The House of Two Sisters

A Novel

About the Book

A young Victorian Egyptologist traverses the Nile River on a mission to undo a curse that may have befallen her family in this spellbinding novel.

“An intoxicating tale of adventure and obsession, told in prose that shimmers like the Nile . . . I loved it.”—Emilia Hart, author of Weyward

Essex, 1887. Clementine’s ability to read hieroglyphs makes her invaluable at her father's Egyptian relic parties, which have become the talk of the town. But at one such party, the words she interprets from an unusual amulet strike fear into her heart. As her childhood games about Isis and Nephthys—sister goddesses who protect the dead—take on a devastating resonance in her life, and tragedy slowly consumes her loved ones, she wonders what she and her father may have unleashed.

Five years later, Clemmie arrives in Cairo desperate to save what remains of her family back home. There, she meets a motley crew of unwitting English travelers about to set sail down the Nile—including an adventurer with secrets of his own—and joins them on a mission to reach Denderah, a revered religious site, where she hopes to return the amulet and atone for her sins.

With each passing day, she is further engulfed in a life she’s yearned for all along. But as long-buried secrets and betrayals rise to the surface, Clemmie must reconcile the impossibility of living in the light while her past keeps her anchored to the darkness.
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Praise for The House of Two Sisters

“A remarkable debut novel . . . The level of research into both Victorian London and Egypt in Victorian times is breathtaking. . . . Rachel Louise Driscoll is a writer to look out for. Her ability to intertwine the ancient with the not-quite-so-old is phenomenal. Knowing ancient Egypt is one thing, but knowing how Egyptology was viewed a century or more ago is even more meritorious.”Historical Novels Review

“An intoxicating tale of adventure and obsession, told in prose that shimmers like the Nile . . . I loved it.”—Emilia Hart, author of Weyward

“A dazzling debut and an irresistible page-turner . . . With an unforgettable heroine you cannot help but root for, I was spellbound from the very first page to the very last.”—Susan Stokes-Chapman, author of Pandora

“Rachel Louise Driscoll’s clever and haunting exploration of nineteenth-century Egyptomania had me turning pages until late into the night. An eerie tale in the best Victorian gothic tradition, this book is a treat for anyone who has ever been entranced by the mythology of ancient Egypt.”—Anna Rasche, author of The Stone Witch of Florence

“Blending gothic vibes with ancient Egyptian mythology, The House of Two Sisters is bursting with love of family, unexpected betrayals, goal-oriented adventure, and a heaping dose of self-reflection.”—Malayna Evans, author of Neferura

“In this glittering debut, Driscoll takes readers on the adventure of a lifetime. Lush and evocative, The House of Two Sisters asks us to consider: what do we owe to the people and places we love?”—Shannon Ives, author of Those Fatal Flowers

“Intriguing . . . A gripping and skillfully written Victorian adventure set in Egypt and based on mythology . . . I loved it and learned a lot!”—Santa Montefiore, author of Last Voyage of the Valentina

“Seamlessly blending extensive historical research and ancient Egyptian mythology with exquisite storytelling, The House of Two Sisters is an astonishingly accomplished debut.”—Jessica Bull, author of Miss Austen Investigates
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Excerpt

The House of Two Sisters

Unwrapping

1887

The room is so thick with spice you could take a spoon to the air. We must evoke atmosphere, he always says, so she’s scattered the cloves and lit the lavender candles: the ones that normally burn at a wake to mask the smell of the dead. It’s fitting really, and the headiness mingles with the myrrh oil she’s dripped about the place, not bothering to see if it stains the Turkish rug or mars the beeswax shine on the mahogany. The smell will linger for days, but there’s something pleasant and exotic about it, as if they’ve traveled to another land. Her shoulders relax—the oils must be working—and she can almost forget that the audience relies on her as much as the unwrapper.

But who wants to forget? She’s a woman doing the same job that philologists once mashed their brains over. When she translates the hieroglyphs, when she retells the myths and explains the meaning behind an artifact, people look at her in astonishment mixed with admiration, the perfect cocktail of reactions. She has no desire to exchange her night of interpretations for one of dancing, or her rapt listeners for a line of men proposing courtship.

It lies there, on the table. Bundled like a caterpillar in its chrysalis, still waiting to emerge. When she was young, she watched a butterfly split the sheath confining it, wings damp and temporarily useless. But it was beautiful. Every occasion they do this, when a new specimen has been procured and they receive the handsome amounts socialites will pay to satisfy their inner desire for the macabre, when her father reveals the embalmed skin, dark with gum and so carefully preserved one might go as far as to call it beautiful, she thinks of that butterfly.

Under the first swaddles he reveals small trinkets, each carefully chosen to bring protection to the dead. These he hands to the crowd, letting them enjoy the tactility of the moment before relinquishing them to her. She lays them out carefully, admiring the typical shapes—green scarabs and blue wedjat eyes—more of the same beautiful relics to add to her father’s collection. There is a space waiting for them in the nearest locked cabinet, glass polished to a diamond’s brilliance to best flaunt the treasures within.

He unwinds the folds of cerement, those strips of cloth that bind the neck. There must be many layers left, the neck and head are thick with them. It is here that he finds the last piece and passes it to her, his fingers quaking, reluctant to surrender this new find.

She holds this final amulet in her hands. Larger than the rest. Bigger than any she’s ever known. The amulet is perfectly preserved. It is carved from red jasper, that stone once believed to be synonymous with the blood of Isis. The wonder of this piece magnifies the more she looks at it. Perhaps six inches across, even more from base to top. Cut from a large piece of quartz. It’s not just the size of the amulet that’s impressive. The shape is unusual too. Much like the ankh, the stem reaches to a loop. However, instead of the arms stretching out, as they do on an ankh, here they fall to the sides. Holding itself. Embracing.

She recognizes the shape. It’s called a tyet, or knot of Isis. A symbol of life and protection, typical for a funerary token. But what makes this one unique is the duplication. Instead of one tyet, there are two carved as one piece. Twinned, sides touching. Her skin prickles with the feet of ancient scarabs, passing unseen. She’s never seen a Double Tyet before.

That’s not all. Her father had no choice but to relinquish this piece, for she is the hieroglyphist, and those enigmatic icons are lying on the surface, winking at her in the lambent light. The amulet is engraved, the characters small and familiar. That mysterious script that she’s dedicated her life to understanding. Some people enjoy reading novels, others pass the time conversing with friends, but she prefers to translate an almost lost language. To hear the voices of the dead.

Tracing the hieroglyphs with her fingers, she is oblivious to the buzz from the guests as they watch her father work. It’s her role to interpret for their audience. Messages from the past. Sometimes it is the glyphs on a sarcophagus, sometimes cryptic shapes on papyri. She knows what words to expect. They tend to follow a traditional formula referring to the story of Osiris, worded as a plea for the soul of the dead.

She feels each engraving under her finger, like pockmarks on skin. All along the spines of the Double Tyet she strokes and translates, finger becoming a third eye. Beginning at the top, she moves downward, from left to right.

A throne. A house with a basket.

Piece by piece, the images make characters, and those make words. Some are words of their own; others are sounds, and she threads them together. Doubting herself at times, looking for the determinative signs, wishing she’d brought along her Birch dictionary, but no. She’s studied long and hard. She can do this.

The walls are lined with antiquities from Egypt and books that hold more dust than the local churchyard. In the center of the room, he continues his monologue as he fiddles with the remaining bandages, droning on about the country of sand and Pyramids, explaining the science behind embalming, giving the performance paid for by these women wearing brooches of bees and spiders, and boasting hats made of taxidermied cats and squirrels, and men smelling of tobacco.

The words on the amulet form sentences and she translates them in her head. Slowly, then faster. Building a rhythm. It’s as they make sense, passing from ancient Egyptian to English, that she grasps their true meaning. The weight behind them becoming so heavy her wrists can barely hold the amulet up. She has never read an inscription like this before.

Protection. Wrath.

Her eyes widen, nostrils stinging with the shock of realization. She must show him what she has discovered. If only she could talk to him privately. The pits of her arms are damp. Sweat mingles with the spice.

I must stop this, she thinks. It cannot go on.

But when she looks up, she sees that he has already unwound what should be the head. And when they see what’s there instead, a collective gasp rises from the gathering like a summoned spirit.

She is too late.

About the Author

Rachel Louise Driscoll
Rachel Louise Driscoll is a former librarian and winner of the Curtis Brown Creative scholarship. She lives in the northeast of England with her husband and her cat, Cleopatra. The House of Two Sisters is her debut novel. More by Rachel Louise Driscoll
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