Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [151]
“Entering a trancelike state when one is perpendicular is not very sensible,” I said. “Nor do I consider myself psychic, in the usual sense of the word.”
“You believe in your dreams, though.” He gave me his arm. Abdulrassah propped his broom against the wall and sat down in a pointed manner beside his begging bowl. I added a few coins and answered Cyrus’s implied question.
“ ‘Believe’ is not precisely the right word. I accept them. I suppose you are a skeptic.”
“I dunno.” Cyrus helped me to mount. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my time, and I’d sure like to set eyes on good old Abdullah again. Did you have any luck?”
“I didn’t see him, if that is what you mean. I thought . . . I may have been mistaken, but I thought I heard his voice. ‘You are at the starting point, Sitt. Now go on, and watch where you step.’ “
“What does that mean?” Cyrus asked.
“Cursed if I know, Cyrus.”
OUR ATTEMPT TO BEHAVE NORMALLY at teatime, for the sake of the children, was not entirely successful. The patch of sticking plaster on David’s brow could not be ignored. The other children accepted his assurances that it was the result of an unlucky accident, but David John kept pressing wet kisses on his nose and brow and ears until I finally lured all of them into their barricaded corner with handfuls of biscuits. (Desperate times justify desperate measures.) We were just beginning to settle down when Sethos appeared at the door demanding entrance. He must have been lunching in Luxor, for he was rather foppishly attired in a greenish tweed suit, with a regimental tie to which I felt sure he was not entitled. Beard and hair were now iron-gray and his well-cut features had assumed their normal proportions. The only discordant note was a scowl as formidable as one of Emerson’s.
“Good afternoon,” I said, admitting him.
Instead of replying, he fixed the scowl on David. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“You heard?” David inquired mildly.
“Of course I heard. It’s all over Luxor, and by tomorrow at the latest it will be all over Cairo that you fomented a riot today. You bloody young fool—”
“Please!” I exclaimed. “The children!”
“He didn’t foment a riot, he prevented one,” Ramses said, returning the glare with interest. “There were British soldiers present. They heard.”
“They heard a ‘native’ talking Arabic.” Sethos threw up his hands. “They didn’t understand a word. Nobody is going to believe what the Egyptians tell them. He was already under suspicion—”
“He was trying to save lives,” Lia said. She was sitting up very straight and her cheeks were bright pink.
“I don’t give a damn what he was trying to do. I’ve done my best to lull official suspicions, but if he persists in putting his nose in—”
Several persons burst into indignant rebuttal. Emerson’s voice was the loudest and the most incoherent. I smiled to myself and remained silent. I had seldom seen Sethos so angry. It was a touching demonstration of concern.
In the lull after the verbal storm a soft voice made itself heard. “I beg your pardon—er—Sethos—”
“You agree with me, Walter.” Somewhat surprised, but expecting support, Sethos turned to him. “Tell your impetuous son-in-law to back off.”
“No, I will not do that,” Walter said.
Having silenced us all by this surprising statement, he went on in the same gentle, hesitant voice. “A man must follow his own conscience. I was wrong when I demanded that David do otherwise. His is a powerful voice for restraint and for peaceful means of protest. I—er—I believe in his cause and I will support him to the extent of my ability.”
“Hmph,” Emerson exclaimed. “Well said, Walter.”
“Thank you, sir,” David murmured. His eyes shone with tears, and so did those of Evelyn.
“Oh, Father.” Lia went to him and embraced him.
“Oh, blast.” Sethos sat down and loosened his tie. “I didn’t intend to start a huge emotional orgy. If anyone cries I shall walk out.”