She remembered her teacher dwelling on the Curse of the Pharaohs at school. The one that said anyone disturbing the tomb would die. And it was true. Lord Carnarvon had died of an infected mosquito bite. And at the very moment he died, all the lights went out in Cairo. Although, to be fair, that would have been far more impressive if the lights didn’t go out in Cairo all the time.

And now here she was. In a cursed tomb. True, she hadn’t been the one to desecrate the tomb, but, typically, she was the one stupid enough to be caught here, and she doubted very much whether whatever was here with her would take that into account. The tomb had been violated. And here she was. A sitting target.

The shadows flickered again. As if, for the briefest moment, something stood between her and the light. There was a strong scent of burning dust, incense and mould. A faint, greasy blue smoke wafted over her shoulder. At one and the same time she could feel great heat and great cold.

Disconnected thoughts flew around her head. The world had always been fascinated by Tutankhamun. Documentaries speculated endlessly on how he died. Had he been murdered? He died at eighteen so that was a definite possibility. Then there was the mystery of his underwhelming tomb. A tomb so small and inferior they had to knock down part of the wall to get his sarcophagus in. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they’d then had to cut his toes off to get him into the sarcophagus. Poor, young king, to be so mistreated in a culture that placed such value on the afterlife. To be buried with what were, compared to the magnificence of other tombs, very second-rate grave goods.