A young Victorian Egyptologist traverses the Nile River on a mission to undo a curse that may have befallen her family in this spellbinding novel. “An intoxicating tale of adventure and obsession, told in prose that shimmers like the Nile . . . I loved it.”—Emilia Hart, author of Weyward Essex, 1887. Clementine’s ability to read hieroglyphs makes her invaluable at her father's Egyptian relic parties, which have become the talk of the town. But at one such party, the words she interprets from an unusual amulet strike fear into her heart. As her childhood games about Isis and Nephthys—sister goddesses who protect the dead—take on a devastating resonance in her life, and tragedy slowly consumes her loved ones, she wonders what she and her father may have unleashed. Five years later, Clemmie arrives in Cairo desperate to save what remains of her family back home. There, she meets a motley crew of unwitting English travelers about to set sail down the Nile—including an adventurer with secrets of his own—and joins them on a mission to reach Denderah, a revered religious site, where she hopes to return the amulet and atone for her sins. With each passing day, she is further engulfed in a life she’s yearned for all along. But as long-buried secrets and betrayals rise to the surface, Clemmie must reconcile the impossibility of living in the light while her past keeps her anchored to the darkness. “A remarkable debut novel . . . The level of research into both Victorian London and Egypt in Victorian times is breathtaking. . . . Rachel Louise Driscoll is a writer to look out for. Her ability to intertwine the ancient with the not-quite-so-old is phenomenal. Knowing ancient Egypt is one thing, but knowing how Egyptology was viewed a century or more ago is even more meritorious.” — Historical Novels Review “An intoxicating tale of adventure and obsession, told in prose that shimmers like the Nile . . . I loved it.” —Emilia Hart, author of Weyward “A dazzling debut and an irresistible page-turner . . . With an unforgettable heroine you cannot help but root for, I was spellbound from the very first page to the very last.” —Susan Stokes-Chapman, author of Pandora “Rachel Louise Driscoll’s clever and haunting exploration of nineteenth-century Egyptomania had me turning pages until late into the night. An eerie tale in the best Victorian gothic tradition, this book is a treat for anyone who has ever been entranced by the mythology of ancient Egypt.” —Anna Rasche, author of The Stone Witch of Florence “Blending gothic vibes with ancient Egyptian mythology, The House of Two Sisters is bursting with love of family, unexpected betrayals, goal-oriented adventure, and a heaping dose of self-reflection.” —Malayna Evans, author of Neferura “In this glittering debut, Driscoll takes readers on the adventure of a lifetime. Lush and evocative, The House of Two Sisters asks us to consider: what do we owe to the people and places we love?” —Shannon Ives, author of Those Fatal Flowers “Intriguing . . . A gripping and skillfully written Victorian adventure set in Egypt and based on mythology . . . I loved it and learned a lot!” —Santa Montefiore, author of Last Voyage of the Valentina “Seamlessly blending extensive historical research and ancient Egyptian mythology with exquisite storytelling, The House of Two Sisters is an astonishingly accomplished debut.” —Jessica Bull, author of Miss Austen Investigates “Immersive . . . Driscoll interweaves meticulous evocations of 19th-century life with eloquent retellings of Egyptian myth. . . . A notable tale of sisterhood and survival.” — Publishers Weekly “A gothic tale of Egyptomania.” — Booklist Rachel Louise Driscoll is a former librarian and winner of the Curtis Brown Creative scholarship. She lives in the northeast of England with her husband and her cat, Cleopatra. The House of Two Sisters is her debut novel. Unwrapping 1887 The room is so thick with spice you could take a spoon to the air. We must evoke atmosphere, he always says, so she’s scattered the cloves and lit the lavender candles: the ones that normally burn at a wake to mask the smell of the dead. It’s fitting really, and the headiness mingles with the myrrh oil she’s dripped about the place, not bothering to see if it stains the Turkish rug or mars the beeswax shine on the mahogany. The smell will linger for days, but there’s something pleasant and exotic about it, as if they’ve traveled to another land. Her shoulders relax—the oils must be working—and she can almost forget that the audience relies on her as much as the unwrapper. But who wants to forget? She’s a woman doing the same job that philologists once mashed their brains over. When she translates the hieroglyphs, when she retells the myths and explains the meaning behind an artifact, people look at her in astonishment mixed with admiration, the perfect cocktail of reactions. She has no desire to exchange her night of inter