The palace was so big, Milo decided, it could probably eat his whole school for breakfast and still have room for dessert.
The tall double doors swung inward with a groan, revealing a long hall lined with painted columns. Bright murals covered the walls—scenes of boats on the Nile, women in flowing linen carrying baskets of fruit, men leading cattle, and always, somewhere, cats. Cats curled in the corners of paintings. Cats in the arms of queens. Cats perched on the prows of painted ships, tails flicking proudly.
"Wow," Milo whispered. "These people really do love cats."
Whiskers strutted down the center of the hall like she'd just heard Exactly.
Servants in white linen tunics scurried past carrying trays piled high with bread, figs, and gold goblets. They all stopped when they saw Whiskers. Some bowed. One young man actually dropped to his knees and muttered what sounded like a prayer.
The woman who'd brought them gestured toward the far end of the hall, where a raised platform gleamed in the sunlight pouring through tall windows. "The Pharaoh awaits."
Milo craned his neck. Sitting in a golden chair was a kid—maybe his age, maybe a little older—wearing a striped headdress and a long collar of blue and gold beads. Their eyes were sharp and curious, scanning Whiskers first, then Milo.
"Messenger," the Pharaoh said, their voice echoing just enough to sound impressive. "You honor my hall with your presence."
Whiskers sat down halfway up the steps to the throne, curling her tail neatly over her paws. She blinked at the Pharaoh with a calm, regal expression that said: Yes, I do honor your hall. You may proceed.
The Pharaoh smiled slightly. "And this is your… keeper?"
"Uh, more like her… roommate," Milo offered.
A chuckle rippled through the room, though Milo couldn't tell if it was with him or at him.
"I am Nebet-Amun," the Pharaoh said. "And you have arrived in a time of great trouble."
Milo glanced at Whiskers. "Oh, good. Because we love great trouble."
Nebet-Amun ignored the comment. "An idol of the goddess Bastet has been… disturbed. Its head is missing. Without it, the goddess's blessing fades. Our crops fail. Our enemies grow bold."
Whiskers' ears twitched. Her collar gave a soft tick—just one, like it was listening.
"And you think Whiskers can help?" Milo asked.
"The Messenger of Bastet is the only one who can restore the idol," Nebet-Amun said gravely. "But she cannot do it alone. That is why the Keeper is here as well."
Milo blinked. "Wait, so you think I'm… part of this?"
"Yes," Nebet-Amun said simply, as if it was obvious. "The Messenger chose you. The gods do not choose carelessly."
Milo considered explaining that Whiskers had not chosen him so much as moved into his house without paying rent. But the Pharaoh's eyes were steady, and the way everyone else in the room was looking at him made the words stick in his throat.
Instead, he said, "So… what do we do?"
Nebet-Amun stood. "You will be taken to the Hall of Records. There, the priests will give you the Riddle of Bastet. Solve it, and it will lead you to the missing head of the idol."
Whiskers stood too, stretching luxuriously as though accepting a royal challenge.
Milo, on the other hand, suddenly felt like he'd been volunteered for the world's most dangerous pop quiz.