The Ankh of Isis: The Library of Athena, Book 2 Read online

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  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  The Anky of Isis

  Copyright © 2008 by Christine Norris

  ISBN: 1-60504-065-7

  Edited by Lindsey McGurk

  Cover by Christine Clavel

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: July 2008

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  The Ankh of Isis

  Christine Norris

  Dedication

  For Aunt Beth the Wonderful

  Just because.

  There is no Frigate like a Book

  To take us Lands away

  Nor any Coursers like a page

  Of prancing Poetry—

  This Traverse may the poorest take

  Without oppress of Toll—

  How frugal is the Chariot

  That bears the Human soul

  —Emily Dickinson

  Chapter One: Holiday

  Megan stumbled through the formal dining room, still half-asleep, and kicked the stand of a tall Oriental vase.

  “Ow!” She cursed as the pain shot up her leg, and jumped up and down, her foot in her hand.

  Darn, that’s the third time in the last week. Stupid thing. I need to ask Bailey to move that.

  Toe throbbing, she limped from the dining room, into the hall behind it, and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. It was a large, warm place that always smelled inviting. Maggie, the plump Irish woman who cooked for Megan and her father, was busy preparing breakfast.

  “Good morning, miss,” Maggie said cheerfully. She poured water into the coffeemaker and turned it on, then reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of orange juice. “What are you doing up so early on the first day of the holidays?” She set the jug on the counter.

  Megan sat on a stool in front of the kitchen’s center island and rubbed her sore foot. “I’m not up on purpose. Miranda woke me up while she was making the fire in my room.” She picked an apple from the bowl on the counter and took a bite. “I suppose it’s all right, being awake now. I have some things to do today.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Maggie scolded. “What kind of things could you have to do today, child?” She bent over and pulled a tray of fresh rolls from the oven, then tossed her oven mitts on the counter. “Surely your professors didn’t give you homework over the break, did they?”

  Megan swallowed and rolled her eyes. St. Agatha’s College for Girls was much tougher academically than her school in New York City—where Megan had lived until seven months ago—could even dream of being. “Of course they did. Rachel is coming over today, and we’re going to work on our history papers and maybe into town to do some shopping this afternoon.”

  Rachel Cuthbert was Megan’s best friend. They were both in third year at St. Agatha’s. They were in the same academic House, Whitmore, and on the House hockey team. One girl rarely went anywhere without the other. Megan had wanted to go riding today, but Rachel, for some reason, insisted she wanted to get some work done today.

  “Ah.” Maggie nodded with a look of mock seriousness. “Important things, I see. Well, breakfast is almost ready. I think there’s enough time for you to get yourself back upstairs to wash and dress before your da comes down.”

  Megan pushed out her lower lip. “But it’s vacation. If I have to do homework, why can’t I bum around in my PJs for awhile?”

  Maggie cocked an eyebrow and put on that face that always made Megan feel guilty. Megan’s mother, Gwen, died in a car crash four years ago, leaving Megan and her father alone. Since they moved here to The Parthenon, the giant English manor, the cook had become almost like a surrogate mother to Megan.

  She was about to give in to Maggie’s berating when she heard her father in the dining room. There was a thump and a loud curse.

  Megan gave an evil grin. Not only was she happy she wasn’t the only one who had a sore foot, she was spared Maggie’s lecture.

  “Too late, sorry.” Megan dashed out the door. She heard Maggie’s tongue cluck in disapproval just before the kitchen door swung shut.

  Megan finished her apple as she walked through a different door than the one she entered by and into the solarium. It was smaller than most of the other rooms, the floor tiled in terracotta, the outer wall, which faced east, paned in squares of thick glass. It was a cheery room, where she and her father took most of their morning meals. He already sat at the small, round table, perusing the newspaper.

  “Morning, Daddy.” Megan gave him a peck on the cheek. She enjoyed her time with her dad. He worked so hard, sometimes long hours, and she was busy with school. Breakfast and dinner were practically the only times they saw each other.

  His eyes never left the paper. “Good morning, Megums,” he mumbled. “Ready for school?”

  Maggie came in with a tray of rolls, the pitcher of orange juice, a cup of coffee and a small pot of steaming tea. She glanced at Megan as she set the tray on the small table, shook her head and left without a word.

  “Dad, I’m off all week,” Megan said in a gentle tone meant to remind. She reached for the basket of rolls. “It’s Easter holiday. You know, like Spring Break. How could you forget?”

  He folded down the top of the paper and looked across the table. “Is it?” He shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “I’m sorry, Meg. I’ve been so busy with work these last few weeks that everything else has just gotten pushed to the back of my brain.”

  Megan poured herself a glass of orange juice. “Problem with a client?” Her father was an investment banker, and always a little scattered when dealing with a troublesome client. “Who is it—Mrs. Sanderson again?” Mrs. Sanderson was seventy-two years old, very wealthy and hard of hearing. She also thought everyone was constantly trying to rip her off. Whenever she called, Megan’s father had to put everything else on hold until the old bat was satisfied.

  Her father folded the paper in quarters and set it on the table next to his plate. “Nope, not Mrs. Sanderson, thank goodness. This one is still only a potential client. He’s a very wealthy man. Old money, but he’s successful on his own too. I’ve been trying to get him to sign with us for weeks.”

  He picked up his knife and slathered his own roll with Maggie’s special honey butter. “I’m thinking about bringing him here for a day or two. You know, wine and dine him a bit, show him how serious we are about having his business.”

  Megan raised her eyebrows. What was her father thinking? “Bring him here? Why in the world would you want to bring him here—we live in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Why? The English countryside, of course. Fresh air, country living.” He laughed. “Actually, Meg, he’s an archaeologist. Curator of some museum in Berlin. I think he’s a fan of Sir Gregory’s.”

  Her father slurped up the last of his coffee. “He’s hinted around that he wants to come here, and if it will seal the deal, I’ll be happy to have him.”

  Huh? It seemed like an od
d request, to ask to spend time at a complete strangers’ house. Even if it was the home of someone you admired. It struck her as, well, rude. “Whatever. It’s not like we don’t have the room. It could be fun, I guess, to have a guest.” She finished the last bite of her breakfast and decided to drop it. If her father didn’t think it weird, who was she to judge?

  “Glad you think so, because he’s coming tonight.”

  Megan’s jaw dropped. “Uh, Dad? A little warning?”

  “What? I gave you a whole day. He called late last night, and said he would be in London today on other business, so I offered. You just said you’re off from school, so it all works out well.”

  Megan sighed, her most dramatic teenage sigh. “Fine, I guess. Rachel’s coming over, so I’ll see you later. Have a nice day, Dad.” She kissed her father goodbye and went on her way.

  Megan walked back through the dining room, carefully avoiding the vase. She crossed the drawing room, then the lounge with its big leather armchairs in front of a small fireplace.

  As usual, all was quiet here at The Parthenon, which was the odd name given to the enormous English manor where Megan, her father and a small household staff were the only residents. The Montgomerys moved here from New York after her father’s firm gave him a promotion that forced her to leave the only home she had ever known.

  Maggie and the rest of the staff had been here when Megan and her father moved in—they came with the manor. All of them had worked and lived at the Parthenon for many years, most hired by the builder and previous owner of the house, Sir Gregory Archibald.

  Megan slid in her slippered feet across the black and white polished marble floor of the cavernous entrance hall and up the sweeping, grand staircase in the center. On the landing stood an impressive, eight-foot-tall marble sculpture of the Goddess Athena. In one hand she held a long spear, while the other arm reached out toward the front door. On the hand perched an owl.

  The staircase split at the landing, each leading to a different wing of the second floor. Megan went left. At the top hung a portrait. A man in his thirties with brown hair, eyes of brilliant green, a long nose and a rakish grin stared from inside the frame. Sir Gregory, a man who described himself more as an adventurer than an archaeologist.

  Megan liked the portrait. He was what might be described as dashing—he reminded her of the Indiana Jones character from the movies her dad liked so much. He was also a mysterious man who had many secrets, as Megan discovered soon after moving in. Not the least of which was that he spent much of his life collecting mysterious artifacts many people thought did not exist.

  Megan left the painting behind for the long upper hall. Her feet made no sound on the thick Persian carpet runner as she padded past a series of closed oak doors with brass knobs that led to unoccupied bedrooms. She stopped at one, her own bedroom, and went inside. It was gigantic, easily half the size of her old NYC apartment, and had its own walk-in closet and elegant, luxurious bathroom. She flopped on her queen-size four-poster bed and closed her eyes. Because she had been rudely awoken so early, there was still plenty of time before Rachel was due. More than enough for a quick nap.

  Megan awoke with a start. She looked at the clock that sat next to the silver framed picture of her mother on the bedside table. An hour and a half? She had fallen asleep for an hour and a half! Rachel would be here any second.

  Megan jumped up, grabbed her robe and ran to the bathroom. She took the fastest shower of her life, dried herself and brushed her teeth, then ran straight across the room to the closet. She pulled out some jeans, a tee shirt and a hoodie and threw them on.

  She had just pulled her damp auburn curls into a ponytail when the doorbell rang. By the time her feet hit the last step of the grand staircase, Rachel was already inside.

  “Hello, Bailey,” Rachel said to the dour-faced butler. “How are you today?”

  “Good day, Miss.” Bailey closed the door behind her. “I am fine, thank you.”

  “Thanks, Bailey,” Megan said. “I would have gotten it myself.”

  “It is my job, miss.” Bailey gave a stiff bow and walked toward the back of the house. Bailey also had another job within the manor, but they never talked about that particular part of his job description.

  “Hi, Rache.”

  Rachel gave a cheery wave. “Ready?” She wore jeans that accentuated her slim, athletic figure, and a long-sleeved red shirt. Her hair, the color of raven’s feathers, was in a braid that ran down the center of her back. Her school bag was slung over one shoulder, and she shook out an umbrella.

  “It’s raining?” Megan asked. As if in answer, a rumble of thunder echoed through the cavernous house. “Do you remember the last time we actually saw the sun?”

  Rachel giggled. “Come on, Meg. It’s not that bad.”

  “Well it’s not good for people to have so little sunlight. Besides, you grew up here, you’re used to it.”

  “Ha ha. Can we get some study fuel?” Rachel shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. “What’s my girl Maggie got that we could nick from the kitchen?”

  With glasses of iced tea and a platter of sandwiches secured, the girls went upstairs to Megan’s room. Megan pulled her history folder from her bag and leafed through it for the guidelines Professor Livingston, their world-history professor, had given them for their papers. Professor Livingston was also their Head of House, and one of Megan’s favorite teachers, but she was tough. Her papers were notoriously complicated, asking for handfuls of references that demanded hours of research.

  Megan turned to Rachel, who sat on the bed, eating. Her bag was on the bed, closed.

  “Uh, Rache? The bag works better when you open it. That thing there? It’s called a zipper.”

  Rachel gave a small, furtive smile that made Megan nervous. I don’t like that look. That look always means trouble.

  “I have a better idea. Let’s go down to the library.”

  The library on the first floor was big, but spending the day there wasn’t what Megan had in mind. “Why do you want to go there? It’s just a bunch of Sir Gregory’s old books. Up here we have the computer, so we can use the Internet for research. We can see if there are any books to help us with our papers, but I don’t want to work down in that stuffy room all day.”

  Rachel gave her a meaningful look. “Not that library, you dolt. The other library. The Library.”

  Megan raised her brows. “Oh, that library.” The biggest of Sir Gregory’s secrets was that his house sat upon a huge secret library, called The Library of Athena. It was a secret for many reasons, and the only reason Megan and Rachel even knew about it was because they had accidentally found it.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, Rache—”

  “Oh, come on, Megan. You get to go down there whenever you want. I don’t.”

  “But I thought we were working on our papers?”

  “There might be some really interesting books we could use. Pleeaasse?”

  So that’s why she wanted to work on her paper over here! Megan felt a little used, but buckled beneath Rachel’s pleading gaze. She was her best friend, after all, and best friends shared things. “Oh, all right.”

  Rachel giggled and clapped her hands like a child. “Yay. You’re a love.”

  Megan pulled open the top drawer of her dresser. Rachel looked over Megan’s shoulder. “You keep the key to a secret, magical library in your underwear drawer?”

  “Can you think of a better place? Nobody goes into it except Lilly, who does the laundry. And she just puts everything on top and shuts the drawer.” Megan rifled through the drawer and pulled out a long, old-fashioned brass key. “Not that anyone knows I’ve got the key, except you, Claire, Harriet and Bailey. I’m not even sure the rest of the staff knows.”

  Megan had found the key, a cryptic poem and a small journal in a secret compartment beneath one of the hearthstones of the fireplace in her room. According to Bailey, Sir Gregory believed fate would lead the right person to it. W
hen Megan discovered the key, and the Library of Athena, she became the new Librarian. Which meant she was in charge of keeping the library and everything inside it safe. It was a pretty easy job, considering very few people knew it even existed.

  She stuffed the key in her front pocket and shut the drawer. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Two: Invited Guest

  Megan and Rachel stood on the landing in front of the statue of Athena. The only sounds were the steady beat of the grandfather clock in the lounge and the rain as it tapped against the windows in a counterpoint rhythm to the clock.

  Athena was Sir Gregory’s patron goddess, which was why the manor was named after her temple in Athens. She was the Goddess of Knowledge, something with which Sir Gregory apparently identified deeply. Megan wasn’t sure this was the only reason he had chosen her as his patron, but it made sense.

  The statue guarded the entrance to the Library of Athena. It was kind of obvious, but she appreciated the simplicity of it.

  Megan reached up, grabbed the head of the owl that sat in Athena’s hand and pulled it so that the owl, along with Athena’s hand, spun completely around. There was a tiny click from somewhere nearby as a secret mechanism opened a door in the wall behind the statue.

  “Come on.” Megan turned on the flashlight she had taken from the hall cupboard, and pushed the door open. Behind it was a dark, winding stone staircase that led deep below the house. Megan descended, and Rachel followed.

  “Have you been down here, since our…trip?” Rachel asked.

  “Twice,” Megan replied. “Over Christmas break.”

  “You didn’t go into any of the other books, did you?” There were certain, enchanted volumes, in a very special part of the library, where “falling into the story” became frighteningly literal. Megan and Rachel, along with two other friends had found that out the hard way when they were accidentally sucked inside one of Sir Gregory’s books. The books were actually clever hiding places for his collection of magical artifacts. Trapped in his version of Ancient Greece, they searched for the Crown of Zeus, the legendary headpiece of the Greek god that grants all knowledge to the wearer.