m supposed to tell you I’m a traveler, come from the West.”

Hearing the code phrase that Wigmere had given me cleared my suspicions instantly. “Well, honestly! Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” I asked, straightening my frock.

“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I’m rather new at this.”

Clearly, I thought.

Bing resumed walking and I fell into step behind him.  He led me down the hall to a door, which led to another hallway, which in turn led to a back staircase of some sort.  “Where are we going?” I asked.

“Lord Wigmere wanted you to meet with one of our senior research and development team members before you left for Luxor.” Mr. Bing stopped in front of a small door. At first it appeared to be a closet—a closet full of an amazing collection of ancient Egyptian bric-a-brac. There were medium sized obelisks leaning up against the wall, plinths, busts of ancient Egyptians carved from stone, unused stone tablets and stele stacked atop each other like dinner plates. A fine layer of dust lay over everything. Mr. Bing went over to a towering wooden mummy case that was at least seven feet tall and propped against the wall. As he went to lift the lid off, I saw that it was hinged, and it swung open to reveal a door.

“Very clever,” I said, admiringly.

“Isn’t it though?” Mr. Bing beamed and motioned for me to go first.

The passageway led to a large, winding stairway that seemed to disappear deep into the bowels of the museum. As we clattered down the stairs, the orb in my reticule bruised my leg with each step. The stairs were steep, almost a ladder, really, and they were circular. We went round and round so that by the time we reached the bottom, my brain was spinning inside my head. “Where are we?” I asked. The walls down here seemed to be of rock rather than wood or plaster.

“It’s an underground chamber, built under the museum, dug right into the ground itself,” Mr. Bing explained. “Most people don’t even know it’s here.” He crossed over to the two large steel doors, and pressed a buzzer on the wall. There was a loud clunk as something unlocked, then Mr. Bing pushed open the door. “Here she is, Professor. I’ll come back for her in a bit.” Then he stepped back out and closed the door behind me with a resounding clang.

I found myself in a large cavernous room. Dark shadows obscured the ceiling high above and it was easy to imagine hundreds of tons of rock and Cairo streets far above.

A scraping noise came from a distant corner of the room and my pulse quickened.

“Hello?” I called out.

Rows of tables and benches swept out in front of me, stacked high with all manner of strange things: blocks of paraffin wax, rolls of beeswax, crocodile eggs, a mortar and pestle, long skinny reeds, and papyrus leaves. There was even a large fish tank in the middle of the room, filled with what I thought might be oxyrinchus fish.

Half a dozen mummies in various states of undress lined one wall. Next to them were wine kegs, huge jars of golden honey, slabs of clay and unworked stone—basalt, granite, and alabaster. Thin sheets of gold and lead were scattered on one of the tables like playing cards, while a thick pot of what smelled like bitumen boiled sluggishly nearby.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” a voice called out.

I turned toward the voice, relieved to see a thin man hovering over one of the tables. He was taller even than Father and had stooped shoulders, as if he’d spent his entire life in a room that was too short for him. He wore a white canvas coat that came down to the knees of his plaid trousers. His hair was white and put me in mind of a dandelion just before all the fuzz flies away in a stiff breeze.

“There we go,” the man said. “Done.” He set whatever he’d been working on down and looked up at me. I gasped and took a step back, ready to run for the door. His face was half metal and leather, and his eyes were enormous, the size of billiard balls, as they swiveled crazily in my direction.

Chapter One: THE WRETCHED RETICULE (continued)

Mr. Bing deposited me next to Mother, then braved the crowd once more to oversee our luggage.

Outside the train station, the smell of old magic was stronger and mixed with the heat and the dust and something a little bit . . . gamey. I turned to find a small herd of donkeys and donkey boys waiting nearby. That was it; the smell of donkey.

Finally all of our belongings were duly collected and we loaded ourselves and our luggage into the conveyance. The driver slapped the reins and the carriage moved forward.

The streets of Cairo still looked the same as they had on my first trip. Mostly. They were lined on either side by high narrow houses with second and third stories that jutted out over the street. Windows were covered with elaborate latticework that looked like exotic lace. And the colors! Violet, mulberry, olive, peach, and crimson, with the occasional flash of silver or brass. It was as though someone had spilled a paint box in the sand. Even so, it seemed to me that the shadows were darker, deeper and more threatening than on my last visit.

I kept a careful eye on the men in the street—barefoot Egyptians in tattered cotton, Bedouin in long billowing robes, effendis in their red fez’s—looking for any sign of the Serpents of Chaos, but everyone seemed as he should.

When at last the hotel came into view, my sigh of relief was cut short when a swarm of vendors and street sellers descended upon our carriage like one of the Ten Plagues of Egypt. They pressed around on all sides, trying to sell whips, fly swatters, cork-lined hats, or locally crafted fans. One man carried an enormous stick covered with dangling shoes and nearly beaned us with it as he tried to show us his wares.

The hotel doorman—a giant, burly fellow—waded through the bodies, shooing them aside as if he were brushing crumbs from a table. He reached our carriage and cleared enough space for us to get out. Then he planted himself on one side of us and Mr. Bing took up the other as we made our way to the safety of the hotel lobby. The cool quiet was like a balm to our battered souls after the pandemonium of the morning.

Porters were sent to fetch our trunks and we were quickly shown to our rooms. Mr. Bing offered to wait downstairs while we freshened up, then escort us to the Antiquities Service.

“Don’t dawdle, Theodosia,” Mother said, when we reached our suite. “We’ve got to meet Mr. Bing in a quarter of an hour. I don’t want to keep Monsieur Maspero waiting any longer than necessary.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, then thump-bumped my way into the room where the porter had set my trunks. I nudged the door closed with the toe of my boot, then set my satchel and basket on the floor. I knelt down to open the wicker basket. “We’re here,” I told Isis. “You can come out now.”

As soon as I lifted the lid, she shot out of the basket like a black lightning bolt. She stalked around the room, stopping to sniff here and there, trying to determine if the room met with her approval.

While she was deciding, I rifled through my trunk looking for the least-wrinkled frock I could find. The butterscotch-colored taffeta seemed to have traveled the best, so I took it out and shook the wrinkles from it. By that time, Isis returned to me and bumped her head against my ankle. “Is everything all right, then?” I asked her.

She meowed, and I bent to scratch her behind the ears. She ducked away from my hand and meowed again, this time prancing over to the window.

“Of course!” I said, horrified that I hadn’t thought of it first. “You must be desperate to go out.” I hurried over and opened the window, happy to see it overlooked a garden of some sort. “But do hurry back,” I told her. “I’ll need you to stand guard while I’m out with Mother.”

Isis gave a short warble of consent, then leaped outside and disappeared among the bushes.

I stepped out of my travel-stained gown and went to wash the travel dust from my face, neck, and arms. Scrubbed clean, I stared at myself in the mirror, looking for any sign that my eyes might be beginning to turn brown like Mother’s. But, no luck. They hadn’t gotten more blue like Father’s, either. They were still the color of swamp mud and unlike anyone elses in my family.

Answers, I promised myself. I would find answers on this trip. That was the other reason I had agreed to keep my promise to Awi Bubu.

I went back to the bed and slipped into my clean frock. I wished desperately that there was some way to carry a five pound stone tablet on my person, but there simply wasn’t. I would have to leave the Emerald Tablet where it was. I was very careful to not let myself think of the hiding place in case someone skilled in Egyptian magic could snatch it from my mind.

Just as I’d finished brushing my hair, Isis appeared on the windowsill. “Perfect timing—oh, what have you got?” Something small and wriggly dangled from her jaws. I hurried over to shut the window and lock it tightly behind her.

“Theo? Are you ready?” Mother called out.

“Coming!” I called back. I turned to Isis. “Don’t let anyone near our treasure. I’m counting on you.”

She gave a low-throated growl, then stalked back to her basket, climbed in, and began to make crunching sounds.

“Er, enjoy your dinner.” I glanced at the reticule on the bed. I thought briefly of putting it in one of the drawers, but a reticule was the first thing even a common thief would look for. No, it seemed best to bring it with me. Sighing, I slipped the wretched reticule onto my wrist and went to find my mother and Mr. Bing.

November 1907

Chapter One: The Wretched Reticule

Even with the windows closed, the sand still managed to creep into the railway car and find its way into the most inconvenient places. I shifted uncomfortably on the seat, blew the dust off the pages of my journal, and focused on the list I was composing. Seeing things laid out in black and white often helps me think better.

Things To Do In Egypt

1. Avoid the nefarious Serpents of Chaos, a secret organization determined to obtain any and all cursed artifacts and use them for their own ill gain.

2. Locate Major Harriman Grindle, my contact at the Luxor branch of the Brotherhood of the Chosen Keepers, the honorable group of men dedicated to stopping the Serpents of Chaos.

3. Help Mother find the Temple of Thutmose III. While my research had indicated there might be such a temple, I had overstated the case in order to convince Mother to return to Egypt so I could—

4. Return two powerful artifacts, the Orb of Ra and the Emerald Tablet to the wedjadeen, a shadowy organization than not even the Brotherhood of Chosen Keepers had heard of. According to the Egyptian magician Awi Bubu, they are charged by the Egyptian gods to guard and protect the same ancient, powerful artifacts as the Brotherhood of the Chosen Keepers are.

5. Convince the wedjadeen that I should not be punished for having their powerful artifacts in my possession.

6. Also convince them that since my friend Awi Bubu had sent me to return these powerful artifacts to them, he should be forgiven for his past mistakes that had caused him to be expelled from their ranks.

7. Learn the circumstances of my birth. Awi Bubu seemed to think my peculiar talents of being able to detect ancient magic and curses had been given to me for a reason.

I studied the list. It didn’t look quite long enough, frankly. A mere seven things shouldn’t feel as if the weight of the known world were resting on my shoulders, should it?

A low, unhappy warble emerged from the basket on the seat next to me. I glanced anxiously at Mother, who raised a warning eyebrow. Oh, yes.

8. Keep Isis out from under Mother’s feet at all times.

I slipped my pencil in my pocket, then put my fingers through one of the slats in the basket to reassure her that I was still there. When I felt the feather light touch of her soft, warm nose, I inched my fingers around to scratch behind her ears. That seemed to appease her somewhat. She didn’t quite purr, but she almost purred, and that was victory enough for me.

Mother had been furious when she’d learned I’d snuck Isis along on the trip.  Luckily, we’d been far out to sea and it was too late to turn back. I know it was wrong of me to smuggle her along, and not only because it annoyed Mother (although I do try to avoid needlessly annoying my parents whenever possible. There are enough times when I simply have no choice.) The reason it was wrong had more to do with Isis herself. She wasn’t fond of cooped up spaces, nor was she fond of long journeys on the ocean. I knew she would be miserable until we arrived in Egypt. But I also knew I would be even more miserable without her company for months and months. Besides, she had some . . . power, some special quality that had a strange effect on some people that might come in handy on this trip.

If I was going to be thousands of miles from everyone I knew and needed to tackle dangerous duties on my own, then it seemed to me I ought to have at least one ally I could count on. Honestly! Mother was lucky I hadn’t tried to smuggle Sticky Will along on the trip.  Although, it was difficult enough smuggling a cat—smuggling a twelve-year-old street urchin with a talent for picking pockets would have been impossible.

With an ear-splitting screech of metal and a final, sickly chug, the train pulled into the Cairo station.  I had to brace my feet to keep from pitching onto the floor and I flung my arm out to keep Isis and her basket from tumbling off the seat. Across from me, Mother rocked backwards as the train braked, then pitched forward, her head nearly landing in my lap.

She quickly sat back up and adjusted her hat. “We’re here!” she said cheerfully.

“We’re here,” I agreed, carefully setting the basket to rights.

“Collect your things, dear. We’ll be de-boarding in a few minutes.”

“Yes, Mother.” I took my hand from Isis’s basket, annoyed to find that the silken cords to my reticule had gotten wrapped around my wrist again. I must say, fashion is a mystery to me. How on earth can ladies stroll around with a beastly reticule wrapped around their wrists? The cords get twisted and tangled, then grow so tight it feels as if it has cut off all the circulation to one’s hand. Not only that, but the horrid thing bumps and thumps against one’s leg with every step. Sighing with annoyance, I jerked at the silken cords, trying to get the blood flowing back into my hand.

“What are you doing?” Mother asked.

“Straightening this wretched thing out,” I muttered, watching the reticule spin round and round as I untwisted the cords.

“I thought you loved that little purse! If I remember correctly, you begged and begged for me to buy it for you.”

I bit back a sigh of frustration. Why do grownups always remember the things you wish they wouldn’t? “Well, that was before I knew what a lot of bother they’d be.” What I’d really wanted was a muff, but even in November, Egypt was too hot for one. It would have made a wonderful hiding place, though. One where I could have kept my hands safely wrapped around the—

“Here, give me that.” Mother reached for the purse.

“No!” I jerked it out of her reach. “I need to practice, don’t you think? I’ll be a grownup before you know it, and I’ll need to know how to carry a reticule properly. If I don’t learn now, when will I?”

Mother stared at me for a long moment, then shook her head. “Your grandmother is right. You are a peculiar child.”

Her words stung me to the quick. Peculiar? Peculiar!

Seeing the stricken look on my face, she gave me a smile she meant to be comforting. “Don’t worry, dear. We all go through peculiar stages, but we grow out of them.”

It did not make me feel one whit better that she was hoping—counting on the fact—that I would grow into someone different from who I was.

All the joy and promise of this trip evaporated.  One part of me longed to explain the true reason I acted so peculiar, but I didn’t think the true reasons would make her feel any better. In fact, she would most likely ship me off to a sanatorium if she knew that I spent most of my time removing black magic and ancient curses from rare and powerful artifacts in the Museum of Legends and Antiquities that my parents oversaw back in London. Or that I spent quite a lot of energy avoiding secret societies that would love to get their hands on those artifacts and use them for their own evil ends. No, I was fairly certain Mother wouldn’t consider that any less peculiar.

Completely unaware of the turmoil inside me, Mother stood and brushed off her skirts. “Get your things, dear.”

Another low-throated warble emerged from the basket on the bench next to me. “Isis doesn’t like being called a thing,” I pointed out.

Mother stopped her grooming and speared me with one of her stern looks. “Since Isis was not invited on this trip, I do not particularly care what she likes and does not like. Do not try my patience, Theo. The travel and the delays have done that well enough. Now come along.”

Feeling that perhaps coming to Egypt with Mother was a very bad idea, I grabbed my traveling satchel in one hand, Isis’s basket in the other, and pushed to my feet.

“Your hat,” she reminded me, motioning to the pith helmet on the seat cushion. Bother. I set down my satchel, plunked the hat on my head, picked up the satchel again, then followed Mother out of our compartment and thump-bumped my way down the narrow, cramped aisle.

In the station, faint traces of heka and ancient magic hung in the air, mingling with the soot and steam from the train. I sneezed, then gingerly picked my way down the steps to the platform, the small weight in my reticule heavy against my leg. The Orb of Ra within it was a constant reminder of why I was here and the promise I made to an Awi Bubu when he was on his deathbed. (Or so I had believed at the time, otherwise I would never have made it.) However, while he hadn’t died from the injuries he’d sustained, he hadn’t recovered enough that he could travel to Egypt himself.

Thinking of the Serpents of Chaos made me uneasy. My shoulders twitched, itching for the safety of our hotel room. “Is Nabir meeting us?” I looked around the crowded station, hoping to spot the familiar face of Mother’s dragoman.

“Not this time,” she said. “He’s in Luxor putting together a team for the dig. We’ll find a porter and obtain transportation to the hotel ourselves.”

Easier said than done, I thought, trying to push through a knot of people milling about the station. In truth, it was more of a mob. And while I remembered Cairo station being busy, I didn’t remember it being this busy. “What are all these people doing here?” I asked over the rising hum of the voices. “Is it a holiday of some sort?”

“I’m not sure, dear,” Mother called over her shoulder, “but stay close so we don’t get separated.”

I squeezed around a group of men, all wearing long white robes and arguing forcefully with each other. With a stab of surprise, I found myself longing for Father.  He was quite efficient at coaxing people to give way. Of course, that was due to the cane he wielded with such devastating effectiveness. Even so, I had not expected to miss his solid presence quite so much. Unfortunately, the museum’s current exhibit had become so popular that the board of directors wouldn’t let him leave.

Unfamiliar foreign voices filled the station, sounding angry and frustrated. Mother gripped her satchel more firmly and glanced back to be certain I was still right behind her. I was glad to see that, peculiar or not, she didn’t want to lose me in this crush. I gave her a smile of reassurance, then turned my attention back to looking for a break in the crowd through which we could slip.

That was when I noticed an odd, spindly man fighting his way through the throng. His eyes darted over the heads of the jostling crowd, searching for someone. Thoughts of the Serpents of Chaos immediately filled my head. I glanced over at Mother to see if she had noticed—or recognized—the fellow, but she seemed reluctant to take her eyes from the baggage car, afraid our trunks would disappear from sight if she so much as looked away.

The man was quite tall, and long-limbed. His hair was so fair as to be nearly white, as if all the color had been washed out of it. There was something a bit twitchy about him that made me wonder if his bones didn’t quite fit in his skin.

His searching gaze landed on Mother and me, and a determined gleam appeared in his eyes, like someone zeroing in on a target.

Just as I was trying to decide if Mother and I could give him the slip, he gave a vigorous shove past one last barrier of bodies and popped through the crowd like a cork out of a bottle to land neatly in front of us.

His pale blue eyes blinked rapidly as he tugged his jacket back into place and straightened his tie. I saw that there was a bit of hair on his upper lip that wanted to be a mustache when it grew up. He sent a quick, unreadable glance my way then bowed to Mother. “Mrs. Throckmorton?” he asked.

I gripped the satchel and reticule more tightly.

“Yes?” Mother asked with chilly politeness.

“I am Jonathan Bing of the Antiquities Service. I’ve been sent to escort you to your appointment. When I stopped by the hotel to collect you, they said you had not yet arrived. I thought I’d best come check on your train since this business”—he nodded his head toward the crowd of Egyptians—“was going on today.”

Mother visibly relaxed. “And we are so very glad that you did.”

“What exactly is this business?” I asked looking back at the edges of the throng where a lone man stood on a crate, addressing the others.

His gaze followed my own and his nose wrinkled faintly in distaste. “The Nationalist Party. They’re having a demonstration to protest the British presence here in Egypt.”

“Yes well, they are taking up rather a lot of room,” Mother said as someone jostled her and sent her stumbling into me. “Would you be so kind as to take this?” Mother thrust her small carry-aboard suitcase at him, then grabbed my elbow in a firm grip.

Some of the tension left me, and suddenly, the teeming masses of humanity seemed less threatening.

Taking Mother’s suitcase, Mr. Bing began using it rather like a battering ram and forced a path through the scrum. We followed gratefully in his wake.

At first, Bing had little success in getting through the solid wall of bodies. I was quickly surrounded by black robes and turbaned heads. If it hadn’t been for Mother’s solid hold on me, I’m afraid I might have panicked.

The man on the crate let loose with a new torrent of words, and the crowd erupted into cheers and surged forward, as if to embrace him on their wave of joy. The three of us were carried along with them. “What is he saying?” I asked Bing, nearly shouting to be heard.

“Nothing good,” he shouted back. I scowled. He was my least favorite sort of grownup—the kind that never told children anything.

A tall, bearded man bumped into me and knocked my elbow out of Mother’s grip. Within seconds, the sea of strangers closed in around me and I couldn’t see any sign of Mother’s dusty rose traveling suit or the tailored lines of Bing’s morning coat.  A firm hand grabbed my arm. Chaos, I thought, with a hot bubble of panic. I bit back a scream and tried to jerk away.

The grip tightened painfully. “This way!” Bing shouted. Bing, I told myself. It was only Mr. Bing. I allowed him to tug me through the wall of bodies until finally we were on the other side. I spotted Mother waiting for us and started to head for her, but a squeeze on my shoulder held me back.

“What?” I asked Mr. Bing.

“Wigmere,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “Wigmere sent me.”

I stumbled to a stop when he uttered the name of the head of the Chosen Keepers.  “Really?” I asked.

He nodded and turned his attention back to Mother, waving to her to let her know he’d found me. For the first time since stepping off the train, I relaxed. I should have known Wigmere would have arranged for some sort of help here in Cairo. Especially with the burden I was carrying.

BUT, I will now make it up to you by posting the cover for Theo Four, THEODOSIA AND THE LAST PHARAOH. It’s hard to say just how many different ways I love this cover!

I also want to leave you with a link to a fellow Theodosia reader’s blog whose family, the Derringdos took a trip to England and while there, gave themselves a Theodosia Throckmorton Tour of London, and visited many of the places in the Theodosia books! How cool is that? I want to go with them on their next family vacation!

Back soon with more answers to your questions from the last couple of posts!

Bibliophile asked how long, on average, does it take me to write a first draft.

That’s a great question and there are a bunch of different answers, depending on the book involved. A first draft can take as little as two months or as long as three years, depending on how long the book is, how much time I have to devote to it, and how easy it is to write. For example, Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos took me about two years to write a good solid first draft, BUT, I was only working on it on the weekends as a side project. During the week I had another trilogy I was writing. (The Lowthar’s Blade books, in case you’re wondering.) So that took a long time to get a first draft down, but I also think all that extra time made the story richer and better. I wasn’t rushing anything, my ideas had time to develop, and I had lots of time to get to know the characters.

The Nathaniel Fludd Beastologist books are much shorter, and the first draft of the first book only took about three months to write, BUT, I’d been thinking about that series for about three or four years, letting the idea roll around in my  head for a long time. Again, I’d had a long time to think about what might work and what might not, what I’d already seen a lot of in other books and what I wanted to do differently.

In this book I just finished, a YA historical fantasy, it took me FOUR years to get a solid first draft. Part of it is that is is a reeeeeally long book (over 450 pages!) but also that it was a very complicated story. It required a lot of research and world building and complex character dynamics. Plus I had to write it inbetween all the Theodosia and Nathaniel Fludd books.

I don’t think there’s any point in hurrying that first draft. If writing is fun, and it should be, why not take your time and play with it? At least, that’s what I do!

Paige asked: What made you chose Egyptian mythology, not Native American, Celtic, Nordic, Roman, or Greek mythology?

Oo! Good question. One big reason I chose Egyptian was because that’s what has always fascinated ME. Although I am also fascinated by Celtic mythology, well all the other mythologies, actually. But there was already a very popular series with Greek mythology, and Roman mythology felt very close to Greek mythology, so I didn’t want to use that. As for Native American mythology, I didn’t quite feel right using that for an entire book since I don’t have a lot of Native American blood in me. Plus it’s not something I know nearly enough about.  I do still plan to write books involving the other mythologies, though, just not quite yet.

Adriana asked: What was theodosia’s biggest challenge at the museum of legends and antiquities?

Wow! Another great question! Theodosia’s biggest challenge is keeping her parents safe while avoiding telling them about what’s going on. The thing is, she’d love to tell them, if she thought for one minute they’d believe her, but she’s pretty convinced they won’t. She doesn’t like lying to them, but she can’t ignore all the black magic and vile curses. So for her, the biggest challenge is just trying to balance all the different needs.

And I think that’s long enough for one post!

Faery Rebels: Spell Hunter by R. J. Anderson

The Hunchback Assignments by Arthur Slade

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Thief of Attolia, Queen of Attolia, and King of Attolia  by Megan Whalen Turner

The Lost Conspiracy by Francis Hardinge

The Swam Maiden by Heather Tomlinson

Incarceron by Catherine Fisher

The Boneshaker by Kate Milford

Mae also asked which Egyptian ruler I thought was the coolest, and that is hard! Hatshepsut is very cool, not least because she was one of the very few women pharaohs. Thutmose III was a pretty strong ruler, too. And Ramses II was an amazing builder. Gosh. I don’t know if I could pick ONE favorite, but those are three of my favorites.

Adriana, I wouldn’t say that the Theodosia books are about Egyptology, but Theo’s parents are Egyptologists, and she deals a lot with Egyptian artifacts and research. The next book is called, THEODOSIA AND THE LAST PHARAOH.

Amelia asked where I get my ideas. I think ideas are absolutely EVERYWHERE. They are all around us, we have only to open our eyes and pay attention. I have a harder time not being bombarded with ideas. Or forgetting cool ones that I don’t want to forget.   Like you, I have a small notebook I carry with me everywhere, and then I have a lot of notebooks all over the house full of ideas I’d like to turn into a story someday.

One of the things I do, since I have so very many ideas, is to try and be sure an idea is really story-worthy; that it truly has enough meat on its bones to make a good dramatic story. Sometimes ideas are just that, ideas, and don’t really have enough conflict or drama to be developed into an entire book. History and ancient civilizations and anthropology are great sources of ideas for me.

And as for tips for writing, well that is a huge subject. I write a LOT about the writing process on my author blog (http://rllafevers.blogspot.com) and have some tips on the Writer’s Page of my author website, but I will  do a separate post on some writing tips in the next week or two.

Kaitlyn asked if there has been some movie interest in Theodosia, but nothing that’s actually gotten off the ground. Believe me, if and when that happens, I will shout it from the rooftops!

Amelia and Collin both wanted to know how many books are planned, well, I’m not sure. I have tons more ideas for Theodosia adventures so we’ll just have to see how it goes. A lot of that isn’t really up to me, but is decided by the publisher based on sales numbers and that sort of thing.

Thanks for all the great questions!

From Kaitlyn: How are the Nathaniel Fludd Books coming?

Very well, thank you! I have finished up the fourth one and have just received a copy of the cover for it. Here’s a peek at the new cover.

Also, Kaitlyn asked if I have any new ideas for books, and I do! It’s just that I don’t really talk about them until they’re finished, so I can’t say much. Sorry!

Collin, there will be at least five Theodosia books and probably more. As always, with everything in publishing, it depends on sales numbers. The final title for Book Four is THEODOSIA AND THE LAST PHARAOH, and it comes out May of 2011. The working title of Book Five is THEODOSIA AND THE FLAME OF SEKHMET, but that is subject to change. It will be coming out sometime in 2012, most likely.

kalifaziz asked when the next contest is, and I have to think one up first! But you’re right, we are definitely due for one.

kalifaziz aso said: “the ben ue bird is the perfect energy that created the world. you should really be careful for immature reasearch from rambontious anthropologist’

You know, there are actually a number of theories on the origins of the benu bird. Most of what we know we are guessing from clues left behind or trying to decipher earlier writings. Also remember, that Theodosia was working with information from 100 years ago. We have learned about archaeology and interpreting the past since then. So just because Theo’s story of the origin of the benu bird is different from yours, doesn’t make it immature research. She is just using different sources.