“Yes, Father, whatdoesit mean? I’ve never heard that name in association with the golden griffin.”
Her father took the magnifier from her hands and cleaned the glass with his ripped shirttail. “Many years ago, I had the privilege of visiting a hidden temple dedicated to the sun god,Ra, where I discovered an ancient inscription on the underside of an altar. This carving connected the name Kahotep to an animal with the body of a lion and the wings of an eagle.”
“A griffin.” She shook her head. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean the Golden Griffin of Amentuk.”
“True, yet remember, one should never jump to conclusions for or against a foregone conclusion.” He tucked away his magnifier and once again leaned back in his chair. “Now then, according to the inscription, Kahotep was an esteemed priest of Ra, known for his deep devotion and unparalleled knowledge of solar magic. Some say he communed with the sun god himself. There is a story that during a sacred ritual, he transformed into a griffin to fly nearer to his god.”
“I’m sorry”—Edmund shook his head—“but what has this to do with Amentuk?”
“Absolutely nothing.” Her father chuckled.
Ami hefted a sigh. How could she have been so wrong? Edmund would never respect her work now. She could hardly respect herself.
“So,” she drawled glumly, “this isn’t the golden griffin after all.”
Her father rapped the desk with his index finger, a habit he employed when annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Amisi. Of course it is.”
She blinked. “How do you know?”
“Amentuk was not merely a geographical location or a forgotten kingdom. It was the sacred ground where Kahotep performed his ritual. The hidden chamber in which this little beauty was kept was where the divine energies of Anubis and Ra converged—where the golden griffin was believed to have been created. This artifact is powerful beyond any of our imaginations.”
And there he went again, taking Egyptian religion much too far. She scowled. “Oh, Father, like Mother and Grandmother, you know I don’t believe in Egyptian magic. God alone is the all-powerful One.”
He wagged his finger. “Yet you cannot deny the very real powers of Pharoah’s magicians during Israel’s bondage.”
“Smoke and mirrors, Father.”
“Or demonically inspired acts,” Edmund added.
“Yes, well, whatever your beliefs, this is the true Golden Griffin of Amentuk.” He patted the little statue on the wings. “A cursed artifact if ever there was one.”
21
“Ha-ha! So the curse is real. I knew it!”
Ami took a scalding sip of breakfast tea to keep from rolling her eyes at Mr. Fletcher’s outburst. Across the table, her father fingered his chin—which was now freshly shaven. Despite his crooked bow tie and trademark explosion of hair shooting out in all directions atop his head, it appeared he’d slept well last night. She hadn’t. Her mind had run circles trying to figure out how to talk Mr. Khafra into meeting with Mr. Price when she rendezvoused with him.
“Tell me, Mr. Fletcher.” A twinkle danced in her father’s eyes.
She pressed her serviette to her lips, hiding a smirk. She knew that look. Father was on a fact-finding mission.
“What indications led you to believe the curse is genuine? Have you any tangible evidence?”
Edmund strolled over from the sideboard, a plate of toast and jam in hand. Forsaking the head of the table, he sat next to her. “I assure you, Professor, Gil has nothing but conjecture on which to base his assumptions.”
“Ha-ha! What does it matter, old man?” Mr. Fletcher slapped the table, rattling the flatware. “Harrison believes the curse is thecause for the workman breaking his leg, then the maid spooked by a black cat, the crack on my skull, and the continuing mystery of the moving statue.”
Her father angled his head. “What moving statue?”
“The ugly mug in the workroom. Ask your daughter about it.”
Her father arched a brow, silently indicting her as if she’d neglected to tell him about a lost manuscript detailing an ancient civilization. She set down her teacup with a sigh. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it, but for the past few weeks, the statue of Anubis has turned slightly whenever I return to the workroom. Hasn’t happened for days now, though.”
“I’m not surprised.” Mr. Fletcher reached for the teapot, spilling dark liquid on the tablecloth as he sloppily poured a cup. “That curse was too busy frightening poor Miss Woolsey half out of her mind with a ghost, and let’s not forget the influenza outbreak. Harrison ate up those additions like a dish of fine caviar.”
Shoving away his plate, her father leaned back in his seat. “That seems like far too many coincidences to happen in such a short span of time.”
“I rest my case.” A smug smile curved Mr. Fletcher’s lips, taking his moustache along for a ride. “Don’t you think, Professor, that with such power tied to an artifact it ought to sell for quite a pretty penny?”
