Time was precious, now more so than ever, but Thoth made them halt their departure until the next morning. Nefertari had agreed to take Simon to Giza, so he could get back to his time, and they would be taking the Duat to get there.

  Simon could hardly wait to finally get home. While he packed his remaining belongings – Nefertari had taken care of them while he was gone – into his shredded bag, he thought about London, and how to best get there once he arrived in Giza in his own time. He didn't have any money on him any more, but guessed that, if he could find his way to Amenhotep's hostel on foot, he would be able to figure something out from there.

  It wasn't all that easy, though: As he packed his torn clothes and some provisions into his bag, an odd feeling rose inside of him, as though a million different emotions were raging in his head. He wanted to go home, he really did, so why was his mouth so dry and the taste on his tongue so bitter when he thought about leaving this world behind? Despite his initial reluctance, it seemed that in the past two weeks he had somehow adapted to ancient Egypt, had gotten used to it even. He ached at the thought of leaving it behind, almost as much as he ached to go home.

  It was stupid to even think that way, Simon chided himself. There was no point staying. Nefertari, Horus, and Thoth were preparing for battle now that they finally had the last piece of the puzzle to defeat Apep and retake the throne of Egypt. Simon didn't have any experience fighting. He hadn't killed as much as a scorpion in all his life, never mind something bigger and more dangerous. All he ever did was hide behind Nefertari's skirts, and although that suited both of them just fine, she wouldn't have time to babysit him if it came to a real war, which was likely. He wouldn't be any use on the battlefield, but quite the opposite. So why did he feel so – so guilty about leaving? Was it only the fact that he owed them a million times for his life? Or was it something else?

  He didn't know how long he had been mulling the thoughts over in his mind before the sound of a familiar voice interrupted his musings and he looked up.

  “So that's it?” asked Nefertari, strolling toward him casually.

  Simon looked up, surprised. The supposed-Pharaoh had been rather distant with him ever since he had revealed his great, selfish secret (not that he had expected anything else); it was the first time she had spoken to him since he surrendered the pendant. A tiny surge of hope gushed up inside of him. Did that mean she had forgiven him? Or that she was beginning to forgive him at least?

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  Nefertari joined his side, not looking at him as she helped fold his spare clothing.

  “That's it,” said Simon lamely, because he didn't know anything else to say.

  He didn't know what else to say: A lot of things had happened between them in a very short time, and though he wished that things had gone differently now, the wistfulness, the regret, just as the guilt, were stupid and unnecessary feelings. He didn't even know Nefertari and her divine friends long enough to care about them or to feel the need to assist them – at least that's what he told himself very firmly. So far, he had done nothing to help them, and they had gotten along without him just fine, better even than they had with him... Certainly he would be a hindrance if he stayed... And that aside, Morgan was waiting for him at home, and it seemed essential to see the boy again, to explain, to get an explanation in turn, before – well, before the curse, the ticking time bomb inside of him, did what it had been designed to do.

  Nefertari held the bag open while he folded his spare set of clothes into it, then ran her fingers over the smooth cover of his copy of Archaeology Today with obvious admiration. Following a sudden inspiration, Simon shoved it into her hands.

  “You have it. I know it by heart,” he said, feeling his cheeks flush with colour.

  What are you doing, giving her a magazine? asked a tiny yet very annoying voice in his head.

  “I can't read those letters either way,” Nefertari said evasively, pushing the magazine back into his hands.

  Do you think it'll ease the guilt? demanded the voice.

  “There's pictures in them,” replied Simon sternly, ignoring the voice and thrusting the book back at her.

  It was a bit of a relief when she took it, without comment and still not looking at him, though he meant to see her amber eyes soften. Again he felt he should say something, anything, but his throat felt oddly constricted, and the words wouldn't come.

  They sat together in front of the pyramid when everything was packed away, letting the sunlight warm them up before their trip into the iciness of the Duat. Simon didn't particularly want to go back down there, but the easiest and fastest way to Giza was through the Hall of Gates. And they wouldn't be down there for long anyway; it took only a few minutes minutes to get to the necropolis of Giza from the tomb of Khmun, and Simon, having made up his mind about leaving, hoped those wouldn't be enough time to veer him off the chosen path again. He wasn't a hero and he didn't want to be one. He wanted to go home.