Disclaimer – I own nothing, nobody, etc. Suing university students just isn't the way to run a big powerful movie studio, I'm pretty sure.

A/N: Yes, it's a Jonathan story – he's fab-tastic, and never ever gets written about enough for me… (Len's and Jennifer Lee's stories being fab-tastic exceptions which I'm sure everyone has already read.) Trying to keep historical data reasonably accurate, based on my knowledge of film lore, but please tell me off if you note massive errors.

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Chapter One – In which Ella craves a nice, cool bath

The movie cameras each weighed about the same amount as the average 12-year-old child, and were at least twice as badly behaved. Ella Toland thanked her lucky stars that there were only two cameras, but she was beginning to wonder whether this whole "shooting on location" thing was as bad of an idea as everyone had tried to tell her it was. She was standing on the dockside harbour, in the uncomfortably bright sun she'd been getting used to on the long and nauseating cruise down from England, almost as long a voyage as their passage across the Atlantic beforehand. All in all, Ella really didn't care if she never saw a boat, or ship, or whichever it was, again. Her 33 years suddenly weighed on her keenly, and she felt tired. The air was full of excitement and potential stories, and she waited for them to infect her like they usually did. But at the moment all Ella's inner creativity wanted to do was take a long cool bath, and curl up in a quiet, shady room with linen sheets… mmmmmmm, linen.

"Ella?" She turned to discover Vincent Saint-John, the only actor accompanying her small crew, looking pointedly at one of the cars-for-hire idling along the quay. "Do you think we might be able to make our way to that hotel now?" He was a striking-looking gentleman, a remnant of the Vaudeville circuit, now relegated to playing the standard moustache-twirling villains in second-string films, like the one she was shooting.

"Has all of the equipment been unloaded yet, Sam?" Ella directed her question to a bookish and very young man who was checking items off a minutely detailed list.

"Let's see…" he murmured, adjusting his spectacles over the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I think that's all of it. Yes, it's all here." He reached over to pat one of the cases comfortingly. Ella grinned at the affection he showed for the machines, more than she'd ever seen him bestow on a living, breathing human. He'd learn soon enough… and she had the strangest feeling that it would be her assistant Dora who would be the one doing the instructing.

"Walter, would you be able to manage…" she said to the cinematographer, gesturing tiredly toward the waiting automobiles. "The hotel is at 18 Rue Maroc."

"It would be my pleasure, little lady." The older man smiled broadly, and proceeded to swiftly whisk a great deal more than half the equipment, himself and Saint-John (whom Ella was thoroughly sick of dealing with) into one of the motorcars.

Well, at least there's one person I can trust out of my sight for more than 3 minutes, thought Ella with some relief. How in God's name did I let my brother convince me into coming to Egypt for him?

With some trepidation, she finished helping Sam load the second taxicab, and quickly slipped in beside the driver, leaving Sam and Dora to awkwardly find room (with the minimum possible physical contact, she noted with amusement) in the backseat. Everything will be fine. The footage will be fantastic. You won't be stung by any scorpions, or spiders, or insects, and you'll be back in the backlots of damp old Hollywood before the next Astaire and Rogers picture hits the screens. After all, how much could go wrong?

***

"So, they're going to be shooting inside the museum?" cried Evie, trying to be angry, but leaning instead towards patiently exasperated. This inevitably ended up being her mindset when dealing with Jonathan. "With cameras? And actors? Disturbing all the actual work going on?"

"It's just a second unit crew, old mum," explained her brother soothingly. "They shoot the occasional scene with dialogue, but mostly just cut-aways of Egyptian-y looking artifacts and deserts and pyramids and all that manner of things. They can't possibly be here for much longer than a week. Perhaps two. Or so." Jonathan's voice had the sound of someone who was repeating technical terms without knowing exactly what they meant. Evie, knowing him rather well, was far from being reassured.

"Well, I suppose there's nothing to be done at this point, seeing as how they've probably already arrived," she sniffed.

"Besides," said Jonathan, with a sidelong glance at his sister. "The director, Joseph Toland already made that generous donation to your next dig… you know you'd have been in a tight spot without that extra cash." He smiled at her, at his most charming.

"Yes, well," sighed Evie, giving up and breaking into a grin suspiciously like her brothers'. "I had no idea at the time that I was selling my soul to Hollywood. But before you go creeping back to that bar, Jonathan, I expect you to be in constant supervision of that film crew whenever they're in this museum. Do you hear me?"

Jonathan's half-lidded eyes widened in alarm – terrifying images of long afternoons far away from the cool comforts of his favourite watering-hole flitted through his brain, followed almost immediately by far more interesting images of attractive, pneumatic blonde actresses wearing clinging silk dresses.

"Sister mine," he replied. "I wouldn't dream of doing anything less."

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Okay, so it's Liselle's first posted fanfic, I know that feedback takes effort, but it's lovely, and I promise to respond… more story soon, with any luck. Flames welcome, if I deserve them. Etc. Etc.