Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [155]
I drew a rather nice little jar and added a few elements of decoration—lotus blooms, a hieroglyphic bird or two, a winged scarab. They reminded me of the jewelry with which we had bedecked ourselves. Vanity is a sin, but I had enjoyed it as much as the others! I tried, without great success, to sketch the horned ram of Amon which had rested with such heavy import on my breast. It was one of the simpler ornaments, despite the complexity of the beautifully sculpted animal; much Egyptian jewelry is made up of many different elements, like the pectoral that had been stolen, with its central scarab and row of lotus blossoms below and the two flanking cobras. I drew them and added nice little white crowns to their heads; and as my pencil moved randomly across the paper, my mind moved as randomly, mentally fingering the disparate elements of the pattern we had attempted to establish, arranging them and rearranging them. Had not Abdullah assured me the pattern was there? I was inclined to believe I had really heard his voice that day, for it was like Abdullah to throw out a tantalizing, equivocal statement instead of giving me a direct answer. “You are at the beginning . . .”
My fingers clenched so tightly on the pencil that the point broke off. “That too is part of the pattern,” he had said once before, when we talked of his elevation to the role of sheikh. And his tomb was the beginning . . . I stared at the uncompleted sketch of the pectoral, and I knew there was one pattern we had not considered—and one avenue of information we had not explored.
Inspired and revived, I sprang to my feet and hastened out of the house.
My peremptory knocking went unanswered for some time, but I persevered. Not until Ramses himself opened the door did I realize how late was the hour.
“Oh dear,” I said. “Did I wake you?”
“I wasn’t asleep.” He tied the belt of his robe and ran his hand over his tumbled curls. “What’s wrong? Come in and tell me.”
“No, no. I am sorry to have disturbed you. I have only a single question.”
When I asked it, his drowsy eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. “I don’t remember. Why on earth—”
“You had heard the name of the place, though?”
“I may have done. Father might know. Have you asked him?”
“I prefer not to mention the subject to your father. Try to remember. I could telegraph Thomas Russell, but time is of the essence.”
He shook his head. “It’s been several years, and I don’t understand why—”
“Ah well, perhaps it will come to you in the night, when your mind is on something else,” I said helpfully. “That is how memory works. Do not hesitate to come to me immediately, whatever the hour.”
He was wide awake now, but he had learned not to persist in questions I had no intention of answering. His lips curved in an expression that might have betokened amusement, though I rather doubted it.
“I wouldn’t want to wake you, Mother. Or disturb you when your mind is on something else.”
“Don’t worry about that, my dear. I am a light sleeper.”
“If you say so. Come, I’ll walk you back to the house,” Ramses said, stifling a yawn.
“No, thank you, my dear. You ought not go out of doors barefoot, and by the time you found your shoes you might wake Nefret.”
“She’s awake. Am I to take it that you don’t want me to mention the subject to her either? See here, Mother—”
“Until later, then,” I said, and got away before he could object.
Most of the lanterns along the path had burned out. The area seemed much darker now than it had when, sped by the wings of discovery, I had traversed it earlier. Something larger than a mouse or a shrew rustled in the shrubbery. I knew it was probably one of the cats, but I am not ashamed to confess that I moved as fast as I dared.
It was somewhere around three in the morning when I was aroused by a scratching at the window. Emerson did not stir; he can sleep through a thunderstorm. I made sure my nightdress was modestly buttoned before I went to the window and leaned out. We always kept a lamp burning in the courtyard. By its light I recognized the tall form