Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [173]
Nefret moved purposefully around the room, looking into the cupboard over the washbasin and under the bed. The water pitcher was not a heavy earthenware vessel but a delicate bit of china, painted with pansies. It was part of the usual set. The other vessels were just as dainty; hitting someone over the head with one would only irritate him. The soap dish held a bar of scented soap. Apparently that diabolical woman really did want her to tidy up before . . . dinner? A towel and washcloth had been provided too.
Why not? She could at least wash face and arms. The tepid water felt wonderful against her hot cheeks.
It would have been heavenly to take off her clothes and sponge the dried sweat off her body, but there was no way of locking the door from the inside. She compromised by removing her filthy shirt and washing her upper arms and throat. The chemise that had been so fresh and white that morning was just as grimy as the rest of her clothing. The thin cotton stuck to her breasts and ribs. In a moment of purely illogical, utterly feminine weakness, she compared her body to the graceful form on the divan, and snatched up her shirt. How old was the damned woman? Younger than she by a good ten years. Maryam was even younger. Neither of them had borne two children.
And neither of them had Ramses, she reminded herself. She began taking the pins out of her tangled hair, remembering how his hands had stroked it over her shoulders. She had been a fool to let jealousy sour her mind and sharpen her tongue. He wouldn’t rest until he had found her, and her formidable mother-in-law would be hot on Emerson’s trail by now. She thought of Emerson, sweltering in the dark hold of her former prison, manacled and injured, and her jaw set. I’ll ask if I can see him, she thought. I’ll beg. On my knees, if the bitch wants that.
She looked for a comb, without success. They were taking no chances. Sharp teeth, even of celluloid, could rake painfully across a face. Philosophically she began running her fingers through her long locks, smoothing them as best she could. She stood up and tucked her shirt in. When the door opened she was behind it, the dainty pitcher raised. One must do one’s best, whatever the odds!
The door was flung back, flattening her painfully against the wall. The pitcher fell and shattered. A hand reached round, gripped her wrist and pulled her out of concealment.
“You have spoiled the set,” the doctor said, studying the pink-and-blue shards. His fingers squeezed like pincers.
He maintained the painful grip as he led her along the passageway to the saloon. A table had been drawn into the center of the room, covered with white damask and spread with china and crystal. Flowers filled an epergne in the center. There were four places set, but only two of the chairs were occupied. Nefret stopped, rubbing her aching wrist. The men who stood at attention behind the chairs didn’t look much like waiters. François was one of them.
She realized now what had been wrong with the room. It was as contrived and unreal as a stage setting, a recreation of stuffy respectability. Its artificiality was emphasized by the bizarre occupants—the heavily muscled, hard-eyed attendants, and the woman she knew only as Justin.
The name was particularly inappropriate now; she wore the robes of Hathor, complete with black wig and artificial cow’s ears. Maryam sat at her right. Her eyes were fixed on her plate. One of the companion’s loose black dresses made her look almost as shabby as Nefret felt, but the stolen pectoral gleamed on her breast, deep lapis blue framed by the gold curves of the two serpents.
“Where are the bracelets?” Nefret asked steadily.
“My, my, what admirable sangfroid,” Justin murmured. “Show her, Maryam.”
Maryam raised her hands, but not her eyes. The bracelets were clasped round her wrists.
“Sit there,” Justin directed. “At my left. That will