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expertise, that serves the next generation in the field, and in many cases brings the next generation home to Mother England safely.”
    â€œSo far, Books, I have managed to come home quite safely—as you’ve seen—by living in the now, and not lingering in the then.”
    His eyes narrowed. While he tolerated the disdain of his “fellow” agents, he did not appreciate being so abused in his own den.
    And she’s a colonial to boot , hissed the cold voice in his mind. I do believe this savage needs a reminder of her betters.
    Wellington stepped back, his heart hammering in his chest. No , he thought quickly. Not here. Not! Here!
    â€œAgent Braun,” he began, “allow me to demonstrate how important it is that we preserve each case. And allow me, if you will, to pull from your own past.”
    She snorted. “Oh, this should be grand fun.”
    â€œI remember one of your earlier cases here at the Ministry took you to India, or was it Egypt? A death on the Nile or some sort of business?”
    â€œActually, yes, Books. 1892. And it was several deaths on the Nile. One of those slow cruises for the upper crust, and the clientele were having a tough time staying alive on this one boat. I remember it being quite the initiation as the bodies of the dead all bled sand.”
    â€œI remember filing away this case. Took you how long to resolve?”
    â€œFive weeks.” Braun shuddered. “I still remember the monumental sunburn I brought back with me.”
    Wellington glanced at Doctor Sound who seemed to be enjoying the repartee between him and Agent Braun. Something about the Director’s smile unnerved him.
    â€œFive weeks, and I do recall in your report that several times you and your partner were somewhat challenged, if not stonewalled?”
    Braun’s jaw twitched. “Get to the point, Books.”
    â€œThe culprit was not so much a person as it was—”
    â€œThe Amulet of Set, what our local contacts told us had been unearthed in an excavation. This amulet was harnessing the power of this God of Evil, and Set was also fond of the sandstorms. Turns out the owner of the boat clued in on this amulet’s secrets and started lashing out at the aristocrats that had him ferrying people along a desert’s sole river.”
    â€œA necklace of dark magic, you say?” He crossed between them and rested his fingertips on the shelves’ filing terminal, muttering to himself, “Let’s see now, 1840, and if memory serves—”
    â€œThe agent’s name was Atkins,” Doctor Sound interjected. “Case reference number 18400217UKNL.”
    Wellington looked at the Director for a moment, and then over to Braun. She merely shrugged.
    His fingers depressed the keys of the case number into the interface, its final key starting the clickity-clack-click-clack melody above them, once again. As it did back in 1872, a winch lowered from above their heads an identical basket containing a small portfolio resting atop a thin, wide chestnut box.
    â€œCase 18400217UKNL investigated by Agent Peter Atkins,” Wellington read from the portfolio’s cover, “This was a case that dealt with a series of random misfortunes and, eventually, deaths centered around relatives of Parliament.”
    â€œA rather dark piece of business,” Sound added.
    Wellington looked up from the portfolio in his hands. “Sir, this case is over fifty years old. How could you recoll—”
    â€œI can read too, old boy,” the Director quipped. “And my memory, as you see, is quite infallible.”
    He felt a heat rise in his skin. “Yes, of course, Director.” Wellington started flipping through the worn, weathered pages of this case report. “But you see, Agent Braun, had you reached out to the Archives, you would have discovered yourself in a similar predicament and saved yourself a great deal of—”
    â€œOye,