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Curse of the Pharaoh's Manicurists
by Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks
CHAPTER 1
LORD WITHYCOMBE’S SECRETARY
It was with modest trepidation and a good deal more brazenness on a fine April day in 1923, that I approached the New York office of Edward Francis Kilsby, Lord Withycombe, renowned flying ace of the Great War and adventurer extraordinaire. For myself, I was barely twenty-two and the ink had scarcely dried on my journalism degree from the hallowed halls of Dartmouth.
—From the journal of Charles Doyle, secretary to Lord Withycombe
* * *
Charlie Doyle checked the address on the newspaper ad against the one on the building, 2347 Elm. This was it. He plucked up his courage which was already strained to the breaking point, climbed the stairs to the office and knocked. The name “Withycombe Enterprises, Ltd.” sparkled on the glass, freshly painted in a gleaming gold.
“Come in!”
He stepped into the dim office. The wavy-haired man behind the desk never looked up. Charlie stood patiently for a minute, watching the way the light coming through the flyspecked windowpane picked out golden highlights in his light brown hair.
Then he cleared his throat.
“I’m quite aware of you, young man. Sit down and I’ll be ready in a moment.” The very posh British accent played over Charlie’s skin like St. Elmo’s fire.
Charlie sat in one of the stiff wooden chairs and read the ad again silently. “Wanted, eager young secretary to pursue adventure, wealth and glory. Travel mandatory. Orphans preferred. English or Journalism degree and passport required.”
He watched the man’s big hands shuffle papers as he read then stacked them. From time to time, a frown crossed the handsome man’s narrow lips, making his thin mustache turn down. Charlie suspected he’d already blown the interview.
After a long while, the man looked up, his hazel eyes impossibly hypnotic as they caught Charlie’s and held him trapped in his chair. Surely the man could see every thought in his head.
“Very well. I am Edward Kilsby, Lord Withycombe, the man you wish to work for. At the moment, I’m unsure you’re suited to the rigors of the position.”
“I meet all your requirements,” Charlie protested. “Eager, young, journalism degree.” Charlie tried his most winning smile. “And willing to travel and pursue wealth and adventure. I even have the passport.” He had acquired it the year before, thinking to visit Paris, where all of the important writing was happening these days.
Curse of the Pharaoh's Manicurists
by Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks
CHAPTER 1
LORD WITHYCOMBE’S SECRETARY
It was with modest trepidation and a good deal more brazenness on a fine April day in 1923, that I approached the New York office of Edward Francis Kilsby, Lord Withycombe, renowned flying ace of the Great War and adventurer extraordinaire. For myself, I was barely twenty-two and the ink had scarcely dried on my journalism degree from the hallowed halls of Dartmouth.
—From the journal of Charles Doyle, secretary to Lord Withycombe
* * *
Charlie Doyle checked the address on the newspaper ad against the one on the building, 2347 Elm. This was it. He plucked up his courage which was already strained to the breaking point, climbed the stairs to the office and knocked. The name “Withycombe Enterprises, Ltd.” sparkled on the glass, freshly painted in a gleaming gold.
“Come in!”
He stepped into the dim office. The wavy-haired man behind the desk never looked up. Charlie stood patiently for a minute, watching the way the light coming through the flyspecked windowpane picked out golden highlights in his light brown hair.
Then he cleared his throat.
“I’m quite aware of you, young man. Sit down and I’ll be ready in a moment.” The very posh British accent played over Charlie’s skin like St. Elmo’s fire.
Charlie sat in one of the stiff wooden chairs and read the ad again silently. “Wanted, eager young secretary to pursue adventure, wealth and glory. Travel mandatory. Orphans preferred. English or Journalism degree and passport required.”
He watched the man’s big hands shuffle papers as he read then stacked them. From time to time, a frown crossed the handsome man’s narrow lips, making his thin mustache turn down. Charlie suspected he’d already blown the interview.
After a long while, the man looked up, his hazel eyes impossibly hypnotic as they caught Charlie’s and held him trapped in his chair. Surely the man could see every thought in his head.
“Very well. I am Edward Kilsby, Lord Withycombe, the man you wish to work for. At the moment, I’m unsure you’re suited to the rigors of the position.”
“I meet all your requirements,” Charlie protested. “Eager, young, journalism degree.” Charlie tried his most winning smile. “And willing to travel and pursue wealth and adventure. I even have the passport.” He had acquired it the year before, thinking to visit Paris, where all of the important writing was happening these days.
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Date: 2009-11-06 01:04 pm (UTC)