Jenny Plague-Bringer(45)

“What is a necro...necro...one of those?” Sebastian asked. His eyes kept darting from Barrett to the plate in front of him, which one of the women was piling with freshly cooked food. Clearly, Sebastian was struggling not to grab up the meal by the double handfuls and cram it into his mouth.

“Are you familiar at all with Egyptology?” Barrett asked, looking from Sebastian to Juliana. They both shook their heads. “It’s a fascination of mine. An indulgence, really. The study of such ancient civilizations. How do you suppose they built those pyramids, so many thousands of years ago, without the benefit of modern industry? It seems impossible.”

“One rock at a time, I suppose,” Juliana said, which earned her a powerful smile from Barrett.

“True. All things must be built that way, mustn’t they, from the humblest home to the widest empire.” Barrett cut a slice of ham, which Juliana and Sebastian took as the signal to start eating as fast as they dared. The food tasted even more delicious than it smelled. Juliana knew they would both eat until they were ready to burst, and then try to smuggle more home with them for later. She’d never had such a bountiful meal placed before her.

“What impresses me about the Egyptians was the scale of their ambition,” Barrett said. “A pyramid hundreds of feet high, just to serve as a tomb for a single king. They outfitted them with everything the king would need in the afterlife. Gold, food, clothing, servants....They believed all of this went with them to the other world.”

“Sounds expensive,” Sebastian said.

“If they wanted to destroy a dead pharaoh’s soul, they destroyed any image of him, every painting and statue. They struck out his name wherever it was carved. Removed him from history, as though he had never existed.”

“There’s an Egyptian strong man in the carnival,” Sebastian told him, biting into a floury biscuit. “Cheopus the Magnificent. Shaved head, pony tail. He can bend bars of iron.”

“He’s not really Egyptian,” Juliana said.

“I don’t think the bars are really iron, either.” Sebastian sipped the rum punch. “This is so good. Try it, Juliana.”

Juliana took a drink. It was so sweet she could barely taste the rum. It was cool, too, probably from sitting in an icebox somewhere. She nodded and smiled. “I’ll have to be careful not to drink too much.”

“Drink too much? Such a thing is not possible.” Barrett raised his glass and took a long drink.

“Mr. Barrett, sir.” A middle-aged black woman emerged onto the porch, with a scrawny, big-eyed white boy of six or seven clinging to her skirt. “Jonathan Junior wants to go and see the pigs.”

“The pigs!” Barrett glared at his little son, who tried to hide behind the big woman. “Are you sure you don’t want to see the horses instead?”

The boy shook his head, not saying a word. He looked scared.

“Pigs!” Barrett shook his head. “Go roll in the mud and be a swine. What else are you good for?”

The boy looked like he would cry as the woman led him away.

“Scared of horses, scared of goats, scared of his own shadow.” Barrett shook his head.

“Is there a Mrs. Barrett?” Juliana asked. Sebastian looked at her as if he didn’t like the sound of that question.

“She’s upstairs, not feeling well. She had to take laudanum.”

“Is she sick?” Juliana asked.

“She gets sick if she doesn’t take her laudanum,” Barrett said. “I’ve lost my appetite, and it’s time we talk about why you’re here.” He stood and walked past them into the house. Juliana and Sebastian waited until he was out of sight, then crammed their pockets full of biscuits and salted ham before following him.

Barrett’s study was a spacious room at the back of the first floor, the walls hung with animal heads: a lion, a wolf, a leopard, and a jaguar, among others, all of them angled so that they seemed to snarl at visitors as they entered the room. A wall of wooden filing cabinets and pigeonholes ended at a 19th-century, saloon-style liquor cabinet in the back corner. The black petrified-wood slab of his desk held a heavy Comptometer mechanical calculator, as well as a telephone and a teletypewriter.

Barrett sat behind his desk, checking a printout. He quickly put it aside when they entered, and he directed the older black man from the front gate, who stood at his elbow, toward the liquor cabinet.

“I have Canadian whiskey,” he said to Sebastian. “Like one?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“I would, too,” Juliana added.

“A woman who drinks whiskey,” Barrett said. “I’m starting to like you already.”