“Give it to me,” she said. “Maybe there’s a clue on the page with that line.” She surveyed the index and found the poem. “I don’t see anything.”

He leaned over her shoulder to scan the pages with her, and she caught the scent of his leather coat—the scent she’d breathed in on the motorcycle when her cheek was against his back. Her pulse increased. “No marking,” he noted. “No corner turned down.” She felt his gaze shift to her face a moment before his fingers followed. “You’re wilted.”

“Pardon?”

“Your lily.” Heat spread over her neck as he slid the flower out from its pin. “Bedraggled by the ride, I’m afraid. Shame. Still smells nice.”

“Yes, well, nothing lasts forever.” Her hand patted the space where the flower had been. “Unless it’s been properly preserved, of course.”

“A mummy joke?”

She smiled to herself. “Please focus on the task at hand. I’d prefer to avoid the guards.”

“Well, the map’s not here. Maybe we’re looking in the wrong volume. Did your mother own two Poe books?”

She shook her head, fighting the disappointment unfurling in her chest. “Just this one.”

“Let’s try another verse, then. What was the other one you recognized?”

“On ‘a painted ship upon a painted ocean.’”

“Sounds very familiar,” Lowe mumbled.

“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

“Ah-ha! I saw Coleridge . . . there. Let me reshelve the Poe.” He reached to slip the book back into place, then halted. “Hold on.”

“What?”

“This feels odd.”

ELEVEN

LOWE FLIPPED THE POE book over to study the leather cover. “I can’t be sure. How attached to your mother’s books are you?”

“Attached? If you mean sentimentally, not at all. Like I said—”

He reached inside his jacket before she could finish. Metal glinted. He could tell by her murmur that she was surprised he’d been wearing his dagger beneath his tuxedo. With the flick of a wrist, he slashed across the leather book cover with abandon and stuck a finger inside the gouge he’d made. Definitely something inside. A yellowed paper slid out.

“What is it?” Hadley pushed closer and grasped one edge while he held the other.

Textured artist’s paper, about the size of his hand. And on it was a delicate watercolor painting of something he immediately recognized. Hadley, too.

“Canopic jar,” they murmured in unison.

Pottery jars with lids shaped like heads of gods, used by ancient Egyptians to preserve their internal organs for the afterlife. Each tomb would contain four jars, holding four different organs. This painting’s jar lid was rendered with Duamutef, the jackal-headed son of Horus and guardian of the stomach.

“Four poetry references,” he said. “Four canopic jars. There’s a date in the corner. February 5, 1906. And what’s this?”

Running down the middle of the jar, carefully drawn over the watercolor with brown ink, were two columns of strange pictorial symbols. Hadley squinted. “This is where the hieroglyphic inscription would normally be—or the name of the god protecting the organs. But these aren’t hieroglyphs.”

“Not Egyptian ones,” he corrected. “Appears to be an alphabet of pictograms. Look here—there’s a flower and a knife.”

“No, I think that’s a blade of grass.”

He darted a glance at her face, charmed by her scholarly seriousness. “Your father said your mother loved puzzles. Do you think she made up her own alphabet to mimic hieroglyphs?”

“Maybe,” Hadley said. “But this isn’t a map. What does it all mean?”

“Don’t know, but ten dollars says paintings of the other three jars are inside other books.” He relinquished the paper to her grasp and reached for Coleridge, gutting the book like he had the first. “Mother lode! This one’s Hapy.”

A baboon head was lovingly rendered on the lid of this jar. “Lungs. January 21, 1906. And there’re the pictograms again.”

“None match the first.”

“Let me see.” Her eyes flicked over both papers. “You’re right—no matches. What a beautiful little alphabet, though, don’t you think?”

“I’ll reserve my judgment until we figure it out. What’s next? The ‘gazing grain’ makes me think of Nebraska. Any Nebraskan poets who go crazy for wheat stalks?”

“I think Nebraska is better known for corn. Gazing grain, gazing grain . . .” She ran a finger along the spines lining the nearest shelf. “They’re poems about death—the Poe and the Coleridge. ‘Gazing grain’ must be another death poem. Oh!”

“What?”

“‘Because I could not stop for Death.’”

“‘He kindly stopped for me,’” he finished. “Yes, I do know that one, Emily Dickinson. Though, I never managed to memorize anything past the first stanza in school. Nice memory you’ve got there, Bacall.”

Hadley whooped a little laugh as a pretty pink color flushed her cheeks. He felt it, too, the thrill of discovery. What an unexpected pleasure to share it with her. Together they located the book and, sure enough, the third paper had been hidden inside the leather. A third canopic jar with a third set of pictograms, and a date of March 25, 1906.