I bristled. “You don’t hold the monopoly on the Book of Two Ways.”
“Iknowthat,” he said. “But still. Hardly anyone focuses on Middle Egypt.”
“That’s why I like it.”
“That’s why I like it, too,” Wyatt snapped. “And I was good at it. The best, even. It was like being the only child, the golden boy. But then you arrive with your crazy microcosm ideas and suddenly Dumphries decides he wantstwoTAs that year, instead of one. He invites you to come on the dig, even though first-year grad students never come. Fast-forward to now, when he’s grooming you to be his little protégée—”
“What are youtalkingabout?” I exploded. “You’re so far up his ass you’ve probably built a condo.”
“Because I can’t risk ceding any more ground toyou,” he argued.
I was roiling with the shock of learning that Wyatt was just as jealous of me as I was of him.
“Haven’t you noticed that when visitors come to the dig site, you’re the one he asks to give them a tour? Or he asks me to haulmaqtafs while you get to trace inscriptions? He notices you, when he’s supposed to be noticingme. And fuck it, Olive,” he said angrily. “I can’t help but notice you, too.”
As aggravated as Wyatt’s words were, his touch was the opposite. His hand came up to my hair, rubbing a strand between his fingers. His eyes were the sea.This is how people drown,I thought.
This time, when he kissed me, I kissed him back.
—
IT WAS Arare feeling, being allied with Wyatt instead of being at each other’s throats. We walked together to Djehutyhotep’s tomb, trading whispers, trying to come up with a way to rediscover the dipinto and make it look completely happenstanceandnet us equal credit for the find. We tossed out a variety of scenarios, but ultimately decided the best way was to replicate exactly what had happened: Wyatt wandering off, me spotting the ink on stone.
The next morning we worked in the outer chamber, tracing on Mylar in uncharacteristic silence. At one point, Wyatt snuck up behind me. “That’s not right,” he announced.
I pivoted, glaring at him. “Yes it is.”
“It’s a triliteral sign,” he said. “Not a scepter.”
I hesitated. I was used to Wyatt’s transliteration being better than mine, but I was confident about this interpretation. “You’re wrong—”
“I know,” Wyatt murmured, and suddenly, quickly, he winked. “I just thought we should act like our normal selves.”
“In that case, stop being a dick,” I replied.
He laughed. I watched him walk back to another wall of the tomb, where he was working, wondering how he could keep so calm. Every time I looked at the inspector chatting with Dumphries, I broke out in a sweat.
When we broke for a snack, thegaffirserved mint tea. I sat beside Wyatt, imagining what it would taste like on his lips. Dumphries regaled everyone with a story about an excavation at Hierakonpolis that revealed five-thousand-year-old animals like leopards and hippos and elephants buried with their owners.
Then Wyatt bumped my knee with his own. “Nature calls,” he said, rising to his feet, striking out behind thegaffir’s tent. Our makeshift toilet facilities were in awadinear the necropolis that had been carefully checked for antiquities before being designated a bathroom area. Wyatt would be striking out to a different spot, one closer to the Dig House. We were both hoping that the excitement of the discovery would eliminate any questions about why he had walked that far to relieve himself in the first place.
We were also counting on the timing working in our favor—as Dumphries announced that our break was over, I walked back into the tomb with the other grad students and specialists working alongside us. I must have stared at ad-hand sign on the right wall of the outer chamber for five minutes, waiting for Wyatt to return. And then, he burst into the tomb entrance, calling out for Dumphries.
We trekked behind Wyatt to the spot he’d allegedly just found. Mostafa, our inspector, was with us. There was the rock ledge, just like the day before. I was careful not to look at Wyatt, but instead kept my eyes on Dumphries as he crouched down and picked up a sherd from a broken beer jar.
“What are we looking at, Armstrong?” he asked.
“I think it might have been a popular site during the inundation festivals,” Wyatt said.
“Because of a beer jar?” Dumphries said. “We find those in tombs, too.”
I wandered into the crevice of shade, just like we had planned. The dipinto looked different, the light striking it in a way that bleached it out. “Professor Dumphries?” I said. “I think you should take a look at this.”
Dumphries came up beside me, Wyatt flanking my other side. He began to translate the hieratic, showing off, which was completely in character. “Itwasa festival,” Dumphries said, excitement painting his voice. “This is like the dipinti at Hatnub.” He crouched, reading the text aloud twice. Then he stood and slapped his dusty hands against his thighs. “Sometime during the reign of Senwosret, Djehutyhotep II stopped here and slept overnight in the tomb of his ancestor Djehutynakht. We know from a graffito in Sheik Said that there was a Djehutynakht who made a point of caring for earlier tombs, but no one knew where he fit in the family tree, or wherehemight be buried.”
He looked at Wyatt and me, and a smile broke over his face.
“Until now, my chickens.”
