Jedediah, the miniature Roman general, slapped him on the back. “Quit yer yappin’, cowboy. Larry’s got a plan. He always has a plan.”
For CJ, the chase was a nightmare. Lancelot’s boots came down like falling redwood trees. CJ and Jedediah commandeered a miniature Roman chariot from a startled display of Emperor Hadrian’s toys. It was the size of a matchbox. CJ cracked a whip made of a single strand of copper wire.
He stood up, walked to the ghost of Merenkahre, and held up the Tablet. “Don’t save the magic for all of us. Just save it for him.”
The plan was desperate: find the tomb of Ahkmenrah’s father, Merenkahre, somewhere in the labyrinthine depths of the British Museum. Only the Pharaoh’s spirit could reforge the magic. But the British Museum at night wasn’t like their home. It was a chaotic, snooty, and terrifyingly vast maze of culture.
“He’s the only one who remembers us when the sun comes up,” CJ said. “He’s the one who tells the new guards to be careful with the diorama. He’s the one who brought us here, across an ocean, just to save us. You give him one last night. One real, full, magical night. And let the rest of us go peaceful.”
He made a choice.
He walked to Merenkahre’s sarcophagus and, with a single touch, healed the crack. The ghost smiled, nodded at CJ, and faded into the stone.
“He’s headin’ for the Egyptian wing!” Jedediah shouted.
