grime.
“You mean can I believe our nerd-core dad subjected us to a childhood of learning to restore priceless antiques at museum quality only to force us into his lame-sauce career?”
“Yes!” exclaimed John.
“Yes,” mumbled Wendy.
“Did you know that the
Book of Gates
used to be called the
Book of the Netherworld
?”
“How do you know that?” said Wendy. She was dusting a papyrus scroll and sorting through a stack of placards — wishing that there was just one other person at Marlowe qualified to take this job. She glanced at a clock.
3:10 p.m
. They’d been working for only ten minutes, but it already felt like hours. Outside, she heard her friends laughing and making weekend plans. She felt a momentary hint of jealousy — that they were born into a particular family and so had license to do whatever they wanted with their free time. No need to work. No need for money. But, hey, some of them had really overbearing parents, always pushing them to get ahead. Get into this school. Get into that club. At least her father didn’t do that. And after finally meeting Connor’s mother a few days ago, she was starting to think that she was lucky not to have one around.
“It was in Dad’s notes,” John answered. “The gates apparently open the way to the world of the dead. That’s why they’re called gates, see? They lead to the
other side
.” John flicked the Q-tip aside and pulled out another.
“Creepy. Do you have the death god placard?” Wendy turned in place a few times, scanning the room for the missing placard, then got on her knees and started peeking under the display tables.
“Just make another one,” said John. He was now elbow deep in a vase, cleaning out the bottom with a dry sponge. “Hey, you know what else I found in his notes? The ancient Egyptians used to divide the day into twelve hours and the night into twelve hours. So during the summer, when the night was short, the night hours were shorter. But there were
always
exactly twelve between sunset and sunrise.”
“Huh,” said Wendy. “You shouldn’t be snooping around in Dad’s notes.”
“He left them out on the coffee table. What’s he expect? So anyway, in the underworld, there are gates that lead to the afterlife, each with its own guardian, which, by the way, are supposed to be the worst kind of monsters. So the book is all about the journey of the dead soul through the night when he is carried to the afterlife, passing through each gate one by one. Cool, huh?”
“I thought the book was about the five legends.”
“That’s not
all
there is, Wen. It’s a big book. Geez.”
“And what’re the guardians for?” Wendy asked.
“To protect the gates to the afterlife!” said John in his most irritated
this-is-obvious
voice. “Come
on,
Wen!”
Wendy laughed at John’s enthusiasm — a quality he showed only to her. She wished he would be this happy, eager John more often instead of the John that came out in public. “Don’t scrub that one so hard.” Wendy cocked her head, and her hair tumbled past her shoulder like a strawberry-blond waterfall.
Wendy was about to return to her search for the missing placard when a strange ticking caught their attention.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock
.
“There’s that cretin”— Wendy rolled her eyes —“with his lame-ass scuba watch.”
“Don’t be a hater,” said John. “Me and Simon are bros. You’re just mad because he’s way smarter than you.”
“Everyone keeping busy? Keeping on task?” Simon’s eyes flitted this way and that as he walked down the steps to the basement. He glanced at the exhibit items and gave a cursory examination to each without bothering to properly inspect it. “Things look shipshape here,” he said, pointing to John’s vase. “Wendy, get busy on those placards. Chop-chop.”
Wendy was about to mention, for the fourteenth time, that he wasn’t doing his share of the work, but Simon had already turned to leave. He walked
“You mean can I believe our nerd-core dad subjected us to a childhood of learning to restore priceless antiques at museum quality only to force us into his lame-sauce career?”
“Yes!” exclaimed John.
“Yes,” mumbled Wendy.
“Did you know that the
Book of Gates
used to be called the
Book of the Netherworld
?”
“How do you know that?” said Wendy. She was dusting a papyrus scroll and sorting through a stack of placards — wishing that there was just one other person at Marlowe qualified to take this job. She glanced at a clock.
3:10 p.m
. They’d been working for only ten minutes, but it already felt like hours. Outside, she heard her friends laughing and making weekend plans. She felt a momentary hint of jealousy — that they were born into a particular family and so had license to do whatever they wanted with their free time. No need to work. No need for money. But, hey, some of them had really overbearing parents, always pushing them to get ahead. Get into this school. Get into that club. At least her father didn’t do that. And after finally meeting Connor’s mother a few days ago, she was starting to think that she was lucky not to have one around.
“It was in Dad’s notes,” John answered. “The gates apparently open the way to the world of the dead. That’s why they’re called gates, see? They lead to the
other side
.” John flicked the Q-tip aside and pulled out another.
“Creepy. Do you have the death god placard?” Wendy turned in place a few times, scanning the room for the missing placard, then got on her knees and started peeking under the display tables.
“Just make another one,” said John. He was now elbow deep in a vase, cleaning out the bottom with a dry sponge. “Hey, you know what else I found in his notes? The ancient Egyptians used to divide the day into twelve hours and the night into twelve hours. So during the summer, when the night was short, the night hours were shorter. But there were
always
exactly twelve between sunset and sunrise.”
“Huh,” said Wendy. “You shouldn’t be snooping around in Dad’s notes.”
“He left them out on the coffee table. What’s he expect? So anyway, in the underworld, there are gates that lead to the afterlife, each with its own guardian, which, by the way, are supposed to be the worst kind of monsters. So the book is all about the journey of the dead soul through the night when he is carried to the afterlife, passing through each gate one by one. Cool, huh?”
“I thought the book was about the five legends.”
“That’s not
all
there is, Wen. It’s a big book. Geez.”
“And what’re the guardians for?” Wendy asked.
“To protect the gates to the afterlife!” said John in his most irritated
this-is-obvious
voice. “Come
on,
Wen!”
Wendy laughed at John’s enthusiasm — a quality he showed only to her. She wished he would be this happy, eager John more often instead of the John that came out in public. “Don’t scrub that one so hard.” Wendy cocked her head, and her hair tumbled past her shoulder like a strawberry-blond waterfall.
Wendy was about to return to her search for the missing placard when a strange ticking caught their attention.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock
.
“There’s that cretin”— Wendy rolled her eyes —“with his lame-ass scuba watch.”
“Don’t be a hater,” said John. “Me and Simon are bros. You’re just mad because he’s way smarter than you.”
“Everyone keeping busy? Keeping on task?” Simon’s eyes flitted this way and that as he walked down the steps to the basement. He glanced at the exhibit items and gave a cursory examination to each without bothering to properly inspect it. “Things look shipshape here,” he said, pointing to John’s vase. “Wendy, get busy on those placards. Chop-chop.”
Wendy was about to mention, for the fourteenth time, that he wasn’t doing his share of the work, but Simon had already turned to leave. He walked
Similar Books
