Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [20]
He was no more than a boy, slender and frail, dressed in a suit that could only have been cut by a British tailor. His cap had fallen off. Golden lashes fanned his smooth cheeks, and golden curls crowned his bare head. His gentle countenance and slight form suggested a fallen angel, struck down by some diabolical adversary. The other man looked devilish enough, his face dark with choler and his muscles bulging as he continued to writhe in Ramses’s grasp.
“Let me go, you fool,” he cried. “Let me go to him.”
“Hold on to him, Ramses,” I ordered.
“I have every intention of doing so, Mother. They were struggling when I first saw them, and then this fellow struck the boy. Is he badly hurt?”
“I can’t see any wounds or bruises,” Nefret said. She bent over the youth and was about to loosen his collar when his golden lashes fluttered and lifted, framing eyes of a soft, celestial blue. A dreamy smile curved the delicate lips. “You are very beautiful,” he said, catching hold of Nefret’s hand. “Are you an angel or a goddess? The Egyptian goddesses had dark hair . . .”
“A friend,” Nefret said gently. “I will take care of you.”
“François will take care of me.” His eyes moved in innocent curiosity around the circle of staring faces. “Where is he? Where is my good François?”
“Here, young master, here.” François, for so the boy’s smile of recognition proved him to be, had accepted the futility of struggle. His body relaxed and his features lost their ferocity. They were no more pleasant in repose; his nose was crooked and a seamed scar twisted his mouth. He had the shallow, retreating brow that some authorities consider evidence of a criminal nature, and the lower portion of his face was out of proportion, with a long jaw and large cheekbones. “Let me go to him,” he begged. “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît—je vous en prie—”
“It appears,” I remarked, “that we may have misjudged the situation. Release him, Ramses.”
The man knelt beside the boy and lifted him gently to his feet, the tenderness of his manner in striking contrast to his former ferocity. “We will go home now,” he murmured. “Come, young master. Come with François.”
“Yes.” The boy nodded. “But first I must know the names of these new friends, and I must tell them mine. I am Justin Fitzroyce. And you, beautiful lady?”
The sad truth had dawned on Nefret, as it had on me. She spoke to him as she would have spoken to a child, and like a well-trained child he gave each of us his hand as Nefret pronounced our names. “I will see you again, I hope,” he said sweetly. “You will come to visit me?”
“Thank you,” I said. “Where do you live?”
François, his arm supporting the slim frame of his “young master,” nodded toward the river. “The dahabeeyah Isis. You may speak to my mistress if you still doubt me.” The face that had been so benevolent when he spoke to the boy darkened again, and he turned blazing eyes on Ramses.
“There is no need,” I said.
“No! You must come. My honor has been questioned. She will tell you.”
“I am sorry,” my son began.
“There is no need to apologize,” I said firmly. “François surely understands that a stranger might have misinterpreted his behavior and acted in what he believed to be the boy’s defense.”
A curt nod was the only response from François, but the boy continued to smile and wave as his servant led him away.
“What a sad state of affairs,” said my dear, soft-hearted Emerson. “The lad must be subject to fits. It was necessary for his manservant to subdue him lest he harm himself.”
“Possibly,” Nefret said. “Persons in a state of mania can have extraordinary strength. Frenzy is not typical of epilepsy, however.”
“No,” I agreed. “And one would have supposed that if François was aware of his master’s condition he would have