“That being the case...” She circled a cluttered desk and planted her hands atop two stacks of books. “I have both bad and good tidings for you.”
“Intriguing. Start with the former—for things are often not as bad as they seem—and then I should like to hear the good.”
“Very well.” She tipped her chin. “Unfortunately, Professor Dalton is indisposed for another six weeks at a dig in the Biban el-Muluk valley. There is no possible way he could accept your offer.”
“Hmm. That is a problem.” He scrubbed his knuckles along his jaw, thinking aloud. “Those antiquities must be priced and moved within a month. It never pays to sit on a shipment overlong, and the funds are needed.”
“Well, you can call me Miss Problem Solver, then.” She grinned. “I have just the solution for you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You know of another Egyptologist for hire?”
“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
Instant admiration flared at her adept play of bandying his words against him. “I am afraid I am at a loss, Miss...?”
“I am the professor’s daughter.” She threw back her shoulders, a soldier at attention. “Miss Ami Dalton at your service.”
Well. That was a twist he hadn’t seen coming. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Dalton.” He dipped his head. “But how does that solve my problem?”
“I, sir, am a rescuer of forgotten fragments, a story guardian of the past, a fervent believer in bringing history to life for the masses. There is no one on this campus who knows as much about Egyptian relics as I do. I grew up living and breathing artifacts.” She swept her hand around the room—though itdidn’t do much to prove her point. He wouldn’t give two shillings for the lot of eclectic items filling the small space.
“If Mr. Price has a shipment that needs an accurate inventory and appraisal, I’m the woman for the job. I have a bachelor of art degree from Lady Margaret Hall, I currently work with the Ashmolean Museum’s Egyptian department, and I have studied at my father’s knee since a young girl. You won’t find anyone in all of Oxfordshire who knows as much about Egyptology as I do. Well, except for my father, that is. And as I’ve already stated, he is not here.”
He inhaled deeply. He’d been trying to avoid women, not hire one. “I am not so sure—”
“We’ll just see about that.” She rummaged through the books on the desk, then held out a thick one. “Here. Quiz me.”
He cocked his head. “Pardon?”
“Clearly you have doubts. I mean to put them at an end. Ask me about anything.” Leaning across the desk, she pushed the book into his hands.
She was a determined little firebrand, he’d give her that. He’d play her game, although with much trepidation. He paged to a random chapter and scanned the first paragraph, praying to find some words he could decipher. Sweat sprung out on his brow. He hated this weakness. It was a chink in his armor. Unmanly. Humiliating.
God, please, do not shame me in front of this woman. Help me to trust in Your strength, not my own—for in this particular instance, I have none.
He continued scanning and ... perfect. A sketch with numbers beneath. Numbers were always easier than letters. He peered at her. “When was the Great Sphinx of Giza discovered?”
“Oh, bosh! Please don’t go so easy on me. I am no novice, sir.” Removing a ratty conquistador hat that looked as if it had died in the Spanish Inquisition, she sank onto the now-cleared-off chair and laced her fingers beneath her chin. “The Italian Giovanni Battista supervised an archaeological dig in 1817, atwhich point the Great Sphinx was first uncovered all the way up to its chest.”
“And let’s say by some miraculous movement of God that you were able to come into possession of that magnificent artifact. How much would you value it at for resale?”
She blew out a huff. “What a ridiculous question. It is beyond value, sir.”
“Mmm. Fair enough.” He flipped to another page, looking for something more obscure yet readable, leastwise to him. And ... victory. Another sketch, this time with small words describing it. “What is the name of the dolls that are placed in tombs as servants in the afterlife?”
Her shoulders stiffened, and her voice dropped an octave. “Who sent you here?”
Odd. Hadn’t he made clear his business? “As I said, I have a shipment that needs—”
“Yes, yes.” She fluttered her fingers at him as she dashed to the door. Craning her neck, she swept a gaze along both sides of the corridor.
“Is there a problem, Miss Dalton?”
“Hopefully not.” Tugging down her garish bodice, she resumed her seat.
“Say,” he drawled. “You’re not trying to stall on answering the question, are you? If you don’t know the answer, there’s no shame in admitting it.”
Pah! What a hypocrite. As if he’d admit to the difficulty he had with reading. Granted, poetry had helped his affliction, but his lack when it came to the written word still haunted him.
