For years, The British Museum in London was like a book I’ve cracked open a dozen times, but was never able to get passed the first chapter.
I knew its beginning pages almost by heart. The crowds in front of the Rosetta Stone are mentioned in the dedication. This little one-eyed bird made an appearance in Chapter One:
But I didn’t know much more than that. Did the two leads who once hated each other finally succumb to their growing passions? Did the weather worn detective ever discover who the killer was? Beaten down by jetlag, I never found out. I just reread the first chapter, and left.
This time, though, I was determined to get through every page of the British Museum. Or at the very least, skim them enough to have an idea of what was going on.