The Pharaoh's Code (ON HOLD)

Chapter Two: Pharaoh's and Policemen

Chapter Two: Pharaohs and Policemen

Arthur Winchester was in a state of extreme contentment.

He seldom found such peace but it was certainly welcome after his exhausting day, in which he'd be forced more than once to make conversation with Lady Gateshead and her cackling harem of blue bloods, simply to keep up with appearances. If Gateshead made one more comment about his bachelorhood, he might be forced to abandon all good manners and gentlemanly British decorum and tell her exactly what he thought of her. He'd be sure to use some of the expletives that Will had taught him.

Arthur Winchester was a quiet, private man, and quite frankly, the outside world frightened him these days. He liked very few people, he liked conversing with people he didn't like even less, and unfortunately he seemed doomed to spend his time doing just that. That sort of hardship came with being a Lord he supposed, not that he'd ever asked for the burden. He'd had the great misfortune of being his parent's only son, meaning no one else had been able to shoulder the title, and so the misery had befallen him. Even his father had bemoaned on his deathbed that Arthur was the last man on earth suited to being the Lord of the Winchester Estate. Which had not been very comforting.

Not that he wasn't very good at all the cutting ribbons and kissing babies stuff he had to do sometimes, he just wasn't interested in that sort of thing. It was tedious and...well, sort of pointless. But where you came from and your ancestry was important to Arthur, and if he was meant to be a Lord, so be it.

Putting the tumultuous ordeal of this morning aside, he had finally been allowed to creep up to his study after waving off Mrs. Cotton, his formidable housekeeper, discard his stiff and uncomfortable tie, and shut the curtains against the harsh sunlight. There was an odd sense of relief when he did just that. Wilhemina called it 'taking off his Lord Winchester costume, and wriggling back into podgy old Arthur'.

He wasn't sure how he felt about 'podgy' or 'old' but he was sure she had a point.

He pulled his small wire spectacles down to the end of his nose so he could look over the top of them at the minute parts he was holding in his hand, the tiny mechanisms of a handmade, genuine WW1 pistol. There was something so comforting about history; it was steadfast and certain, and it gave one an anchorage in an everchanging world. After all, one couldn't be certain of the things to come, but history was already set in stone.

He was just brushing the casing when a noise startled him, almost causing him to drop the gun. He caught it in a bumbling movement, the brush lost in his clumsy catch and dropping to the desk and rolling away. He muttered a curse under his breath. Music! Loud too - a steady thud vibrating through the whole house. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping it would stop, but if anything it got louder. He sighed deeply and turned his head to see his pictures practically rattling against the wall. One of them fell down to the floor with a crash, making Arthur yank off his glances in outrage.