Mr Wonderful.htm by [Carsingtons 02] Mr Impossible [Impossible]

Author:[Carsingtons 02] Mr Impossible [Impossible]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-01-19T22:24:26+00:00

* * *

Zawyet el Amwat, Monday 16 April

THE DAY FOLLOWING their arrival found Daphne on the opposite side of the Nile from Minya. A ways to the north behind her, a small cluster of hovels signified a village. Nearer at hand a larger and more extensive cluster of chapels and domed tombs signified the district’s burial ground.

She stood at a respectful distance from the cemetery proper, staring at a complicated arrangement of metal pieces whose operation Mr. Carsington was explaining.

He had one of the coveted Manton pistols in his hand and was telling her about breeches and priming pans and flints and cocks and such. She was beginning to understand how he felt when she talked about Coptic.

They had an audience. Nearby stood Udail/Tom, several crew members, and a pair of guards the kashef—the pasha’s local representative—had sent to accompany them. As usual, the Egyptians were all talking excitedly. She couldn’t follow their conversation. She had all she could do to follow Mr. Carsington’s explanation.

“Do I need to know how it works?” she said finally. “Can’t I just shoot it?”

“If you understand how it works, you’re less likely to make mistakes,” he said patiently. “If danger threatens, you will not have the leisure for trial and error or even for thinking.”

Daphne became aware of laughter behind her.

She turned that way. Udail/Tom was pointing at the gun, at Mr. Carsington, and at her, and talking too low for her to understand. The men were shaking their heads and chuckling.

She must have looked as slow-witted as she felt.

She turned back to Mr. Carsington.

She told herself that if she could learn Coptic, she could learn this. But it was hard to concentrate. He stood so near, and spoke so earnestly and enthusiastically—nay, lovingly— of the wood and metal thing in his hand. He even took out a handkerchief and wiped his fingerprints from the polished handle.

“I’ll load it for you the first time,” he said.

“Please let me do it,” she said. “I shall learn more quickly that way.” She would have the weapon in her hand and be forced to pay attention to what she was doing, instead of to the angle of his jaw and the arch of his dark eyebrows and the delicacy with which those large, clever hands caressed the pistol.

He shrugged and gave her the pistol and the cartridge.

“Where is the powder you spoke of?” she said.

He briefly gazed heavenwards, then reverted to her. “In the cartridge,” he said. “You have to open it first.”

The cartridge was made of paper, with the metal ball at one end. She needed two hands to open it. She tried to hand him the pistol, but he shook his head.

“You tear it open with your teeth,” he said. ‘Try not to swallow too much gunpowder in the process.“

“Why? Is it poisonous?” Would she explode? But no. The gunpowder needed a spark. He had just explained all that. What was the matter with her?

“I daresay it’s toxic,” he said. “But the point is, if you swallow too much, you won’t have enough left to fire the weapon.

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