Free Wrapped by Jennifer Bradbury Page A

last season,” I lied. “I know the glyphs cannot be read, but I was wondering if you could tell me something about the object itself.”
    The young Egyptologist examined it closely. “Demotic,” he announced.
    “Pardon me?”
    “They’re not glyphs. These are demotic letters—much more recent than glyphs. The Rosetta Stone bears both,” he said. “You’ve heard of the Rosetta Stone, I reckon?”
    “Of course,” I answered, glancing round the room. “But where is it? Last time I visited—”
    “Off display,” he interrupted me. “Temporarily. For cleaning.”
    I nodded. “But it will not help us with the script on that, will it?” I asked, pointing at the linen trailing from the dog’s head.
    He shook his head. “Don’t need it. I’m fluent enough in reading demotic text to tell you this is gibberish,” he said proudly.
    “What?”
    “Random characters. Bit of hocus-pocus to look the real thing. Like the dog’s head. Actually, it’s a jackal—a common motif in Egyptian art, easy mark for forgers.”
    “But how can you be so certain after such a cursory examination?” I asked, pressing toward him.
    He tapped the metal with his fingernail. “This is iron. Iron was dear in Egypt, almost as precious as silver and gold. Maybe even more so, since they couldn’t mine for it. What iron they did have was what they recovered from meteorites. Early Egyptians called it the metal of heaven, and didn’t spend it on pieces like this one.” He tossed the object roughly on the cart while keeping his focus on me. It landed dangerously close to the lantern, the metal clinking against the lantern’s base, the scrap of linen resting across the glass.
    He crossed his arms and stared at me. I knew that look from quarrels with my brothers. He was taunting me.
    “If I may be so bold, could you tell me again your position with the museum?” I asked. If this object was not important, then it meant that I’d been wrong about someone searching for it.
    “My position?” he repeated, suddenly defensive. “I’m an Egyptologist with special interest in the Rosetta Stone.”
    I eyed him again. Something was amiss. He was too young to keep company with true academics. Plus, he’d been relegated to menial clerical work a few nights before at the party.
    “And your name, sir?”
    He sighed. “Stowe, for what it’s worth. Truth is, there are dozens of shavers out there more than willing to capitalize on the public’s current fascination with Egypt rather than—” He turned to look again at where he’d tossed my dog’s head on his tray. He stopped speaking abruptly.
    “Rather than what?” I asked him, my patience wearing thin.
    He said nothing, merely reached for his magnifying glass and bent over the jackal’s head. He leaned in close enough that the glass caught the lantern light and refracted on the cases behind him.
    “The devil . . . ,” he said quietly. “There’s something here.”
    “Of course there’s something there—you simply cannot read it. Perhaps you could be so kind as to point me toward someone who can?” I said, reaching for the piece.
    Stowe ignored me, picking up the metal shape and stretching the scrap of linen taut between his two hands. He then proceeded to hold it closer to the lantern, pressing it flat against the glass.
    “I cannot make it out,” he said, sounding painfully confused.
    “I believe you established that several moments ago—,” I began.
    “No,” he interrupted. “I can’t ’cause it’s in French.”
    I was now thoroughly convinced that this Egyptologist was little more than a dustman. “Mr. Stowe, if that were French, I’d have no reason to trouble you—”
    “Would you listen? Not the message you brought me,” he said, handing me a magnifying glass and making room at the cart. “This one.”
    He repeated his motion with the scrap stretched across the warm glass of the lantern. The letters he had dismissed as meaningless remained, but incredibly