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Jonathan descends upon Evy’s library after lunch. He comes through the back, wishes his favourite mummies a good afternoon, and wanders around the archives for a solid twenty minutes before finally locating Evy at the reference desk. She’s reading a book and there is a half-eaten sandwich before her that she’s no doubt forgotten, even though it is half past 2 o’clock.
Jonathan puts his elbows on the desk, smiles his warmest big-brother smile, and asks for a favour.
“Is this a salary lender?” says Evy. She knows him too well.
“I assure you, our relationship is purely unprofessional!”
“Jonathan,” she says, disappointed, as though Jonathan hasn’t been immune to her saying his name in that tone for nearly three decades.
“You just need to take a look at it and tell him that it’s a fake, so he will sell it back to me.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, tell him with authority.”
“Is it a fake?”
“Absolutely,” says Jonathan.
“Then he could have it appraised anywhere, couldn’t he?”
“All right, it’s from the First Intermediate Period.”
Evy is a darling, the best baby sister a man could ever ask for, and one of the best things about her is how endearingly easy she is to distract. Jonathan could pick her pocket in half a second, so long as there were something sufficiently ancient and Egyptian before her. Not that he would pick her pocket, obviously, owing to Evy being his favourite person in the world (or at the very least his approximate favourite, lest he be committing more lies than strictly necessary against the nice girl two blocks over who this morning sold him his new Panama hat at considerable discount). Furthermore if he were ever to steal from Evy, he suspects their dearly departed parents would return from the grave for the sole purpose of expressing their literally undying disappointment, and then Jonathan would be forced into destitution in order to support a drinking regimen even more spectacular than the one he currently enjoys.
“It is not from the First Intermediate Period,” says Evy, hesitatingly.
“It has the cartouche of Neferkare.”
“First or second?”
Jonathan hasn’t the slightest idea. Were there two? “Second,” he says.
Evy purses her lips. “That should be appraised by a museum,” she says.
“And then put into a museum,” Jonathan agrees, soothingly. “Those damn private collectors. No good to anybody.”
Evy makes a show of her consideration. “All right, fine,” she says.
“Splendid,” says Jonathan, relieved. Evy is such a star. He doesn’t know what he would ever do without her, mostly because he would never in his life allow such an idea over the threshold, so to speak, let alone actually entertain it.
He leans forward on his elbows and drops his voice to a stage whisper. “He came in five minutes ago, he’s standing right over there, he believes your name is Dorothy.”
“What?” says Evy, alarmed. Jonathan squints into the middle-distance.
“Or maybe Doris?”
“I can’t believe you-”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t-”
They both dissolve into a chorus of friendly hellos and good mornings, because Mr. Humbert abandoned his post near the door and has now joined them at the reference desk.
Mr Humbert is a good eight inches taller than Jonathan, even counting Jonathan’s beautiful new hat, and at least four times as wide around. He’s from Birmingham, although he’s lived in and around Cairo for ages. He walks around in the Egyptian heat wearing a full suit, carrying a swordstick, and sweating through his white waistcoats. His mustache is… considerable.
Despite being out here so long, Humbert knows so little about archeology and ancient Egyptian history that Jonathan probably could have convinced him the amulet was a fake, if he hadn’t already done the direct opposite yesterday morning. For Evy, this should be a breeze.
Jonathan makes the introductions. When Mr. Humbert takes Evy’s hand in his giant paw, he frowns. “I thought you said her name was Louise?”
He snaps his fingers. That was it. “Louise,” he says. “Ah, yes. It’s, ah, Doris Louise Carter. Which do you prefer, dear?”
“Louise, if you please,” says Evy.
“Ha ha ha,” says Jonathan. “Louise, you are a hoot! Mr. Humbert, the amulet…?”
The man takes out a little jewelry box with the amulet inside; two clinking blue glazed votive eyes attached together with what Jonathan now suspects is the original string. It fits neatly in the palm of Evy’s hand, and when she places it there, her eyes get so wide that Jonathan has to stomp on her foot.
From there, she mmms and hmmmms for several minutes, all while tracing the carved lines of the eyes with her index finger and muttering to them about the rise of the Heracleopolitan kings. Jonathan anxiously bobs around the edges of her commentary, adding innocuous little lies meant to be reminders about their plan for the big important lie, like: wasn’t that a thousand years after Tenth Dynasty, though? And: say, wasn’t Mo’alla south of Memphis, not Luxor?
The thing about Mo’alla is enough for Evy to glance up, frowning. Her face clears and she does not say “oh right our plan to defraud this salary lender so my brother isn’t tossed into the Nile” but Jonathan can plainly see her think it. He gives Mr Humbert a nervous smile. Humbert’s mustache doesn’t even twitch.
“Yes,” says Evy, “this is a very interesting find in-” She trails off, having just flipped the eyes onto their backs. “Oh,” she says.
“Oh?” says Humbert.
“Oh dear,” says Evy, regretfully. “I’m afraid this no good.”
“No good,” echoes Humbert.
“No good at all,” says Evy. She lifts the amulet up and waves it at Humbert, who goes slightly cross-eyed attempting to follow it. “See here,” she says. “Notice the distinct absence of a deity - no cartouche, no artist’s depiction. No authentic amulet from the period this work purports to be from would ever have been produced without one. The call to a specific deity is the key to the afterlife, you see,” she says, warming to her hoodwinking. “Without one you shan’t be recognized and all your other preparations would be for naught; a single error like this one and none of your grave goods would follow you across. Imagine your cattle milling about in the afterlife without you!”
Jonathan feels a warm glow of sibling pride. “Poor lost cows,” he says. “No god to guide them.”
“No deity to guide the deceased to their cattle,” Evy corrects, having apparently spun on the spot a full-fledged false mirror world of Egyptian funerary customs in her head, and determined that Jonathan should get it right.
Humbert’s moustache droops. “Are you certain?”
“Not much point in taking this with you to the afterlife with no deity,” says Evy, and she and Jonathan both laugh.
Humbert doesn’t laugh. Humbert reaches out and takes the amulet from Evy’s hand.
“Just there, see?” says Evy. “On the back. Or I suppose you can’t see it because it’s not there, and that’s the problem. Other than that, it’s not a bad replica.”
Humbert frowns deeply.
“Well, old chap, I must apologize,” says Jonathan. “That was my mistake, selling it to you in the first place. But no harm, no foul, and to prove it I’ll purchase the thing back from you.”
“You’ll ... purchase a worthless counterfeit back from me,” says Humbert, squinting suspiciously at Jonathan. Jonathan agrees this altruism is out of character, while also being rather offended that Humbert seems to think this altruism is out of character.
Evy opens her mouth as though to defend him, then closes it, thoughtfully, and Jonathan is even more offended that Evy, who can apparently craft wholesale alternative mythologies, can’t concoct a plausible reason for Jonathan to spend money out of the goodness of his heart.
“I’m,” says Jonathan, and finds that he can’t think of one either.
Humbert, with great deliberation and then alarming speed, closes his hand around the amulet, stuffs it inside of his shirt, and picks up his walking stick so that he can draw the sword out of it.
Jonathan dives behind the reference desk, scattering stacks of yellow paper in his wake. He hits the checkered tile with both hands, two knees and an elbow, certain Evy is directly behind him.
“Oh my God!” says Evy from the wrong side of the reference desk, because bless her, Evy does not have quite the same catalogue of experience concerning salary lenders garnishing swords.
Jonathan immediately springs up again from behind the counter. Mr Humbert and Evy both wait while he gropes at his rucksack, eventually producing a pistol by the barrel, fumbling it between both hands toward the correct orientation, and then pointing it square at Humbert’s great sweaty chest.
“Put that away at once!” Jonathan cries.
Humbert reaches behind himself with his non-sword-occupied hand. The hand returns with a pistol.
Jonathan casts his eyes about the reference desk and in his free hand plucks up the most vicious letter opener he can find. It has a beautifully carved pelican on the handle.
“Excuse me!” Evy thunders, in a tone consistent with what Jonathan understands of the librarian archetype, and at a volume considerably divergent from same. Out of sight behind the stacks, a chair scrapes across the floor. The number of library patrons who had not previously realized there was a man brandishing a sword and a pistol in the middle of the room drops to zero. Jonathan gives the latecomers a small wave and his most nonchalant grimace. Evy does not seem to notice them at all.
“Sir,” Evy continues, “I have rendered my professional services here to you on very short notice as a personal favour to my-”
“Acquaintance,” Jonathan interjects.
“-my acquaintance, Mr. Car-”
“-armichael.”
Evy waves a hand. “Despite my extremely tight schedule of duties I am already obligated to perform this afternoon, I agreed to assist you. And you, sir, have pulled out a sword! Right in the middle of my analysis!”
“And in the middle of the library,” Jonathan tsk-tsks from behind her. Evy flaps a hand at him without looking.
“And in the middle of the library,” she agrees. “If you wish to question my not inconsiderable expertise regarding the funerary customs of the ancient Egyptians, Old Kingdom through New Kingdom inclusive, and I do mean inclusive, or my opinions about the same, you are decidedly unwelcome to do so while also having a sword fight with Mr. Ca-”
“-armichael.”
“With Mr. Carmichael. Choose one, sir.”
“Yeah!” says Jonathan. He belatedly audits these options. “And choose the former,” he declares.
Evy glances behind her. She conducts her own brief review. “Or neither one,” she adds, and punctuates the end to her lecture with a jab of her index finger.
Humbert blinks dumbly at her and then, with some hesitation, disappears his sword back into his walking stick with a shhhfffffft sound.
“Thank you,” Jonathan sniffs. He peers over the man’s shoulder toward the exit and the beautiful, sunny street outside, where the only thing better than beginning a Saturday evening with a possibly-genuine ancient amulet would be beginning one with an amulet and 20 Egyptian pounds.
There is a light swat at his elbow. Jonathan reluctantly produces his wallet, reluctantly peels out the cash originally paid for the amulet, and reluctantly places it in the man’s waiting palm. The precise moment the money is laid down, Humbert snatches back his fist and stuffs it into the front of his pants. Deep down.
The Carnahan siblings both wrinkle their noses. Humbert’s brows knit together as he looks back and forth between what Jonathan abruptly realizes must be suspiciously familial expressions of disgust. But Jonathan and Evy’s resemblance has always been tenuous at best, so the moment Jonathan smooths out his expression, Humbert’s wariness descends to acceptable levels.
He fishes the amulet box out of his pocket. Jonathan plucks it out of Humbert’s grasp before he can change his mind. Evy's hands move instinctively toward the box and Jonathan lifts it up out of her reach.
“Good day,” grumbles Mr. Humbert.
When he’s gone, Jonathan leans back against the reference desk. Evy mops her brow. “That was fantastic, Evy,” he says. “Just perfect.”
“Ha,” Evy says, admonishingly, but there is a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It was rather good, wasn’t it?”
“Amazing,” Jonathan agrees. “Now, next we have to take a quick trip across town to be supremely reluctant about giving this little number,” here he holds up the box triumphantly, “back to Mr. Antar.”
“Next!” says Evy. “Mr. Antar! You’re not selling it to a museum?”
“Mr. Antar’s private collection is practically a museum. He shows all his friends.” He showed Jonathan, anyway, directly before leaving Jonathan entirely unattended for several minutes.
Evy considers this. “...Would Mr. Antar believe the nonsense about the cows?”
“No, no,” says Jonathan regretfully, “I’m afraid not. Mr. Antar is very astute.” So astute, in fact, that the man had noticed his amulet’s absence the very next afternoon, despite it being such a small item within such a large impressive collection.
Evy is already shuffling him toward the door. “But I happen to have this splendid little replica,” Jonathan says as he goes, “and perhaps an esteemed expert such as-”
Evy pushes the door open and gives him a firm push out into the afternoon heat. The door shuts firmly behind him.
No matter, Jonathan thinks, pleased. He tosses the amulet box into the air, catches it, tosses it again, is nearly trampled by a wayward goat, and fumbles at the air for a moment before ultimately capturing the box between his hands again. Jonathan glances up and around. Satisfied that no one has seen this display (excepting the goat, which is acceptable) he slips the amulet box into his pocket, adjusts the brim of his hat, and strides out of the library's shade into the sun.