More images, like a book flipping open with incredible speed, assaulted me, and with them came a myriad of emotions. Every emotion known to man, even some I had never experienced before. Ones that pebbled my nipples and wetted my pantalettes. The last was so disturbing that I finally ripped my hand free. Feeling a blush heating my face, I averted it so Peter couldn't see it.
"Are you alright, Mistress?" he sounded honestly concerned.
"I'm fine, Mister Farthington. Thank you. It's just... I've wanted to do this for so long..." I drifted off.
"I understand," sadness entered his voice. "I truly do."
When I looked up and our eyes met, the sadness I saw in his nearly floored me. Had my hand not still been burning from touching the sarcophagus, I would have ignored etiquette and grabbed his arm to show him my commiseration. As it was, I could only give him a small smile, one that made his face light up.
"You like it?"
"I love it. Thank you for trusting and showing it to me." I put extra effort into my smile now, wanting him to know how much this meant to me.
"It's my pleasure, Mistress." He cleared his throat. "I need to return to the warehouse."
"Of course. I'll be fine here, I promise." I assured him.
"I would feel much better if you would accompany me back upstairs," he threw a dubious look around, as if the coal in the corner or the canned goods stood a chance of attacking me.
He had been so nice to me, nicer than anyone before, and I wanted to please him. I nodded and followed him up, fully intending to return later. I had four days with the sarcophagus before Saturday, and I vowed to take complete advantage of it.
Unfortunately, my father had other plans. Soon after Peter left, several of our seamstresses arrived loaded with fabric, ribbons, pelts, gauze, and even jewelry. My father wasn't about to shy away from any expense to make sure I would be the most extravagantly dressed woman at the debutant's ball Friday night.
Normally I enjoyed a dressmaking event as much as the next girl, but that day, I was fidgety. Not just because of my still soaked pantalettes, but because the need to return to the basement was torturing me.
I couldn't remember the last time I peed my pants, and a small voice in the back of my head was telling me that I hadn't this time either, that this was something different, even though the voice didn't have any idea what could be the cause. And then there was this strange tingling sensation by the bud in front of my sex. A bud that had often called to me, tempted me to do what I had never dared to: touch it.
Hastily I found an excuse to discreetly change my pantalettes, worried the seamstresses would notice how damp they were.
Despite all that, it was hard not getting caught up in the giggles of the women surrounding me, not getting excited looking at and touching the fine materials before me. Father had never spared expense on account of my wardrobe, but this was far more extravagant than anything previous. I didn't forget about the sarcophagus waiting for me in the basement, but I did get distracted.
The seamstresses departed, promising they would work on the gown all night and would return the next day for another fitting once we decided on the material, colors, and some of the finer details. I was just about to hasten down to the basement when Missis Fitzhugh, our housekeeper, informed me that a Mistress Prudence was awaiting my pleasure in the parlor.
It turned out that my father had hired Mistress Prudence to teach me everything I needed to know about court etiquette over the next six months. Her things were about to be moved into our house, and she was engaged to be at my side with unwavering attention to every minute detail of my life, starting with getting up in the morning and ending with me retiring to bed in the evening.
Without asking, I knew she would undoubtedly not let me go to the basement to satisfy my curiosity about the sarcophagus there. I would have to wait until she was asleep.
It was nearly eleven o'clock at night when I finally worked the nerve up to go back into the basement. Even after I went to my rooms at eight, I heard Prudence and Father talking in the parlor, probably discussing all the things I needed to learn. For a split second, I considered giving up on my plan and simply going to bed. I was exhausted, and God knew I needed my sleep. Especially if tomorrow were going to be a repeat of today, I would need all my wits about me. That moment came and went thankfully, the lure to investigate the sarcophagus was simply too great.
When I was five, my stepmom Helen took me to the Egyptian exhibition at Piccadilly Hall. Some might say five was too young of an age to form lasting memories, but I remembered. I remembered walking inside for the first time and being completely overwhelmed by a world I didn't know had existed so long ago. Every artifact had called to me in an unfamiliar way. I had walked through the nearly perfectly reimagined walls of a temple long forgotten, into the exact replica of a tomb, and I hadn't been the same since. I begged Helen to buy me the books at the gift shop, books far too advanced for me to read at the time, and then begged her to read them to me instead of the usual good night stories. She laughed and indulged me, probably convinced she was only coddling the fickle mind of a five-year-old. Little did she know I had become obsessed. From that day on, at least twice a year, I would beg her to take me back to the Egyptian exhibition.
Finally realizing how fascinated I had become, she taught me to read on my own and made it her quest to find books about Egypt more suitable for a young child. Which wasn’t easy, but since she wasn’t able to have any children of her own, she showered me with all the love of a barren woman.
I decided a good night’s sleep was highly overrated and snuck down the cold basement stairs, not daring to light the gas lights until I closed the door and was all the way down.
The gas lights didn't flicker like candles, but they still brought an eerie illumination that dipped the stone coffin in shadows, making the engravings and paintings appear lively.
I spent countless hours down here as a child, but never at night and never with a sarcophagus; the experience was far more unnerving than anything I'd ever faced, raising my heart rate and sending goosebumps over my flesh. The urge to run back upstairs and lock myself in my bedroom was nearly overpowering.
"Don't be a silly nilly," I chastised myself, but the sound of my voice only increased my anxiety.
"Stop it," I laughed and stepped closer to the coffin. To prove to myself that I didn't need to fear anything, I placed my palms on it. I felt a deep vibration, like a humming coming from the inside, and pulled my hands back with a small shriek.
A quick glance toward the staircase told me the way was free, like it should be. What had I expected? A mummy standing in my way? That didn't help my nerves either, and I shook my head to clear it from all the rubbish running through it.
"Quit. This is your one chance, stop it," I whisper-yelled at myself, stomping my foot for good measure. That finally seemed to do the trick. After a few deep breaths, my heart rate slowed down.
"Good, now let's try this again."
