Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [14]
We had lingered long over the inspection and it was very late before we reached home; but so overpowering had been the impressions of the evening that we were unable to stop discussing them. The four of us settled on the veranda for a final whiskey and soda. I was a trifle surprised when Nefret accepted a glass; she seldom indulged in spirits. I realized she must have been nervous too, probably about her precious mummies. She had taken more wine at dinner than was her custom.
“His failure to drop even a hint was quite mean-spirited, in my opinion,” I said.
“I suspect he was somewhat overcome,” Ramses said thoughtfully. “What the devil is he going to do with it all? They will have to rearrange or store a good many of the current exhibits to make room for it—construct display cases—pack everything properly—”
“They? It will be we who pack the objects,” I said. “We cannot trust anyone else to do it. Oh dear. I do not look forward to that task. I used bales of cotton wool and every scrap of cotton and linen stuff I could find when we wrapped the artifacts to be moved from the tomb to the Castle. And I have the direst forebodings about that lovely robe. No matter what packing materials we use, I doubt it will survive the journey.”
“We’ll have a replica made,” Nefret said. She finished her whiskey and then chuckled. “I’ve had a vicious idea. Next time we’re in that room I will lose my balance and fall heavily against the table. If the linen shatters into scraps, as I suspect it will, perhaps M. Lacau will let us keep the ornamentation.”
“My dear, you are becoming silly,” I said with a fond smile. “Fatigue, I expect. Trot off to bed.”
“I’d settle for some of the jewelry,” Nefret said, giving Ramses her hand and letting him lift her to her feet. “The gold-and-garnet snake bracelet, and the one with strips of lapis lazuli and gold, and the head of Hathor . . . Mother, don’t you think a man who truly loved his wife would make an effort to get those trinkets for her? They say they would bring the moon and stars down from the sky and fling them in our laps, but when we ask for a simple little gold bracelet—”
“She’s not tired, she’s had too much to drink,” Ramses said with a grin. He put his arm round his wife’s gently swaying form. “Come along, you shameless hussy.”
“Carry me.” She looked up at him. Her face was flushed and her lips were parted.
I heard his breath catch. He picked her up and carried her out. For once neither of them bothered to bid us good night.
Emerson gave me a long considering look. “I can’t recall ever seeing you tipsy, Peabody.”
“And you,” I retorted, for I knew quite well what was on his mind, “have never offered to fling the moon and the stars into my lap.”
Emerson’s reply was a rather clever but fairly vulgar play on words, which I will not record. Sometime later he said drowsily, “I could manage a gold bracelet or two, if you like.”
It was rather odd, really—that we should have mentioned the bracelets, I mean. For it was those pieces that vanished between night and morning, together with Signor Martinelli.
CHAPTER TWO
We were apprised of the distressing development by one of Cyrus’s servants bearing a message from that gentleman. It implored our presence, in a handwriting made almost undecipherable by agitation. Since it was Friday, the day of rest and prayer for our men, we had breakfasted later than was our habit, en famille, including the children. The dear little things insisted on feeding themselves, to the merriment of their grandfather and the resigned acceptance of their grandmother. It was one occasion on which the cats willingly joined us, since there was usually quite a lot of food on the floor—and on the table, and on us. For the same reason Sennia did not join us. Fond as she was of the darling children, she was extremely fastidious in her dress and did not appreciate the generosity that flung orange sections and buttered