Mentions of past suicide, arranging for the death of a rival, and slavery.

This is a sequel to Chalice of Sorrow from 2016. I really tried to come up with something completely new but it didn't happen. Instead, I give you:

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Anne and Elizabeth Elliott looked down at the headpiece on the tray. They were standing in one of the basement rooms set aside for university students who were doing research and demeaning grunt work under the museum's senior staff. It was full of desks and bookcases and the stale scent of long hours of uncredited labor.

"What is it again?" asked Elizabeth in a tone that implied she probably wasn't going to pay attention this time either.

"A Egyptian funereal mask," Anne answered simply. It was best to cut the information into small, digestible bites.

"How morbid," Elizabeth frowned.

Anne didn't know how to respond. It was morbid but not in the way Elizabeth meant. It was beautiful too, but not in a way that Elizabeth could recognize.

"The colors are rather faded," Anne said instead. "But it's still remarkable after all those centuries. I'm trying to stretch it so I can paint it based on how I think it looked when it was new." She gestured to the sketch pad on her temporary desk where a creditable likeness had been drawn.

"Honestly, why you bother," Elizabeth trailed off dismissively, her eyes sweeping over the entire room. "A hobby is one thing but this, this job is something else. I don't know how you expect to find a husband when you purposefully hide yourself away in the bowels of a museum all the time."

Now it was Anne's turn to frown. She was tired of repeating this same conversation with her sister. Quite frankly, Elizabeth's opinion on the subject was as ignorant as it was irrelevant, but her constant berating was exhausting. And it was hypocritical to call attention to Anne's lack of husband when Elizabeth was equally unwed and older.

"When did you say you had lunch plans with your friend?" Anne prodded, hoping her sister would leave soon.

God or Fate must have been smiling on her because Elizabeth glanced at the wall clock and began to gather her things. It was indeed time to go, or at least she had decided to stop wasting time with her sister.

"Don't forget the Williamsons' garden party this weekend," came Elizabeth's parting shot. "Their nephew is miserably dull but he's perfect for you."

Anne fought the urge to take the bait, tension radiating from her until the clicking of Elizabeth's heels faded. Just as silence settled like a comforting blanket, she heard another sound: the familiar tread of work boots.

"Is she gone?" Wentworth asked, peering through the doorway into the cluttered space.

"Only just," Anne said, not looking up. Wentworth had been assigned to the room right next to her regular office -- currently occupied by Professor Croft -- but he was not above seeking her out if he had a question about the museum or merely wanted to talk. His well-timed arrival just now coaxed the start of a smile to her lips. "I'm sure I can call her back if you like."

"Don't you dare," he said instantly, stepping fully into the room.

Anne tried to hide her widening grin behind her hand but he still saw it. He relaxed then, realizing her offer was just teasing. She had been doing that more since… well, since Professor Croft had explained that Frederick had lost all memory of her.

When Professor Croft, Frederick Wentworth, and James Benwick came to the museum, Anne had been beside herself. Years before, Frederick had proposed marriage to her and she had refused. She had loved him but she was too young, their courtship too sudden. He was leaving in only a few weeks to spend months or years in Egypt on an expedition and Anne didn't know how she would cope. He had still left but with a bitterness that promised not to dull over the years.

When he appeared again and ignored her completely, she assumed it was part of her punishment. Slowly, she realized that there was no grudge behind his incurious disregard, which only made her wonder what had happened to him. Over tea and in confidence, the professor explained that Wentworth and Benwick had both drunk from a ceremonial chalice that had stolen their painful memories. Frederick wasn't slighting her over some unforgivable grudge, he simply couldn't remember their shared past.

It sounded like an incredulous fantasy or a cruel prank when she had first heard the story, but she trusted Professor Croft. He completely believed his tale, and Anne believed him even though she couldn't understand why. This story also began to heal the pain in her own heart over losing Frederick years ago and gaining this new version of him now. She slowly found herself relaxing around him, smiling, talking, even teasing with him. And while he remained unaware of their past, he enjoyed spending time with her in the present.

Or at least so Anne liked to tell herself, not that she had any hope for more than an amiable acquaintance with him.

"What are you doing?" he asked when he was close enough to peer at her drawing and see for himself.

"I'm sketching the mask," she stated the obvious. "When I'm done I want to color it, try to show what it looked like when it was new. It's so beautiful."

"I found it," he mentioned casually, "Benwick and I. Professor Croft had half of our men excavating at Neb-alhankh while Benwick and I and the rest were guarding another site and we found this burial chamber perfectly intact. It was amazing, a once in a lifetime find."

Something about his description struck a chord in her mind.

"What else did you find there?" she prompted.

Frederick looked about the room as if he might find someone eavesdropping at another desk. Only partially satisfied that they were alone, he leaned forward conspiratorially. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked lowly.

Not trusting herself to speak, Anne merely nodded. She knew she could only view him as a friend, but he occasionally did things that made it hard to remember that limitation.

"Then let's take this back to my office," he said, picking up the tray and carrying the mask away. "I don't want any of your father's lackeys walking in on us."

Wentworth had been at the museum for months, and was quite familiar with the stairwells and hallways to navigate between their spaces. The path he chose was circuitous and sneaky, trying to avoid everyone until he was ushering Anne into the room he shared with James Benwick and shutting the door behind them. He clearly thought about locking it before abandoning the idea and gently depositing the tray on the large table that he and Benwick used as a joint desk.

"Let me start by saying I was born and raised an Englishman. I don't believe in magic or witchcraft or superstitions," he began. "Having said that, I have from time to time encountered what I cannot explain. This is one of those things."

He proceeded to tell her almost the same story as Professor Croft had, with more details and one exception.

"But did you drink from the cup?" Anne prodded when it became clear that Frederick was not going to admit that.

"Me? No," he said, pulling a face. "What did I have to be sad about? But the chamber was full of items like that, including this mask, all marked with hieroglyphic instructions so that the servants in the afterlife would know what to do. The walls were covered with the life story of the priest who was buried in that chamber and it was clear to me that he had indeed died broken-hearted."

“What happened to him?”

“Sadiki was an Egyptian priest. He was very talented and advanced quickly; he would have gotten even further if he had been born to the right family. He fell in love with a slave named Maibe -- because you cannot die heartbroken without first falling in love. She was owned by another priest who was jealous of Sadiki's success.” Wentworth abandoned the tray to pull a notebook from one of the groaning shelves and flip through until he had found a page covered in hieroglyphs copied from the walls of the tomb. “Our priest was rewarded with wealth and favors by the pharaoh, and he used them to attempt to buy the slave from his rival. He tried over and over,” Wentworth said, pointing to a set of characters that repeated numerous times, “but his offers were always refused. Eventually Maibe lost hope that her master would ever release her and she killed herself in a fit of despair. Sadiki had already built his reputation on making magical artifacts for the pharaoh -- the chalice for example -- but after Maibe's death, he started to make this mask to ease his own grief.”

"What is the mask supposed to do?" asked Anne.

Rather than telling her directly, he slipped on a pair of gloves and delicately turned the mask over, cradling it. Now that she could see the underside, she saw that it was covered in glyphs, no doubt instructions. As she crowded closer, some of the symbols were recognizable. Her father, however, had never taught her properly as if she were a man. She didn't trust her own education.

"What does it say?" she asked reverently.

"Much is standard, a benediction to protect and strengthen the spirit and to guide it on its journey after death," he said, pointing to a line of glyphs. "They were probably put there by someone else, some lower-level acolyte. But this section right here," he said, drawing her eye to another line of figures, "was added by our friend Sadiki. He was executed before he could test it."

Anne felt a chill. Her fingers curled instinctively around Frederick's arm. "Executed? Oh, how awful!"

Wentworth looked at her, momentarily forgetting his place before blinking and turning his attention back to the mask.

“The girl was a slave. Her master took immense satisfaction in using her to torment his rival. When she died, the priest who owned made sure to deny her the rites that would bring her peace in the afterlife, knowing how that would plague Sadiki. Our priest, however, was able to channel his grief. He rescued her spirit from its wandering and gathered it in this mask. He then prepared one of his own slaves as a living sacrifice. By placing the mask on the victim's face, his lover's soul would take control of that body and the two would be reunited.

"Unfortunately, the rival went to the high priest and denounced Sadiki as a traitor. Palace guards seized him before he could complete the ritual and he was immediately put to death. Too late to save his life, his rival's claims were exposed as lies and he too was executed. When Sadiki's honor was posthumously restored, he was interred in the chamber along with all the items he had created."

"And the mask?"

"There's no record that it was ever used. If Sadiki knew what he was doing, the slave's soul is still trapped inside, waiting to be freed," Wentworth finished somberly.

She shivered and inched closer for warmth while the pathos of the tale washed over her.

Observing her discomfort, Wentworth put the mask back on the tray and ran his hands up and down her arms to generate heat. It helped but the story still left her cold. Before she could think, however, of asking for more or even notice how close to a compromising position they were in, the door swung open without a knock and James Benwick swept in.

"Ah! Here is your forgetful fiancé, Miss Musgrove," he announced as a young woman stepped in after him, "exactly where I said he would be."

"Frederick!" Louisa Musgrove exclaimed, rushing forward. "Don't tell me you forgot our lunch date!"

Wentworth released all hold on Anne and caught Louisa's hands in his. "Of course not!" he began to defend himself only to realize he was not blameless. "I just lost track of the time."

Miss Musgrove's face expressed the smug complexity of a woman who had already forgiven her man but was still willing to see what he would do to earn that forgiveness. She smiled in greeting to Anne who took another step back so as not to crowd the couple.

"Well, if you're ready to go now," Louisa arched her brow, "we'll only be fashionably late to the restaurant."

"Absolutely," he kissed her cheek, ready to dash off. "Oh!" he paused, suddenly remembering that he hadn't been alone when Benwick had found him.

"Don't mind me," Anne chided him. "These people have been dead for thousands of years. A long lunch won't change that. You can tell me their stories another time."

Frederick laughed at her easy dismissal and took Louisa's hand in his as they left.

Anne really didn't hope for more than an amiable acquaintance with Frederick Wentworth; he and Louisa Musgrove were too happy together for Anne to indulge in any selfish wish. But it would be nice to have someone to love her like that, it would be nice not to be alone.

She was shaken from her musing by the sound of James Benwick cleared his throat.

"Miss Elliot," he offered tentatively, "if you haven't already eaten, perhaps you would be willing to join me? I only plan to grab a sandwich from the cafeteria, but --"

"It sounds perfect," Anne told him.

Benwick didn't make a striking first impression but she had known him long enough to feel a growing appreciation for the man. He was, after all, head and shoulders above the Williamsons' miserable nephew.