Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [100]
“Until we know who she is and why she is doing this, we cannot predict what harm she is likely to do.” Nefret stopped. Avoiding my eyes, she plucked a bright-yellow zinnia and began pulling off its petals. “Mother, I can’t discuss this with Ramses, but you must have thought of the possibility that she is a past . . .”
“Lover? Don’t be afraid of shocking me, Nefret, I am quite familiar with the word and tolerably familiar with Ramses’s—er—history along those lines.”
“How familiar?” She looked up from the poor mutilated flower.
“Perhaps ‘suspicious’ would be more accurate. Naturally he never admitted anything. All of it took place before you were married. Surely you have no reason to doubt his fidelity. He loves you—”
“Madly, passionately, not at all,” Nefret murmured, plucking a petal with each word. “I don’t doubt him, Mother. I only wondered if there was one in particular. But I wouldn’t ask you to talk about him behind his back.”
She tossed the flower away without finishing the little verse.
“That would not be fair or well-bred,” I said. “But I will give the matter some thought.”
She took my arm and we walked on. On the path behind us the golden petals of the flower shone bright in the sunlight.
AFTER FATIMA HAD PUT THE finishing touches on one of her extravagant picnic lunches, Nefret and I rode to Deir el Medina. Upon our arrival we had to avoid a large group of Cook’s tourists and their morose little donkeys. We did not avoid their attention, however; I heard one of the cursed guides proclaim our identities in a loud voice. Cameras began to click, and one very stout lady shouted, “Stop for a moment, Mrs. Emerson, so that I can get a good picture.”
Needless to say, I went on without halting or replying.
“You ought to be used to it by now, Mother,” Nefret said with a chuckle. “We are among the most popular sights of Luxor.”
It was Emerson’s fault that we were. As one of our journalistic acquaintances had once observed, he made splendid copy, always shouting and hitting people. He hadn’t actually hit anyone lately, but he had made quite a spectacle of himself during our clearance of Cyrus’s tomb, waving his fists at tourists and threatening importunate journalists—who delightedly wrote down every bad word.
I was relieved to observe that none of the tourists had dared come near the area which Emerson had roped off. Within its parameters the rudiments of a plan had begun to emerge, though only a trained eye (like my own) could have made sense of the fragmentary walls and occasional column bases. Nefret and I left our horses with the others and approached Emerson, who was standing over Bertie, his hands on his hips, while the boy plotted out the fragments on his drawing paper.
“Coming along nicely, I see,” I observed amiably. “This must have been the forecourt of the Seti the First temple.”
“As a matter of fact, it is the pillared hall of an even older temple,” Emerson replied. “Where have you been, Peabody? The debris is piling up.”
“I will get to it at once. Well done, Bertie. How neatly you have drawn all those bits and pieces!”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Bertie pushed his pith helmet back and wiped his perspiring brow. “Selim and David have been helping with the measurements, but it’s a tricky plan.”
“Where is Ramses?” Nefret asked.
“Over there.” Emerson gestured. “Running a test trench along the north side of the enclosure wall, to see if he can find a place that wasn’t disturbed by our bloody predecessors digging for artifacts. I don’t know which are worse, local thieves or cursed Egyptologists. How can I make sense out of the stratigraphy when they’ve jumbled everything together?”
“All the more credit to you, my dear, for making sense out of the chaos they have left.”
Emerson gave me a rather self-conscious look, and drew me aside. “I apologize, Peabody,” he