And yet, it was far better to cry over William’s leaving than to think of the other, the night before—no, do not think—his anguished eyes. . . .

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then was gone. He did not even pause long enough to talk with Fanny privately about the consequences of the Curse, as she surely expected him to do—oh, how could he continue to remain so closed about it, even after the events of last night? Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, stunning terrors and wonders, which she had nobody to share in.

Sir Thomas sent Baddeley and a cadre of servants to investigate the estate and the grounds, but not a single mummy was found, not even a peeling bit of grave linen. They turned Mansfield Park upside down, to no avail. All the crates stacked around the household were empty, and were immediately ordered to be disposed of, in great haste. A similar fate awaited a great deal of other archeological items—though, to be honest, so many of them were now in blessed shards (Baddeley proved a fine marksman).

“Send any valuables off to the London Museum, post haste. As for the rest—burn it, all if you must. Use it for kindling. Or have it delivered back to Egypt, for all I care!” exclaimed Sir Thomas. “As long as I never need lay an eye upon a blasted crocodile-cat-ibis-falcon-baboon-dragoon-whatever-headed atrocity, or one of those mummified monsters again!”

Lady Bertram, too, was in a daze from the night before, stunned and halfway freed from her mesmerized condition.

There was no longer a mysterious Lord Eastwind ever-present at her side. He was gone without a trace. And Lady Bertram did not seem to particularly remember.