Disclaimer: I don't own Upstairs, Downstairs. Or The Jewel of the Nile.

It should be noted, before I become consumed by my narrative, that I am but a casual observer in all of this. The details which are about to be revealed have as little to do with me as they do to do with you, reader. They have been told to me in confidence by a very dear friend, and, if all goes to plan, will not be revealed for some centuries. But enough of that for now. On with the show.

I am informed that this tale must be begun at the beginning. I fail to see why, as it strikes me as rather dull, but my chronicler insists, and, like the genie in The Arabian Nights, I am bound to carry out her wishes. For this, dear reader, I apologise, and firmly believe you would be more than justified in skipping over it if you were so inclined.

Our story begins on a musty day in mid-August. We see our protagonist bent over a large rock, which has been covered with a silk throw and converted into a makeshift table. The cave is poorly lit by the sun, and she struggles to make out the faded words on the ancient map. This is the scene in which our turbulent tale unfolds...

Blanche Mottershead frowned, frustrated. She hadn't been following this map for months, and had nearly lost her life on more than one occasion, merely to give up now. But good Lord, she couldn't make head or tail of this. Turning to the same atlas that she'd carried with her since her school years, for reasons she would prefer not to divulge, she compared the area she knew herself to be in to the one on the map. She knew that the centuries that lay between the production of the former and the latter were bound to cause some minor discrepancies, but none of this scale. There was no getting away from the fact that the two looked nothing like each other.

It was no good. She had been staring at the same section for what felt like a lifetime, and it had only served to infuriate her. She would have to take a break. Stretching, wearily, she pulled herself to her feet, and made her way over to the mouth of the cave, where a young man, a member of her team, stood, a cigarette between his lips. What was his name again? She supposed she ought to feel guilty for taking so little interest in her companions, but she couldn't help it. Men would insist on being so infinitely forgettable.

"Good evening, Doctor," he greeted her, and she nodded in response, watching the billowing smoke, longingly. She willed herself to resist, but she could bear it no longer. She had to give in, for the sake of her nerves if nothing else.

"Would you mind awfully if I had one of your cigarettes?"

"Not at all," he smiled, producing one and lighting it for her. She took it, inhaling gratefully.

"Thank you."

Taking another long drag, she pressed herself against the wall of the cave's mouth, basking in the glow of the early evening sun. She wouldn't admit it to anyone, for fear of being branded a romantic (which, to her, would be a worse accusation than...well, perhaps it was better not to go into that), but this was her favourite time of day. This hour seemed tinted with more potential than any other, bewitching in its brevity. Elusive and mysterious, it was gone before one had properly realised it was there. Between the pressure of the late afternoon and the bleakness of nightfall, this was a time of contradiction, when nothing was true for long; a time in which anything could happen.

Her reverie was interrupted by a the sounds of voices. Usually, she would have paid little attention (people were uninteresting enough when they spoke directly to her, let alone when they talked to each other), but this time, she heard the unmistakable intonations of someone she absolutely was not in the mood to deal with. She rose to her feet, brushing herself down, but it was too late. She looked up just in time to see Lady Portia come around the corner.

Haughty and disdainful, Portia had tagged along to Egypt with them on the pretext of researching a novel, but all she seemed to have done so far was raise her eyebrows, sniff and complain about she would never have had to suffer such indignities at home. How she had managed to get a place on this trip was quite beyond Blanche, though she rather suspected her father might have made some form of monetary contribution.

"Doctor Mottershead, what ever has drawn you away from your work so early?" she quipped, now. Blanche gritted her teeth.

"If you must know, I hit a brick wall in my research. Now, if you'll excuse me-" she made to leave, but the younger woman interrupted her.

"Good heavens. Don't tell me all those hours of poring over long forgotten bits of old rock have been for nothing?"

Blanche inhaled sharply, wishing Portia's words didn't affect her the way the did. That was, in that they simultaneously made her want to slap her and pin her against the wall. It would be so easy, too. She could just leap on her now, while she was least expecting it, and hold her there. She'd have no escape.

"I say, are you feeling alright?"

Blanche started, realising that she'd slipped into a trance for a few seconds. Having regained control, she shook herself, embarrassed by the tell-tale glaze she knew had coated her eyes in that momentary lapse.

"Quite alright, thank you," she muttered, turning to go. She must be more tired than she'd thought, and if that were the case, then being alone with Portia for any longer would be far too risky to contemplate.

"Doctor Mottorshead?" Portia called after her.

"What?" She didn't turn back.

"Might I be of any assistance?"

The offer was so out of character that it took her a moment to realise what she meant. The research, of course. Yes. Obviously that was what she was talking about. She didn't usually enjoy other people's company, particularly not when she was working, but the hours she had spent alone today had got her no further. Perhaps a second mind was what the problem needed. Slowly, she turned to look Portia directly in the eye as she told her, "Your help would be gratefully received." In more ways than you know. And now, she really needed to go, before she did anything she would regret. That night, amid the pile of blankets that had so often served as her bed when she had been travelling, she found the unconsciousness eluded her just as much as the answer to the puzzle posed by the maps. When she did sleep, it was in snatches, and coloured by cravings for the woman whose help would be so gratefully received.