Free The Mummy or Ramses the Damned by Anne Rice

beautiful coffin of the mummy.
    The innocent, childlike expression of the golden mask charmed him. Then his eyes moved to the bands of writing thatgirded the lower portion of the figure. Latin and Greek words written as if they were Egyptian hieroglyphs!
    But he was distracted as Hancock of the British Museum called for quiet, tapping a spoon loudly on a crystal glass. Beside Hancock stood Alex, with his arm around Julie, who looked exquisite in her black mourning, her hair drawn severely back from her pale face, revealing to all the world that her features had never needed fancy coifs or other adornments.
    As their eyes met, Elliott gave Julie a little melancholy smile, and saw the immediate brightening in her that always greeted him. In a way, he thought, she is more fond of me than of my son. What an irony. But then his son was staring at these proceedings as if he were utterly lost. And perhaps he was, and that was the problem.
    Samir Ibrahaim appeared suddenly at Hancock’s left. Another old friend. But he did not see Elliott. A bit anxiously, he directed two young men to take hold of the lid of the mummy case and wait for his instructions. They stood with eyes downcast as if faintly embarrassed by the act they were about to perform. And the room went dead silent.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” Samir said. The two young fellows at once hoisted the lid and moved it gracefully to one side. “I give you Ramses the Great.”
    The mummy lay exposed for all to see; the tall figure of a man with arms crossed on his breast, seemingly bald and naked under its thick discoloured wrappings.
    A collective gasp rose from the crowd. In the golden light of the electric chandeliers and the few scattered candelabra, the form was faintly horrible as they always are. Death preserved and mounted.
    There was an uneasy sprinkling of applause. Shudders, even uneasy laughter; and then the thick bank of spectators broke up, some drawing in for a closer look, then backing off as if from the heat of a fire, others turning their backs on the thing altogether.
    Randolph sighed and shook his head.
    “Died for this, did he? I wish I understood why.”
    “Don’t be morbid,” said the man next to him, someone Elliott ought to remember, but didn’t. “Lawrence was happy—”
    “Doing what he wanted to do,” Elliott whispered. If he heard it said even one more time, he would weep.
    Lawrence would have been happy examining his treasure.Lawrence would have been happy translating those scrolls. Lawrence’s death was a tragedy. Anyone who tried to make anything else out of it was a perfect fool.
    Elliott gave Randolph’s arm a gentle squeeze and left him, moving slowly towards the venerable corpse of Ramses.
    It seemed the younger generation had decided en masse to block his progress as they surrounded Alex and Julie. Elliott could hear her voice in snatches as conversation regained its spirited volume all around.
    “…  a remarkable story in the papyri,” Julie explained. “But Father had only begun his translation. I should like to know what you think, Elliott.”
    “What was that, my dear?” He had just reached the mummy itself and he was staring at the face, marvelling at how easily one could discern an expression under so many layers of decomposing cloth. He took her hand now as she moved close to him. Others pressed in, trying to get a good look, but Elliott stood his ground rather selfishly.
    “Your opinion, Elliott, of the whole mystery,” Julie said. “Is this a nineteenth-dynasty coffin? How did it come to be fashioned in Roman times? You know, Father told me once, you knew more about Egyptology than all the men at the museum.”
    He laughed softly to himself. She glanced about nervously to make sure Hancock was nowhere near. Thank God, he was in the thick of his own little crowd, explaining something about those scrolls, no doubt, and the row of exquisite jars along the wall beneath the mirror.
    “What do you think?” Julie