Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [194]
Sethos said, “Thank you.” Which was, for Sethos, a remarkable concession.
We saw them off, with hearty good wishes and packets of sandwiches forced on them by Fatima. Dusk softened the dying light and the stars shone in the sky over Luxor.
“That reminds me,” I said. “It is high time I started my Christmas shopping. What a celebration we will have this year!”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. It was a soft hmph, though, and he offered no further objections.
“Did you catch de lady?”
For a moment I thought the childish treble was Evvie’s—but Evvie never abused her diphthongs in that fashion. I had only known one other child who did. We turned as one. Peering at us over the barricade of boxes was Charla.
“I don’t want her to come to de window anymore,” she said.
Ramses made a leap for his daughter and snatched her up. “What did you say?”
“I don’t want de lady wit’ de yellow hair to—”
“You’re talking. She’s talking!” Ramses shouted.
“I told you she would when she was ready,” I said, anticipating with resignation several years of mutilated diphthongs. Just like her father. At least her vocabulary appeared to be that of a normal child. Unlike her father.
Ramses collapsed into a chair and put his arm round his daughter. “What did the lady do to frighten you?”
“She whispered things.” Charla’s eyes were round and fearful. “Things that happen to bad children. She said I was bad. Once she tried to put a snake in de window, but you came and she ran away.”
“Oh my God,” Ramses whispered, holding her close and bowing his head over hers. “You aren’t bad, sweetheart. You’re good and wonderful and brave. The—the lady is gone, she’ll never come back.”
Charla was pleased, but not entirely convinced. “Is she dead?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “She is dead. The dead do not come back.”
“It was Justin, wasn’t it?” Nefret said, her voice unsteady. “Another of her little games. To torment a child like that!”
“Your premonitions were correct, you see,” I said. “She was a threat to them.”
Nefret ran her hand caressingly over the two curly black heads. Then she sauntered, with seeming casualness, toward the barricade.
“Davy?” she said tentatively.
The little boy looked up and showed his four teeth.
Nefret held out her arms. “Will you come and talk to Mama?”
“If you don’t mind, Mama, I would prefer to be called by my full name from now on,” said David John, articulating with hideous precision. “What subject would you like to discuss?”
I sank into the nearest chair. “Emerson,” I said faintly. “Emerson—another whiskey, please.”
Acknowledgments
* * *
I am deeply indebted to the Benson Ford Research Center at the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village, and to reference archivist Carol Whittaker for supplying me with detailed information on the use of the Ford Light Patrol Car in the Palestine campaign of World War I and thereafter. Emerson’s assessment of this amazing vehicle did not exaggerate its capabilities.
My thanks as well to the amiable friends who read the entire manuscript and made suggestions: Dr. W. Raymond Johnson, director of the Epigraphic Survey of the University of Chicago, Dennis Forbes, editor of KMT: a Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt, George B. Johnson, special projects editor of KMT, and, as always, my invaluable assistant, Kristen Whitbread. I take full responsibility for any errors that remain despite their help.
Editor’s Note
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The Editor has been reminded that this present volume is the fifteenth of Mrs. Amelia P. Emerson’s journals to appear in print. When she was first asked to prepare them for publication, she knew it would be a formidable undertaking, and so it has proved. The discovery of additional Emerson papers, including a somewhat spasmodic diary kept by her son (Manuscript H), complicated the task even more. There are gaps in the record, since