Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [135]
“We could take—” Emerson began.
“No, Emerson, we cannot,” his wife said sharply. “You promised Selim he could drive it.” She ran an appraising eye over the group and settled the matter in her usual brisk fashion. “Evelyn and Sennia and I will go in the carriage.”
“As I have already demonstrated, I am not a good horsewoman,” Maryam said, eyes downcast. “I hope I am not inconveniencing anyone. Perhaps I should stay with the children.”
“No, no, my dear, you will enjoy it,” Emerson said, responding with his customary chivalry. She looked up at him, her long lashes fluttering, and smiled.
Her father paid no attention. He was talking to Cyrus. His luggage must have arrived by train; he was wearing well-cut tweeds and riding boots, and his hair was now grayish brown. It would, Ramses suspected, continue to gray at an unnatural but measured speed.
They waited until the sun set and the calls of the muezzins had faded into silence before preparing to leave. Sennia, who had taken to wearing a somewhat unorthodox version of Egyptian dress, preened herself in a robe Nefret had helped her design; she looked unnervingly like a miniature Hathor sans ears and crown, draped in white and bedecked with glass beads. Dolly, very spruce in his best coat and trousers, was to ride with his father.
“Where is Selim?” Emerson demanded. “Has he changed his mind about driving the motorcar? We could take—”
“No, Emerson! He has it all worked out. He wants to make a grand entrance.”
Their own entrance was not without éclat. Their hosts had sent torchbearers to meet them midway, and a gaggle of children accompanied them up the hill. Selim and Daoud were at the door to greet them and escort them into the house, where an elaborate meal was ready. Selim’s wives, Rabia and Taghrid, must have been cooking all day. Dolly sat cross-legged next to his father, watching his every move. He had been instructed in the proper etiquette and was determined to make no mistakes. The Vandergelts had attended other such affairs, and even Katherine used her fingers neatly and with smiling good humor. Walter’s glasses kept steaming up.
When they had eaten more than was good for them, they went outside. Torches and bonfires lit the scene as the darkness deepened. Daoud’s house, which had once been Abdullah’s, faced onto one of the few open spaces in the village. As honored guests, they were shown to a row of chairs in front of the house and the show began.
Dancers and singers, musicians and magicians performed in turn. Selim caught Ramses’s eye, winked, and withdrew. The most famous storyteller in Luxor launched into a tale.
A hand plucked at Ramses’s sleeve. Maryam was sitting behind him. “What is he saying?” she whispered.
The flames gave her face a rosy glow and danced in her eyes. She looked as if she were enjoying herself; he didn’t have the heart to hush her, although talking during the performance was frowned upon. “It’s just a little fairy tale about a princess and a magician. I’ll translate it for you later, all right?”
“Thank you.” A shy, charming smile. Then her hand went to her mouth. “Oh . . . what’s happening?”
The storyteller must have exceeded his time limit. Daoud hurried into the center of the space, gesturing and calling out orders. The audience moved back. Some of them were in on the secret; grinning and jumping with excitement, they helped Daoud clear the area, thrusting children into the arms of their mothers and hauling goats and donkeys out of the way. One of the drummers sounded a beat and the others joined in, accompanying the rising roar of the engine as Selim sent it racing up the path.
Ramses thought, “He’s going too fast,” but he never knew whether it came just before or just after the awful screech of tortured metal. Premonition or recognition, he was on his feet and running when the crash came.
The motorcar was upside down, halfway down the slope, jammed against a ridge. One of the lamps was broken but the other had miraculously survived; its light shed a sickly glow over the scene. Selim lay