The Golem's Eye

a stopper carved like a dog's head and a dull pewter chalice, a satin purse sat inside a glass container. Alongside was a small black bag, fixed with a bronze clasp. Down the whole length of the sarcophagus, close to the body itself, ran a ceremonial sword and, beside it, a staff of blackened wood, plain and unadorned, except for a pentacle carved within a circle at the top.
    Even without the others' gifts, Kitty could feel the power emanating from this assembly. It practically vibrated in the air.
    Mr. Pennyfeather pulled himself together with a start. "Right, action stations. Bags open and at the ready. We're taking the lot." He glanced at his watch and gave a gasp of surprise. "Almost one o'clock! We've wasted far too much time already. Anne—you first."
    He leaned his body against the lip of the sarcophagus, stretching inside and seizing objects in both hands. "Here. Egyptian these, if I'm not mistaken.... There's the purse.... Careful with it, woman! Bag full? Right—Stanley, take her place...."
     
    While the sarcophagus was being despoiled, Kitty stood back, her rucksack open, arms loosely at her sides. The unease that had engulfed her upon the discovery of the bodies drifted in on her once more. She kept glancing over toward the fake wall and back toward the entrance stairs, her skin prickling and crawling with imaginary fears. This anxiety was accompanied by a growing regret at the night's activities. Never had her ideals—her desire to see the magicians vanquished and power returned to the commoners—seemed so divorced from the reality of Mr. Pennyfeather's group. And what a grotesque reality it was. The naked greed of her companions, their excited cries, Mr. Pennyfeather's red, glistening face, the soft clinking of the valuables as they disappeared into the outstretched bags—all of it seemed suddenly repugnant to her. The Resistance was little more than a band of thieves and grave robbers—and she was one of them.
    "Kitty! Over here!"
     
    Stanley and Nick had filled their bags and moved aside. It was her turn. Kitty approached. Mr. Pennyfeather was now stretching in farther than ever, his head and shoulders invisible within the sarcophagus. He emerged briefly, handed her a small funerary pot and a jar decorated with a snake head and tipped himself forward again. "Here..." His voice echoed oddly in the tomb. "Take the cloak... and the staff, too. Both those are for Mr. Hopkins's benefactor, who has—oof!—guided us so well. I can't reach the other bits from this side; Stanley, can you take over, please?"
    Kitty took the stick and shoved the cloak deep into her bag, recoiling a little from its cold and faintly greasy touch. She watched Stanley raise himself onto the lip of the sarcophagus and swing his top half down, reaching into the depths while his legs waved momentarily in the air. At the opposite end, Mr. Pennyfeather leaned against the wall, wiping his brow. "Just a few things left," he panted. "Then we—oh, drat the boy! Why can't he be more careful?"
    Perhaps in an overabundance of enthusiasm, Stanley had fallen headfirst inside the sarcophagus, knocking his lantern backward onto the floor. There was a dull thud.
    "You little fool! If you've broken anything..." Mr. Pennyfeather leaned forward to look inside, but could see nothing in the well of darkness. Intermittent rustling sounds came from below, together with sounds of uncoordinated movement. "Pick yourself up carefully. Don't damage the crystal ball."
    Kitty rescued the lantern from where it was rolling on the flagstones, muttering at Stanley's stupidity. He had always been an oaf, but this was priceless, even for him. She clambered over the broken lid to hold the lantern above the sarcophagus, but jumped back in shock as, with great speed and suddenness, Stanley's head popped up above the rim. His cap had fallen down over his face, obscuring it completely.
    "Whoops!" he said, in a high, irritating voice. "Clumsy, clumsy me."
    Kitty's blood boiled. "What d'you think you're doing, startling me like that? This isn't a game!"
    "Hurry it up, Stanley," Mr. Pennyfeather said.
    "So sorry. So sorry." But Stanley didn't seem sorry at all. He didn't adjust his cap or emerge any farther from the tomb.
    Mr. Pennyfeather's mood turned dangerous. "I'll take my stick to you, boy," he cried, "if you don't get moving."
    "Move? Oh, I can do that." With that, Stanley's head began to jerk to and fro inanely, as if to a rhythm only it could hear. To