A/N: Today I realized three things:

that fan fiction doesn't have to be good and usually isn't anyway (although most people do prefer quality of some sort, which is a sadly an almost unattainable desire),

that I don't really care what a bunch of people I don't know on the internet think of my awful, barely edited writing (though I do hope to entertain somebody),

and that the Bartimaeus fan fiction archive is tiny enough as it is and could use more love, no matter where is gets it from (quality be damned!).

So here we are, with some old, old writing that I will try to continue because it's amusing, but probably will forget about it. Isn't that what the rest of the site does anyway?

PS: this story is based on a footnote in Chapter Three of Ptolemy's Gate.

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"This… this is a curiously heavy trunk, Mr. Button."

This, Kitty thought, was a marked understatement. Thoughts of this variety occurred often to cargo movers and men with spend-happy wives, or really to all who had ever had the misfortune of being carelessly handed a deceptively small object and having their hands mashed into the ground by its weight. For a slightly insane moment Kitty felt the urge to giggle at the mental image of Mr. Button rummaging fretfully through his kitchen cabinets (which he was doing right now) whilst donning a layered skirt, a wide-brimmed stuffed vulture hat, and a corset (which he was not doing right now), completing the image of poor Lizzie as the pitiful, hard-driven servant to her mentor.

Shallow pain lanced up her arms. Kitty sobered up immediately and remembered that her fingers were still trapped beneath the combined bulk of the hatbox-sized chest and the absurd cluster-legion of mismatched iron padlocks and chains that came with it, which in total must have doubled the amount of space the small chest took up by itself.

Gritting her teeth, she carefully pried her abused fingers from between the chest and the rug. It was enough to produce a hollow boom like thunder and an ominous echo when it hit the carpet again.

Kitty stared. Wasn't the floor concrete under the carpeting?

"Um. Mr. Button?"

"Yes, it's quite an unusual specimen," said Mr. Button distractedly. An apparently offensive silver snuffbox was removed from a drawer and tossed over his shoulder, leaving it up to Kitty to lean across a tower of books and catch the box one-handedly. "It's made of cedar, you know. Holy wood of sanctuaries and protection. Good, solid old stuff."

Kitty glanced downwards appraisingly. The trunk didn't look very holy, or protective, or solid. Mostly it looked like the victim of a poorly drawn pentacle and a marid. There was even a touch of the rotting-chopping-wood-in-waiting look. She probably would have put it in one of those Fragile! This side up! cardboard storage boxes if her throbbing knuckles weren't shrieking a painful assurance that the chest was indeed very solid.

She returned her attention to Mr. Button and tried again. "Sir, what exactly do you have in here?"

Her mentor continued to turn his drawers inside out, presumably in search for a book. "Oh, the snuffbox? Pestilence in a box. Nasty little bugger; open it, toss it at some poor fellow, and run. Not a single protective spell or command word was bestowed on it, which is a shockingly bad oversight of safety. Not exactly something a person wants to have lying around in their cabinets, you know? Be a dear and dispose of that for me as well."

Kitty's arm dangled limply at her side, silver snuffbox cupped loosely in her palm. With mixed parts apprehension and irritation, she slid it into her overcoat pocket. "I meant the trunk, sir," she clarified. "It's kind of… hefty, for its size."

"Don't be an idle layabout, Lizzie," Mr. Button said in good humor. He turned his chalk and dust covered face towards her with an amused expression. "You ought to get going now, child. Magical artifacts don't confiscate themselves at Whitehall."

"Um. Sir. I mean it, your trunk really is… unusually heavy. No, unnaturally heavy," said Kitty. To prove her point, she gave the box a mighty shove with the side of her foot and almost tripped over it for her effort. It was like trying to upend a tree root. She then proceeded to kneel on the ground and push with both hands, hard. Not an inch of movement.

With more than a little vexation, she turned around, braced both feet on the opposite wall, set the small of her back against the chest, and struggled to push off from the wall in a most undignified manner. She might as well have been heaving against the side of a cliff.

Mr. Button tutted. "You are becoming most melodramatic. This behavior is unbecoming of you." The good-humored expression turned into a mildly cross one. "To answer your question, I'm not sure what's in there. A fellow scholarly magician entrusted it to me before departing on his travels, but unfortunately passed away before he could retrieve it. I suppose it contains family heirlooms or somesuch. Lockets. Goblets. Diaries. Diadems. I've never tried to unlock it, out of respect." He waved his hand dismissively, already turning away. "Either way, there are no heirs to send the battered old thing back to, so I dug it up from the basement and thought I'd finally get rid of it. Are you quite satisfied, Lizzie?"

"We have a basement?"

"Are you quite satisfied?"

Not really. "Yes, Mr. Button," she said politely in a dead tone. "I'll be out the door in a jiffy."

'In a jiffy' turned out to be nearly half an hour and several strained muscles later. After failing to budge the box in any fashion, Kitty finally stormed off to the kitchen, where she had a good, long cussing session out of Mr. Button's hearing range. She also picked up a baking pan, some thick twine, and a small, wheeled box-cart. When she returned to the living room, she wedged the sturdy pan under the trunk and flipped the trunk onto the wheeled cart. The force of impact threw the cart against the wall and left a dent. Kitty resisted the urge to curse again.

Luckily, Mr. Button seemed once more lost in a world of dustbunnies, cluttered cabinets, and physically-impossibly suspended piles of books. He didn't turn around once to acknowledge Kitty's hardship or the great ruckus.

Then, Kitty had a devil of a time navigating the still very heavy trunk through the towering mazes of old books; sweated profusely over the possibility that the trunk's weight would cripple the supporting beams of the porch steps as she coaxed the cart down after her (it landed on each succeeding step with similarly foreboding thunder-roll echoes and clangs. Thankfully, it did not smash the steps underneath her into splinters and then break her legs by landing on top of her); wheeled the thing up a very slightly sloping sidewalk with great toil, grumbling under the incredulous looks of passerby when the cart crushed fist-sized rocks and construction bricks in its path; and turned red with mortification when she held up the public transport by five minutes as she struggled to haul the cart up the bus steps and only succeeded in breaking the twine, thus necessitating the use of the bike rack for storage.

When she arrived at Whitehall, she was more than happy to leave her burden, cart and all, with the bemused secretary and the small posse of spindly-armed, suited magicians who were valiantly attempting not to pull a muscle by sharing the weight of the trunk between them (it wasn't working).

In the vigorous pursuit of forgetting the day's embarrassments, the mystery of the box's contents did not cross Kitty's mind again until much later.

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The first thing John Mandrake did when he woke up was wish that he hadn't.

For one, he felt like his head had been run over by a steamroller, and he thought that maybe someone had removed his brains and replaced them with packing peanuts that were crowding against the inside of his skull. He pursed his lips and licked them. They were numb and dry. For a moment he considered opening his eyes, but that would mean having to discover whatever disgusting material was coating his skin.

Thump. Thump.

The sound was more potent than thunder in causing his head to throb with pain, and Mandrake jerked involuntarily. This, in turn, caused more bones and joints to snap and send knife-like jabs of pain shooting up his exceedingly sore limbs. With a creak, his jaw opened and he moaned.

Thump. Thump. "Rise and shine, princess."

Reluctantly, he pried his eyes open and was immediately blinded by light. Once the initial flare of brightness died down, he blinked rapidly to clear the yellow gunk that had coalesced in the corners of his eyes and squinted.

In reality, the early morning light was dim and soft. It poured in various grays and reds into the first-floor lounge of John Mandrake's townhouse. Mandrake himself found that he was observing all of this while lying down on his leather couch. How he'd gotten there, he didn't recall.

On the far wall was a bookshelf. This being the lounge, the bookshelf was filled with trite but expensive displays of wealth. Incense jars were lined up neatly on one shelf, crystal figurines were arranged carefully on the shelf below, jewel-like insects under fixed magnifying glasses occupied another, and etcetera. The magician was vaguely alarmed to find that these priceless artifacts were rattling ominously in synchronization with the repetitive Thump. Thump. Thump.

Atop the bookshelf sat a skinny, dark-skinned boy. He sported a bomber jacket and a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes in sincerity. He was also rocking back and forth quite violently, causing the bookshelf to sway dangerously and slam against the wall loudly. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Mandrake would have protested, but his growing horror and mortification were too distracting.

These feelings must have showed on his face, because the boy's smile grew and he slipped off the shelf. The bookshelf gave a final, especially loud THUMP, and fell silent with a quiver. The boy moved, casual-as-you-please, towards Mandrake.

The little smirk stretched to a horrific grin of Cheshire proportions.

"There's something," the boy began giddily, "called common sense."

"I don't want to hear it," said Mandrake. Or at least, that's what he had meant to say. What had really come out resembled the sound a broken accordion makes, or a half-dead chicken. He excused it as his parched throat, and not his cracking voice.

"Your voice cracked," said the boy. "Anyway, there's something called common sense that even the least members of the least species on this earth – that would be humans, by the way – possess as a basic need of survival. For example: when trying the waters of a new and dangerous activity for the first time, take caution and don't go at it so hard."

"Shut up." Mandrake was sure that attempt at speaking was at least more intelligible than the half-dead chicken. Maybe he was about up to Mouler level.

"That was your first time, I'm fairly sure. You were getting awfully flustered and defensive about it… not like you were any good at it either."

"Go. Away."

"I imagine that you're pretty sore right now. In body and dignity."

"Unngh."

"When the carnivorous beast several times larger than you charges, you drop your spear and run. When the ground presents you with a canyon and a perilous thousand-foot drop to a rushing river, you don't try to leap the gap for kicks. When the fire burns you, when the bog bites you, when the bee stings you, you don't try to pet them. When the Irish ambassador takes you out to a shady nightclub and challenges you to a drink-off in front of his busty female companions, you do not take him up on his offer and boast that you'll drink him under the table. Irish, Mandrake. Irish. Wasn't that enough of a warning?"

Struggling to beat his voice box into submission, Mandrake managed a croak. "Why… didn't… you stop… me?"

The dark-skinned boy yawned and put his hands on his hips. "Well, I did make a few attempts to warn you between equal parts humiliation on your half and side-splitting laughter, but you were being rather… difficult." The Egyptian boy suddenly became taller, paler, and scrawnier, and appeared to have traded in his leather jacket for what once must have been a very smart outfit; the silk tie now hung like a noose around the neck and the dress shirt's top button was undone. The pseudo-Mandrake sported stupidly unfocused eyes, flushed cheeks, and a rakish grin. It took a few uneven steps, wheeling its arms in large circles.

"Wasted you say? I'm not wasted, I'm recyclable!" the doppelganger crowed in a high warble.

Mandrake groaned and ground his forehead into the upholstery.

"Swear to drunk, I'm not god!" the djinni went on, strutting unsteadily in swaggering circles around the couch. "Oh alright, maybe I am a little tipsy. But I shall be sober in the morning and that ambassador will still be ugly, ahahuhurggh. Of course, you will still be highly intelligent, witty, dignified, and of unmatched power and grace. I am in constant awe of you, Bartimaeus. I'd really be nothing without you. In fact, since you are clearly far too good for this world I will dismiss you the next morning…" Here Bartimaeus descended into unpleasant gurgling sounds and began bounding around the room, floating in the air for improbable stretches of time before landing on tip-toes and springing up again gaily.

"I didn't say that," said Mandrake in a small, scratchy voice.

He felt a hand firmly, but not roughly, force his head to turn upwards. The Egyptian boy was back, and grinning more viciously than ever. "Well you'll never know, will you? Tell me, exactly how many of your few brain cells are still intact after last night? Not enough to put together a standing argument for your dignity, that's for sure. Or, you know, to remember how to stand in the first place, judging by how I had to drag you back here," the djinni said gleefully, fisting its fingers in the magician's hair.

Swatting Bartimaeus' hand away, Mandrake continued to sulk into the armrest. His scalp felt vaguely tainted now. He was going to get a haircut. Now. Right after he felt sufficiently human again.

A deep, sophisticated chime rang clear as a wineglass throughout the townhouse – the doorbell. To Mandrake's ears, it was akin to the sound of scraping rust off with a shovel.

He managed his first coherent and very firm sentence. "I am not going to get that."

The djinni snickered, and Mandrake felt its weight leave the couch. "Alright then. I'll answer it, and you can crawl away into solitude and darkness of unconsciousness to recover, like the pasty little worm you are."

Mandrake did so.

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I loved being able to get away with insulting Mandrake.

Not that anything the whelp did would stop me from doing so, but the opportunities were harder to come by these days. Unsurprisingly, he was becoming more and more important. Mostly this meant that he was as vain as ever and had developed the notion that ignoring your slaves was the 'cool' and 'mature' thing to do. Jibes became an exercise in the wasting of metaphorical breath, as they tended to prompt a swiftly assigned mundane task [1].

[[1. It used to be that pointlessly destructive acts born out of tedium, like the 'accidental' misplacement of valuable Persian manuscripts that would send scholars around the world into hysterics, would have the boy shrieking in tandem. Nowadays, he inclines toward giving me a disdainful, holier-than-though look, and sends me packing to the Research Minister to explain why the product of several months of their department's work had literally gone up in smoke.]]

Quite frankly, I was a little baffled and insulted by the presence of this new flippancy that the impudent boy was wise enough not to show before. I'd thought there was something resembling respect between us that would at least require mutual acknowledgement. Well, it would be a temporary phase, if I had anything to say about it. This new development was a welcome reprieve from the strange and puzzling staleness our interaction had taken lately.

However, I was not loving the small child that the harried social worker at the door was trying to shove into my arms.

" – the Prime Minister himself requested that she be transferred to Mr. Mandrake's custody temporarily, only temporarily, you understand, she's actually the orphaned ward of a very important friend of his and I suppose you'll meet her guardian when he comes back to town but for now you are to treat the girl as a high-profile guest is this clear? And – "

A pair of wide, dark, bottomless eyes stared up at me in a discomfitingly hollow manner.

" – the PM wishes to say that he apologizes and hopes that she won't be too much trouble but that he has great faith in Mr. Mandrake and trusts that he'll be able to do a good job because everyone else's hands are tied up – "

Colorless, pixie-ish face. Long pigtails. Two pink hair clips. Natty blue Sunday-best dress. Charmingly chubby little fingers.

" – papers not needed, you're really only babysitting, so to speak, we don't know how long she'll need to stay here so be prepared for anything, so Euphemia, dear, behave yourself for us, alright? Thank you for your time and good luck!"

And the social worker was gone.

Normally, by this time I would be overflowing with eloquence and expressing my vehement doubts about the situation in a totally reasonable but nonetheless strongly worded manner. But really, you couldn't blame me. For you see, I was occupied.

The five year old and I regarded each other with no expression.

I, for one, thought that I was broadcasting a pretty good 'soulless, ethereal entity of an otherworldly and alien nature' vibe, what with my freakishly blown pupils and flat expression. However, little Euphemia seemed to have no intention of dropping her equally blank and lifeless visage, despite the fact that she must obviously be uncomfortable from being hoisted a foot above the ground by her armpits [2]. She didn't seem to feel like blinking any time soon either.

[[2. By yours truly. The stressed-sounding lady at the door just sort of dropped the girl on me with the expectation that children had the ability to cling to things magically like Velcro.]]

So neither of us gave ground in the stare-off.

As the seconds passed, a curious wariness pricked at my insides. The child was merely dangling limply in my arms, putting up no resistance or even moving. My arms were tiring. Continuing to meet her gaze, I tentatively anticipated her first action as though I were waiting for someone to jump around a corner at me.

Then – just the slightest twitch of a foot. A fisting of small hands. Something flickered dimly in those empty eyes, something that reminded me of the uncoiling of a sleeping reptile of unknown proportions in the dark, and the lines of her babyish face began to tighten –

Suddenly highly unnerved, I quickly set the child on the ground.

"Well!" I chirped exuberantly. "Er, Eugenia, is it?"

The child's face was wooden once more. Slowly, she lowered her pale face to stare straight ahead past me and folded her hands neatly at her waist.

"Right. Well, we're just going have to set about making you at home here, won't we? As our honored guest, we must have you feeling comfortable enough to, ah, do with the space as you please. I know exactly where to start, little Eunice, so if you will…"

I proffered a hand. She stared at it without a reaction.

I retracted my hand and pulled it to my chest. "Right. That's fine, big girls like you don't need their hands held anyway. I like that. I have a feeling we're going to get along, don't you?"

She walked right past me in a dainty, oddly stilted gait.

"Sure, we can follow your lead. No problem [3]."

[[3. The fact that she didn't know the layout of the house would only make detrimental 'accidents' more inevitable.]]

Twenty minutes later, Mandrake had managed to stay on his feet for long enough to make it to the kitchen, where he promptly keeled over once more in shock.

I waved one paint-splattered hand, while using the other one to carefully pry the girl's equally soiled fist out of her mouth and press her palm gently to the wall as a finishing touch of our collaborative masterpiece. "Hello, Mandrake! This is Eustacia – she'll be here for who knows how long, eating your food and redecorating your place with pieces such as this lovely finger-paint mural. And she's all your responsibility - you get to play house! Won't that be fun?"

His blank stare rivaled the child's in lifelessness. After a beat, Mandrake got to his feet once more. "I'm leaving you," he said.

I started. "What?"

The magician turned his back on me, the child, and the defaced kitchen wall, then walked out.

I hastily abandoned both the mess and the child on the dubiously secure stool, hurrying to catch up to Mandrake. "Excuse me," I ventured, "I couldn't help but be perplexed by the woefully ambiguous nature of your language. Clearly to need to expand your meager vocabulary so that you can communicate on the same level of sophistication and intelligence as the rest of the world."

"I don't know what a little girl is doing in my house, or why my wallpaper has been replaced with handprints and rude words in paint," said Mandrake calmly. We exited the hallway and dawdled as the magician retrieved his coat from the coat rack. "But I don't care right now, because I've been called to the ministry by a messenger imp to deal with an emergency. I am still trying to suppress a raging headache and am in a condition in which I am unable to see straight. I'm not in a good mood, and it's taking all of my dignity to not explode right now, so if you want to tell me something that might shake that fragile stability and cause me to break down… do it after this is over, on pain of the Shriveling Fire. Or I'll throttle you."

"I notice that you're still avoiding the word 'hangover'."

"Throttling, Bartimaeus. I don't care if you don't have a windpipe, I will bend you so out of shape that you will manifest a windpipe and die from asphyxiation when I wring your neck."

The boy still looked worse for wear – his face a funny sickly color, his eyes watery and unclear – but he seemed as determined and stoic as he was ever going to be. If he wanted to perform suicide, both physical and social, by going to work, that was fine with me.

But there remained a small problem. I jabbed a thumb in the direction of the vandalized kitchen. "Well, who's going to take care of the kid?"

Mandrake was now adjusting his hat and halfway out the door. "You, of course. You're certainly not coming to the ministry to humiliate me in front of everyone. Don't mess it up, Bartimaeus." And the door shut.

I stared, frozen. After making a series of uncharacteristically unintelligent noises of stupefaction, I turned away from the door.

There in front of me was the child, who stood silently watching in the hallway. Red paint smeared the front of her skirt.

Smoothing down the front of my jacket, I addressed the child with forced gaiety. "Well! It's just you and me now, Euglena."

The child kept staring emptily.

For once, I was at a total loss for what to do.

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