Most of the items she'd purchased from her antiquities dealer in New York were far too delicate to stand up to this kind of abuse. And the mere thought of her ghoulish brother breaking some valuable artifact just so he could impress his date was more than she could bear.
Here she was, at thirty, an internationally known author, and her wastrel brother was treating her as if she were a child putting on airs.
"Sibyl loves little stories, you see," he cried. He hopped back just far enough to keep her baited. "Always making up stories in that precious little head of hers. Wants to be somebody else, probably."
Sybil drove one foot down atop her brother's. The sudden jolt of pain caused him to release the package. She caught it in both hands instantly.
When she spoke again, it was as if her voice came from some other, more distant place.
"You would d
o well to remember that my little stories provide a substantial source of income which helps finance your little racing tours about town in the middle of the night! And while I'm sure you've dazzled these fine ladies with tales of your skillful management of Parker's Dry Goods Emporium, should you continue to disrupt my sleep and Lucy's, I would be more than happy to explain to them how the actual management of the company takes place at the hands of those whose skills extend beyond the ability to refill a flask without drawing the notice of their colleagues!"
Oh, what she would have given for a portrait painting of the expression on her brothers' faces in that moment. It looked as if her tirade had chased every drop of liquor from their veins.
Inside, she was as stunned by her outburst as they were, but she was determined to hide that reaction, lest it should portray her as a creature less fearsome than the one who had just startled them all into silence.
She was used to words flowing unbidden and vigorously from her pen, but not from her own lips.
"Show's over, ladies," Gregory said. He steered his date towards the front door by her right shoulder. Ethan did the same to his.
Just before the door closed behind the two women, she heard one of them say, "Well, that one thinks she's some kinda empress."
If only, she thought ruefully. If only.
When she reached the top of the grand staircase, she looked back over her shoulder and found both of her brothers staring up at her like frightened dogs.
"It was just a parcel," Gregory whined.
She responded by closing her bedroom door.
*
Just as she suspected, the package was from her antiquities dealer in New York, E. Lynn Wilson. She tore it open with her bare hands. God forbid she go downstairs for a letter opener and risk running into her brothers again.
The statue was intact, thank God. And in pristine condition. The goddess Isis seated atop a tiny platform, her wings outstretched on either side of her; her right leg pressed flat against the platform from knee to foot and her left leg bent, so that she could turn her gaze to the expanse of her left wing.
Dear Miss Parker,
I must apologize for the length of time it took to locate the statue you described to me some time ago. But I am proud to say I have finally managed to find one that should fit the bill. While it is a reproduction, it has been faithfully re-created from descriptions of and illustrations from the Ptolemaic period and such, so that I am confident it will make an excellent addition to your collection. Because you have been such a wonderful customer and because I remain a loyal and steadfast admirer of your highly entertaining novels, I have chosen to send it forthwith without the expectation of a deposit.
As you can see from the illustration I have also included, it is highly likely that the prow of the oared galley on which Cleopatra traveled from Alexandria to Rome may very well have been carved with a rendering of the goddess Isis quite similar to the statue included here. And as I'm sure you're aware given your overall interest in the subject, most statues and portraits which claim to be of Egypt's last queen are in fact closer to being common representations of the goddess she worshipped, such as the one you see here.
I hope it is as you described to me some time ago. If it is not, please don't hesitate to keep it as a simple token of my appreciation for your business and your wonderful books. If it is, I have enclosed an invoice for the full amount which you may pay at your earliest convenience.
Yours,
E. Lynn Wilson
P.S. Because I know we share the same passion for all things Egypt, I've included some news clippings sent to me by a friend in Cairo about an intriguing affair that made the papers there, which I am presumptuous enough to assume might form a fine basis for one of your thrilling tales in the future!
He'd folded over several pieces of newsprint and taped them to the inside of the box.
Her first instinct was to toss them in the trash.
Even though he seemed like a nice man, the last thing she wanted was some sort of specious claim brought against her by either the subject of the article or Wilson himself, should something she wrote in the future bear even the slightest resemblance to whatever lurid tale the article told.
But curiosity got the best of her.