The Lady’s Guide to Egyptian Curses (The Lady’s Guide to Love #7)

Prologue

The Egyptian desert, north of Amarna

The clouds shrouding the moon helped Onora slip through the tent encampment undetected. Only now, descending the ramp between tall banks of sand, making her entrance into the temple, did she dare uncover her lantern.

Even by its meager light, the palette of yellow, turquoise, and apple green was remarkable, hues painted more than three thousand years ago within the monumental pylon walls, evoking a frieze of Nile reeds, palms and lotus blossom, crocodiles and hippopotami, and the barely clad figures of men and women.

She moved from the confined space to an open courtyard—the one portion of the temple she knew from above.

For months, she’d watched as the men heaved their buckets of sand, sending them out first via a chain of hands, then vertically, on ropes and pulleys, uncovering portion by portion the smooth limestone of the floor.

It was strange to think how long all this had been buried beneath the sand, like the rest of the ancient city, located to the south.

Hearing a distant shout, Onora cloaked the lamp once more and darted behind one of the perimeter columns, squeezing between its bulk and a solid wall of stone—once built to keep out prying eyes, now shoring up the weight of sand beyond.

Her caution was unwarranted, for none appeared to follow her.

Still, she kept to the darkest portion of the courtyard, moving stealthily.

Her triumph rose as she reached the far side, slipping into the hypostyle of the temple.

This offering hall was modest in size compared to the courtyard, though still impressive.

Here, soaring columns ran through the central portion, densely engraved with hieroglyphs.

How she wished for greater illumination than her paltry lantern, that she might see the decoration her father had told her spanned the ceiling.

The whole night sky had been painted upon a layer of plaster, the constellations each in their place, symbols of the order of the universe—influencing all aspects of life, connecting the divine and the earthly.

However, despite its majesty, it was not for a glimpse of this place that she’d come.

All that she’d seen so far was freely spoken of and, soon, when her father deemed the site safe, he’d bring her in himself. Yet the final room—the sanctuary—he refused to be drawn upon.

The wooden gates were still intact, though unsecured. With effort, she pulled them open and, standing upon the threshold, peered in.

The darkness was still and silent, but her lantern illuminated several solid shapes, each about three feet tall and rectangular.

Sarcophagi? In a temple?

Where Onora stood now reached far beyond the external excavations, an untold weight of sand remaining upon the roof.

She’d always felt herself to be stout-hearted.

Nevertheless, she wasn’t brave enough to close the doors, shutting herself within the sacred room.

Against all logic, she feared being unable to push them open again.

Her mind strayed to the possibility of being trapped, the chamber growing stale and musty, the lamp extinguishing.

It was stifling. Her jacket was too tight and the neck of her blouse choking. She yanked at the collar and several dainty buttons tore away. Gripping the doorway, she pressed her head to the cool, hard stone.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, and I must see what’s here.

I need to see.

She moved forward, past the slabs. There was another portion of open floor and then…Some twenty feet tall, the statue was a naked woman clutching snakes in both hands, and with a crescent moon over her head.

Who are you?

Not Isis, for she would have wings. Not Sekhmet, either.

The latter was associated with snakes, often having a cobra crowning her head, but bore the facial features of a lioness.

Onora had a sense of the statue’s painted eyes boring into her, as if taunting her to say its name, and then to bow down.

The puzzling thing was that the goddess—whoever she might be—shouldn’t be there at all.

From all Onora knew of their site, on the far outskirts of the ancient city of Akhetaten, all temples would have been built at the behest of Pharaoh Akhenaten, as part of his plan to solely worship the creator sun-god Aten.

If any statue were to occupy the sanctuary, it would be one of the pharaoh himself—or a sun-disk, its rays becoming hands holding ankhs, as symbolized life.

Onora prided herself on her knowledge of Egyptology, having studied everything since the days of Napoleon’s invasion, then Belzoni and Champollion, through to the recent discoveries west of Luxor and those south of their own dig, but this filled her with confusion.

In her wonderment, she’d almost failed to notice a sixth sarcophagus, placed slightly apart and directly before the statue. Setting her lantern upon the lid, she saw that it bore an embellishment absent from the others: a line of twelve small ovals, embedded in the stone.

Running her finger over the protrusions, she was surprised to find them warm to the touch.

What are they made of?

Leaning in, she determined them to be some shade of red, slightly mottled.

Red jasper or carnelian?

Drawing the lantern closer, the details became apparent.

They’re etched in the form of beetles!

That made sense, if this truly was a sarcophagus.

Whoever was entombed within would have a scarab amulet placed directly over their heart, inscribed with magical spells.

She found this aspect of Egyptian mythology both fascinating and horrifying—the idea of the heart being weighed against the Feather of Truth once the deceased reached the final gates into the afterlife.

One’s heart would desire to confess its ill deeds, but the charmed amulet bound it to silence.

Still, she’d never heard of someone having a host of decorative scarabs like this.

Looking into the statue’s unrelenting gaze, Onora felt her own heart speed. She was too young, surely, to have amassed a great many sins, yet she had a sense of the unknown goddess looking into her soul, searching there.

And finding something dark?

Onora trembled.

She wants to find that place inside me.

The voice that filled her mind seemed not to be her own.

Everyone has the potential for darkness. A corner of their heart that’s selfish, jealous, vengeful even.

The hot, constricted feeling came over her again, making her want to tear the clothes from her body, to prostrate herself on the floor.

Leave me alone!

Falling against the sarcophagus, her fingers raked the scarabs. Her nail pried one upward and she closed her hand about the thing, though it seemed to sear her flesh, branding itself into her palm as her fist curled tight. She slumped down, moaning with fear and pain.

“Onora! What in damnation are you doing!” A figure strode forward, his lantern near blinding her. “Get up from the floor!”

“Father?” She managed to croak the word, and with it, the strange, all-consuming heat receded.

Sir Montague snapped at his daughter. “Do you know how worried I was, and how humiliated, having one of the night watchmen fetch me to say you were skulking about. I guessed immediately you’d be here.”

She blinked as he bent over her. “I just wanted to see. I didn’t mean to…” Her feeble pleading seemed to infuriate him more.

“We’re leaving.” Snatching up her lantern, he propelled her from the chamber, his grip firm above her elbow. Not until they were halfway across the open courtyard did he pause, releasing his hold, almost pushing her from him.

“I don’t understand…” Never had Onora seen him like this; never heard him shout—at her or anyone else.

“It’s all right, child.” He heaved a sigh, the ire draining from his features. “You’re safe. There’s no harm done.”

She rubbed at her arm, not yet trusting him.

The scarab!

It was still there in her palm, though cool now, but she dared not show it to her father.

She fought the wobble in her voice. “It shouldn’t be there, should it, that statue? Nor the sarcophagi. Who are they?”

“We don’t know, as yet.” Her father didn’t meet her eye.

Why are you lying to me?

“I’m sorry, my dear.” He shook his head, looking every one of his three and sixty years. “You’re at a difficult age. If only Eleanor was still with us…”

What has my age to do with anything? Or my mother?

“When you’re older, you’ll understand; when you’re married.” Her father was deflecting again.

As to marriage, it was the subject upon which Onora could never argue.

The wealthy lord who funded their dig had retreated to Cairo while they undertook the monotonous task of clearing the sand covering the temple but was due back any time now.

She knew little of him, other than he was titled and in need of a wife, his first having died some time previously without having presented issue.

Onora had youth and, she was told, the sort of looks that would be considered beautiful, once she’d grown into womanhood—her golden-red hair being particularly unusual.

Moreover, she was accustomed to life in the desert, having accompanied her father since the earliest age.

She supposed that was important, since his lordship seemed to prefer this part of the world to his family seat in Northumbria.

It was the sort of match every woman apparently desired, and yet, when Onora thought of the man to whom she was promised, she felt foreboding.

He was a mystery to her, as much as she was a mystery to herself, and she couldn’t imagine, even for one moment, how it would be to be married—to him, or anyone else.

“In any case, the marriage shan’t take place until you reach one and twenty.

Your betrothed is a patient man and if, when the time comes, you are so very much against the idea, he has sworn to release you.

” Sir Montague gave a small frown. “Though I hope you’ll be sensible, my dear.

You are but seventeen and have led a strange life, I’m aware.

Believe me when I say such an opportunity is unlikely to come again. ”

Her father was safeguarding her future, as was his duty, and she knew she ought to be grateful.

If his motivation was also stirred by the thought of some as-yet-unborn grandson one day holding the title of marquess, she could hardly hold that against him.

Their own lineage was the most watered-down sort, hailing from a minor Irish viscountcy.

“Come, we both should be asleep.” Her father handed her one of the lanterns. “I hope you may pardon me, Onora, for any…curtness.” He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I do my best.”

“Forgive me too.” She kissed him lightly upon the cheek. “It was impetuous of me.” Truly, she wished she’d never left her tent this night.

At her father’s gesture she walked ahead, toward the gateway and the ramp, leading out of the submerged dig site. Reaching the top, she waited for him, making his way slowly across the wooden planks.

As the sand rising steeply either side began to crumble, there was no time to shout warning. Even had she done so, there would have been no escape.

The first trickle swiftly became a deluge. If the man who fell beneath that torrent uttered any last words, they were buried with him.