Suddenly the guy looked up, his blue eyes catching mine. They made me think of the heart of a glacier, of how, when you touch dry ice with your bare skin, you cannot let go even if you try.
He opened his mouth, and let out a long, low burp.
Disgusted, I turned away as the bartender put a napkin down in front of me. “What can I get you?” she asked.
On my budget, I couldn’t afford a drink, but I also couldn’t wait out the rain without ordering something. “Soda water?”
“She’ll have Hendrick’s, straight up. Twist of lime.” The guy had moved to take the seat beside me, so seamlessly and silently I hadn’t noticed.
The first thing that surprised me was his accent—British. The second was his utter arrogance. “No thanks.”
“It’s on me,” he said. “And I’m usually quite good at guessing someone’s signature drink.” He nodded at a girl in a sequined bustier who was dancing by herself. “Skinny margarita or, God forbid, a rosé spritzer.” Then he gestured to two men in matching motorcycle leather making out. “Fireball whisky.” He pointed to me. “Martini. Did I get it wrong?”
I did prefer gin, but I would have rather died than admit that to him.
“My mistake: three blue cheese olives,” he called to the bartender, and then he turned to me again. “You’re a savory sort of woman, aren’t you.” A grin ghosted over his lips. “Or perhaps you’reunsavory.”
That was enough. Even if the rain and wind had reached hurricane force, it had to be less painful than sitting next to this conceited moron. I reached for my stack of books, but he plucked one from the top and opened it, skimming the hieroglyphs.
“Egyptology. I didn’t see that coming.” He handed me back the book. “Are you an ancient artifact of cultural significance?” he murmured, leaning a fraction closer. “Because I dig you.”
I blinked. “Does that line actuallyeverwork?”
“Fifty-fifty,” he said. “I have a backup. How about I’ll be the cultural relativist and you assume the missionary position?”
“I’m glad you’re into history, because that’s what you’re about to be.” I took a long sip of the martini and hopped off the barstool. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Wait.” He touched my arm. “Let me start over without the BS. I’m Wyatt.”
“Liar.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your friends called you Mark.”
“Ah, that’s a nickname, short for the Marquess of Atherton.”
“You’rea marquess?”
“Well, no.” He hesitated. “The marquess is my father. I’m merely an earl.” He lifted his glass to mine, clinking the rim. “English through and through, all the way back to William the Conqueror, I’m afraid, and inbred ever since.” He flashed a smile then, a real one, as if letting me in on a joke. Suddenly I understood how he had gotten to be such an entitled dick. It had nothing to do with being an earl. It was that when he smiled—wide and almost apologetic—people probably fell all over themselves.
“So,” he said. “You are…?”
I set my glass down on the bar. “Leaving,” I replied.
—
THE NEXT MORNING,I was the first one in the small seminar room where Ian Dumphries, the head of Egyptology at Yale, had invited all of this year’s graduate students to kick off the academic year. I’d already met him during interviews when I was applying to the doctorate program. Unlike many other Egyptologists, he didn’t focus only on one narrow facet of the discipline, such as mud brick architecture or the battle of Kadesh or Egyptian grammar. He published widely about all sorts of topics: the Book of Two Ways, Middle Kingdom archaeology, the history of Egyptian religion, and even an occasional demotic ostracon. Given what I hoped to write for my dissertation, I wanted a mentor who was open-minded. I found Dumphries utterly brilliant and equally terrifying, so I was surprised when he greeted me by name. “McDowell,” he said. “Welcome to Yale.”
The biggest reason I had come to this university was because I knew that here I would get to work at Deir el-Bersha. Back in the 1890s, the necropolis had been the domain of a British Egyptologist, Percy E. Newberry, who worked with Howard Carter (of later Tutankhamun fame). The oversight of it had changed hands many times before 1998, when Yale acquired the concession, which was supervised by Professor Dumphries.
Five more graduate students entered, tangled in a messy knot of conversation. There were only seven of us in the entire department at Yale, which had been another selling point for me. They sat down at the seminar table, chatting with an easy familiarity. I was the only new doctoral candidate this year.
“Good to see you’ve all survived another summer,” Dumphries said. “I’d like to introduce our newest sacrifice, Dawn McDowell. We’ve poached her from Chicago. Why don’t you all give her a thumbnail introduction of who you are and how you got here?”
The roots of my curiosity absorbed the schools they’d studied at, their dissertation topics. Just as the last student was wrapping up, the door burst open. Wyatt Armstrong strode in, balancing a box of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and another of Munchkins. “Sorry I’m late. It’s a long and sordid story involving a cement mixer, a crying infant, and a Komodo dragon, but instead of boring you with all that I come bearing conciliatory pastries and mediocre coffee.”
I stared, my heart pounding, calculating the odds. In a school with 7500 graduate students, how could I possibly wind up in a tiny department with the one person I’d hoped to never see again?
