The Mummy Tomb of the Dragon Emperor Read Online Free PDF

a glass of sherry.
    “Isn’t this blissful?” she said. “A quiet dinner at home.”
    “Sure is.”
    “Remember when that was a rarity?”
    “Yeah. Now it’s every night.”
    He brought her the glass of sherry, they clinked drinks, and he said, “To retirement.”
    She beamed up at him. “May we stay this happy forever.”
    But as her husband stood there, swirling his drink and staring down into it, she wondered if he felt as bored and frustrated with their current life as she did.
    “Still no letter from Alex,” she said, back to going through mail. “You know, I’ve sent him three in the last month.”
    “What did you expect?” He grunted a laugh. “That kid only writes when he gets kicked out of college . . . or needs money.”
    “That’s not fair, dear. I’m sure he’s just got his nose buried in his books. Study, study, study.”
    “This is Alex we’re talking about?”
    She gave him a reproving smile.
    He shrugged a little, and sat across from her at the big table and said, “How was your literary do?”
    “Fine. We sold thirty-five copies of the new book and twenty of the old.”
    “Is that good?”
    “It’s excellent.”
    “And the question-and-answer session?”
    She smirked at him. “Fine . . . until they asked me whether there’ll be another mummy adventure.” She shook her head. “You know, I really should be writing serious books, painstakingly researched nonfiction, or at the very least articles for academic journals. I’ll lose my standing, and will never get back to the British Museum.”
    He tilted his head and gave her a look. “You did promise the publisher a third book. You signed a contract.”
    “I know,” she sighed. “But I spend my nights staring at a blank page. This is that writer’s block you hear so much about, apparently.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “You know what the problem is—my novels were successful because I was drawing from personal experience. How can I make up a ‘mummy’ story out of whole cloth?”
    He smirked. “It probably wouldn’t be whole cloth. More like cloth full of holes . . . mummy wrappings? Get it?”
    “I get it. And I appreciate you trying to lighten my mood. But I tell you, Rick, I am completely blocked.”
    He got that flirtatious grin going that she knew so well. “Well, if you need inspiration . . . how about we skip dinner and go straight to dessert? Maybe I can inspire you . . . upstairs?”
    She laughed lightly. “That’s very sweet of you, darling, but before any fun and games, I simply have to sit down in front of that typewriter until something exciting happens on the page.”
    She saw the twinge of disappointment in his eyes, but he was good enough not to press the matter.
    The butler, Jameson, and a female servant in livery entered to place silver platters in front of Evelyn and Rick, who lifted lids simultaneously on two perfectly poached, championship-quality trout.
    Her eyes and mouth were wide. “Why, Rick . . . this is lovely. I’m impressed, I really am.” She beamed at him and he shrugged, aw shucks. “I’m delighted you’ve finally found a hobby that satisfies you . . . and one that for once does not involve guns.”
    She forked a mouthful of the delicate fish and the taste of it on her tongue was heavenly. She began to chew, and— ouch! —clamped down on something terribly hard.
    Delicately, she removed an object from her mouth and regarded it quizzically. Was it a spent bullet? She dropped it on her Wedgwood plate with a clunk and looked across at Rick, who was grinning sheepishly.
    “What can I say?” he said with a shrug. “He put up a hell of a fight.”
    Evelyn maintained a corner of the library as her office. Around her on the walls and here and there on the desk, to help encourage her muse, were mementos of their Egyptian adventures.
    Shortly after dinner, she had typed the following deathless prose: The sunset painted the Nile the color of blood, and here she had stopped. She