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paying attention.
    "Yes, Theo?" Nigel looked up from a box of wax shabti figures he'd just opened.

    "Has the class from Master Hedgewick's School for Wayward Boys left yet?"
    Nigel's face fell as he remembered the group of unruly schoolboys who had descended upon the museum earlier in the afternoon. "Oh, dear. I don't know. I suppose I should go have a look. Make sure they haven't broken anything or absconded with a legendary sword or something."
    I came over and stood next to the box of figures he was looking at. "What are these?" I asked. I knew perfectly well they were shabti figures, a common part of any self-respecting Egyptian tomb. The clay and wax figures were buried with the deceased so that they could perform any manual labor the dead person was called upon to do in the afterlife.
    But as I drew closer, I saw that these shabtis were different in many ways. They had a rather menacing look to them, for one thing. And each clutched a weapon of some sort in their little clay arms: spears, daggers, swords, each of them had something deadly. Most odd.
    With a quick glance at Fagenbush, I asked Bollingsworth, "Are they dolls? Did the mummy children play with them?"
    Fagenbush's head snapped up and he narrowed his beady little eyes at me.
    "Goodness, no!" Nigel exclaimed, horrified at my ignorance. "They're quite fascinating, actually ... just a minute. I say, Clive, would you check and make sure those wayward boys aren't up to no good?"

    Just as I had hoped! What First Assistant Curator would check on a bunch of bratty schoolchildren when there was a perfectly good Second Assistant Curator to do it for him?
    I peered up through my eyelashes as Fagenbush glared sharp, pointy daggers at me. He'd known exactly what I was doing—getting rid of him. I gave him a sweet smile. "Thank you so much, Mr. Fagenbush. I'm ever so curious about these
dolls.
"
    With a snarl, he threw down the lid he'd just managed to pry off one of the packing crates and stormed off.
    "Now, Theo," Nigel began. "These figures are shabtis. They were used for—Theo? I say, Theo?"
    But I was busy rifling through the packing material in the crate Fagenbush had just opened.
    "Don't you want to hear about the shabtis?" Poor Bollingsworth threw me a puzzled look, but before he could figure out what I'd done, I called out, "Come look at these. I've never seen them before. Have you?"
    Immediately the shabti were forgotten (thank heavens!), and Nigel hurried over to see what I'd found.
    He reached down and ran his hands through the small black bits. (I
do
wish these curators would learn to wear gloves!) "Curious," he muttered.
    "Aren't they?" I let them pour through my hands (which were, of course, properly covered). They were small bits of black stone—basalt and onyx, I think—and they were all very precisely shaped, although what they represented I couldn't tell.

    "Grain," Mum announced as she and Father joined us at the crate. "They are all carved to look like grain. Rye, wheat, even rice. I've never seen anything like it before," she said.
    "Yes, but why is it black?" I asked. "Isn't grain, well, grain-colored?"
    "I don't know why they didn't carve the grain out of sandstone or soapstone or some other, lighter-colored material. Perhaps we'll learn why as we study these finds."
    "Speaking of grain," I said, remembering my hunger, now that Fagenbush had been taken care of. "Can I go to the pie shop and fetch us something for dinner? I'm famished. There's been nothing to eat but jam sandwiches for the last two days."
    "Oh, darling. Of course you may." Mum elbowed Father. "Alistair, you can't let her eat such rubbish all the time."
    "I ... we've ... been rather busy here, Henrietta," Father stuttered, looking somewhat sheepish.
    To make him feel better, I asked, "Shall I get some nice plump pasties, Father, dear? I know how fond of them you are."
    He perked up immediately. "Why, yes. That would be lovely."

    I held out my hand for some money. Father scrabbled