chronological dislocation—an unavoidable side effect of ley leaping. It would be pleasant to report that all times everywhere in the universe are the same and that each reality links up perfectly end-to-end, but that is not the case. For reasons described below, each separate reality has its own history and progression in its own time. Thus, travelling to a different dimension involves a sideways slip in time as well as place, but that is not the same as travelling backwards or forwards along a single timeline in a discrete reality.
How many ley lines there are and where they lead, nobody really knows. Nor is it known how they are produced, or why. But one man knew more than most: the explorer Arthur Flinders-Petrie, an intrepid soul who made countless trips to other worlds and meticulously recorded his discoveries on a map. So that he could always find his way home again and so that he could never be separated from his map, he had it tattooed onto his torso in the form of coded symbols—not the most original plan, of course, but highly effective and productive too, in that it allowed him to meet and marry his Chinese tattooist’s charming daughter, Xian-Li. Arthur shared with his new wife his passion for exploration, introducing her to the arcane secrets of ley travel. On one such early trip to Egypt, tragedy struck in the form of Nile fever, and the stricken Xian-Li succumbed and died.
At some later time, Arthur died also, and in order that his discoveries should not die with him the map was removed and carefully preserved; for among the many wonders he encountered in his travels there was one that was so amazing, so staggeringly important, that Arthur kept it a close-guarded secret from all but his nearest and dearest kin. Through circumstances yet to be explained, the map was divided into sections, and those sections scattered across the multi-verse. Happily, the Skin Map and its tantalising secret endure.
Flinders-Petrie has a nemesis—Archelaeus Burleigh, the Earl of Sutherland—an unscrupulous dastard who is wholly obsessed with possessing the map and learning its secrets. He and his nefarious crew will stop at nothing to discover the treasure.
At the end of our first instalment of this tale, Kit and his companion Giles were facing imminent demise in the tomb of Anen at the hands of Lord Burleigh—the same tomb that had already claimed the lives of dear old Cosimo and Sir Henry. Wilhelmina, whose presence in the chase had been understated up to that point, made a sudden and welcome appearance—all the more so because Lady Fayth had proved too fickle. Loyalty, it seems, is a rare and precious commodity in whichever reality one occupies.
With those things remembered, we return to our story, in which some things are best forgotten.
PART ONE
The Book of
Forbidden Secrets
CHAPTER 1
In Which Some Things
Are Best Forgotten
From a snug in the corner of the Museum Tavern, Douglas Flinders-Petrie dipped a sop of bread into the gravy of his steak and kidney pudding and watched the entrance to the British Museum across the street. The great edifice was dark, the building closed to the public for over three hours. The employees had gone home, the charwomen had finished their cleaning, and the high iron gates were locked behind them. The courtyard was empty and, outside the gates, there were fewer people on the street now than an hour ago. He felt no sense of urgency: only keen anticipation, which he savoured as he took another draught of London Pride. He had spent most of the afternoon in the museum, once more marking the doors and exits, the blind spots, the rooms where a person might hide and remain unseen by the night watchmen, of which there were but three to cover the entire acreage of the sprawling institution.
Douglas knew from his researches that at eleven each night the head watchman retired to his office on the ground floor to make tea. He would be duly joined by his two underling guards, and the three would enter their observations in the logbook and then spend an enjoyable thirty minutes drinking their tea, eating pies, and exchanging gossip.
While they were thus occupied, he would strike.
The pub was quiet tonight, even for a damp Thursday in late November. There were only five other patrons in the place: three at the rail and two at tables. He would have preferred more people—if only so his own presence would not be so noticeable—but he doubted it