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"But keep your eyes keen, eh?" His gaze swept the graveyard like the swing of a scythe. "For all we know, the Shadow Broker might yet be waiting to spring."

*  *  *

A twig in the mouth was as pleasant a sensation as gravel mashed into one's cheek—and a bruised one at that. Stifling a groan, Ami Dalton spit out the small stick, then pushed up to sit. Well. That hadn't gone exactly as planned.

Fingering the soreness in her jaw, she rose on stiff legs. Oh, but a hot soak in a rose-scented bath would be a welcome diversion this night. With quick sweeps of her hands, she dusted herself off, then glowered at a large tear in her hem. Must bullies always use force to get what they wanted? Then again, in order to bring history to life for the masses, one must be willing to face danger now and then—or so her father always said.

She huffed a disgusted puff of air as she picked her way through the maze of tombstones. The rear gate, while out of the way, was the safer route if Mr. Brudge and his hammer man came back. A beauty of a headache pounded in her temple as she upped her pace. Mr. Dandrae should have investigated this pair more thoroughly before suggesting she work with them. Such slipshod connections weren't like him... unless he'd taken a larger-than-usual cut of the profits. Possible. He was a consummate businessman even if his dealings were sometimes on the wrong side of the law. Perhaps Mr. Brudge had paid him too handsomely to refuse, or perhaps the man owned a little dirt on Mr. Dandrae. Regardless, Mr. Dandrae would hear of the heavy-handed horseplay that'd gone on tonight and make sure it didn't happen again, or she'd pull her business from him. 

Hinges screeched like demons in the night as she opened the cemetery gate. Ahead sat a black cab with an even blacker horse hitched to it. The animal pawed the ground, a massive snort misting from his nostrils in the glow of the coach's lanterns. 

"Ready to leave, miss?" the driver called from his seat. 

"Yes, please." She boarded, taking care to tuck in her gown before shutting the door. No sense adding tear upon tear to the already battered fabric.

Sinking against the seat, she nearly closed her eyes. Yet no. This was a time not for rest but for celebration. With one quick movement, she pulled out the small bundle she'd jammed up her sleeve, then unwrapped the ancient shabti doll, the same shape and size of the rock she'd left inside the satchel Mr. Brudge stole. Mr. Clampstone would bounce on his toes when he got his hands on this gem. Another prize for the Ashmolean Museum's Egyptian collection and another step forward in her career to becoming a recognized Egyptologist. After six months of her identifying and acquiring unique pieces, Mr. Clampstone ought to be offering her that part-time Egyptologist position any day now. Which would be a boon. And yet even with such a title, she'd still be nowhere near gaining a smidgeon of the respect her father enjoyed. She'd never become a team member on an Egyptian dig without such respect. A sigh leaked out of her.

But even so, she smiled as she re-wrapped the precious relic. If nothing else, the Shadow Broker had maintained her reputation, and for now, that would have to be enough.

CHAPTER TWO

Hmm. A yellow what? 

Frond? 

Wand? 

Vagabond? 

Bah!

Tipping his head back against the velvet railcar seat, Edmund Price closed his eyes and gave in to the clickety-clack-clack of the train's wheels. It wasn't much more than half past nine in the evening, but even so he was weary of such a long journey. Usually poetry engaged his mind. Not tonight.

Outside the door to his private car, feminine giggles tittered like a gathering of hens. He opened one eye, and as he expected, a folded slip of paper slid beneath the door. A sigh deflated his lungs. He didn't need to retrieve the thing to know it dripped with some sort of floral eau de toilette. Loopy handwriting would entreat him to rendezvous in the dining car or invite him to call at such-and-such an address whenever he chanced to be in town. Such was the case ever since word got out that he'd left India. Women in gowns of all sizes, shapes, and colours had dogged his heels halfway across the world.

Knuckles rapped against the door. "Mr. Price?" 

A male voice at least.

Setting aside his notepad, he opened the door. Behind the porter a few squeals rang out.

"There he is!"

"Ooh, he is a looker."