It was a young man, a peasant, traces of the black mud still clinging to his well- scrubbed calves, who first objected. They were used to old, drained men and women who bowed low in relief, or children, or new mothers crying quietly, so perhaps that had something to do with it; but still, they'd seen plenty of young men before. Whatever the priests said about the gods keeping track, it was all nonsense, really; they were busy people, well, sort of busy and sort of people, and the hearts were all they needed in the end. So whatever spark burned in the young man still, the circumstances that fanned it were a mystery to them.
Actually, Anubis (who rarely bothered to hide his caprice) rather liked the young man's face at first impression, so had palmed the usual feather and brought out Feather Three, the one with little copper weights glued underneath, and rested a claw on the scale - for good measure.
So the young man was saved. However, he didn't scuttle off like the rest, but turned and