Free The Osiris Curse by Paul Crilley

You wish you knew what I got up to.”
    Tweed pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulders. He strolled over to join her. “Barnaby get you out?”
    Octavia nodded. “Were you taken in as well?”
    â€œEarly on this morning. I think they came for you after they let me go.”
    â€œSo what’s going on?” Octavia asked. “Why are the Ministry interested in this?”
    â€œI’ve no idea. I couldn’t get Barnaby alone to talk to him. But I think we’re going to find out soon enough. We’ve been summoned to Ravenstone Manor.”
    â€œWhen?”
    Tweed reached into his longcoat and pulled out his fob watch. He flicked open the lid. “About an hour ago.”

    They jounced along the busy road in Tweed’s steamcoach. He’d had it fixed up a bit since Octavia had every-so-slightly damaged it when trying to evade the Ministry, but it was still a pile of rubbish. The smoke it spewed into the air was dirty grey and stank of burning metal. The rear space, where he and Barnaby had once prepared for their fake séances, was even more cluttered now that they had stopped conning the rich and gone legitimate. Tweed now used it to refine and build more of his little inventions. For instance, he’d made his spiders—clockwork arachnids used to spy on people—even smaller, enabling them to be hidden in even more obscure locations.
    â€œI’ve been thinking,” said Octavia.
    â€œOh oh,” said Tweed. “You should be careful with that. Everyone knows women shouldn’t think. Overheats their delicate brains.”
    â€œMost amusing. I’ve been thinking about that symbol on the ring. It’s definitely hieroglyphics, agreed? So we should go to the British Museum and speak to one of their experts.”
    Tweed didn’t answer. She glanced over and saw him frowning through the dirty glass window at the street ahead.
    â€œIs there a particular reason you’re not responding?”
    Still nothing.
    â€œHave you lost the ability to talk? Are you thinking very hard? Are you contemplating my genius? Do you have a stomach ailment? Stop me when I’m close.”
    â€œYou ruined my fun,” said Tweed sourly.
    â€œWhat fun? What are you talking about?” He didn’t say anything more, so Octavia sighed and stared out the window, watching the snow-covered hansom cabs, the streets covered with wet mud and slush, the people hunched away in their coats, faces cut in half by voluminous scarves. She frowned. “Where are we? This isn’t the way to Ravenstone.”
    â€œI know that.”
    Tweed turned the steamcoach to the left and stopped it up against the pavement. Octavia peered out of the window and saw the massive Greek pillared frontage of the British Museum.
    â€œThe museum?”
    â€œYes,” said Tweed. “To speak to the head of Egyptology. I was going to surprise you with my cleverness, but you had to go and think for yourself.”
    Octavia smiled and patted his arm. “Don’t worry, Tweed, I’m always surprised when you show cleverness.”
    â€œHo ho,” muttered Tweed. “Hear that? That’s me laughing at your wit.” He shook his head sadly. “You really should learn to accept the fact that I’m the thinker in this partnership.”
    He climbed out of the steamcoach, pulling his scarf over his mouth. Octavia followed and they hurried across the road.
    â€œSo if you’re the thinker, what am I?” asked Octavia as they jogged up the stairs and moved between the massive pillars, heading in through the wide doors of the Museum.
    â€œNot really sure yet,” said Tweed, his voice muffled. “I mean, it’s not as if you even make a good cup of tea.”
    Octavia punched him in the arm.

    The office of the professor of Egyptology, a man called Cyril Bainbridge, was immaculately neat. Octavia could tell that Tweed didn’t approve.