Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [3]
Now nine years of age, Sennia was believed by some evil-minded persons to be Ramses’s illegitimate daughter, which was not the case. She was living proof of the fact that proper rearing can overcome heredity, for hers could hardly have been worse: her mother an Egyptian prostitute, her father my unprincipled and deservedly deceased nephew. Her coloring was Egyptian, her manners those of a well-brought-up little English girl, and her nature as sunny as that of any happy child. She was absolutely devoted to Ramses, who had rescued her from a life of poverty and shame, and I had been a trifle apprehensive as to how she would react to the babies. If she felt jealousy, she concealed it well; and if she was sometimes inclined to order the little ones around, that was only to be expected.
Having dispensed the genial beverage, I leaned back in my chair and watched the animated, cheerful group with a smile which was not without a touch of smugness. I believe I may be excused for feeling complacent. We had been through troubled times in the past; even before the war involved Ramses in several perilous secret missions, we had encountered a number of thieves, murderers, forgers, kidnappers, and even a Master Criminal. I could scarcely remember a season when we had not faced danger in one form or another. For the first time in many years, no cloud hung over us, no old foe threatened vengeance.
I will not claim that I had not enjoyed some of these encounters. Matching wits with experienced criminals and persons intent on doing one harm lends a certain spice to existence. However, facing danger oneself is not at all the same as having loved ones in peril. A number of my gray hairs (concealed periodically by the application of a certain harmless concoction) had been put there by Ramses. It had been bad enough when he was a child, getting into one scrape after another. Maturity had not made him more cautious, and after Nefret and David joined the family, they were usually up to their necks in trouble too.
But it was different now, I told myself. Ramses and Nefret were parents, and the welfare of those precious little beings (who were trying to climb the back of the settee in order to get at the Great Cat of Re) would surely restrain their recklessness.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
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“Something rather odd happened today,” Ramses said.
He and Nefret were dressing for dinner—not in formal evening attire, since his father only permitted that annoyance on rare occasions. However, a change of clothing was usually necessary after an hour with his offspring, since various substances, from chocolate to mud, somehow got transferred from them to any surface they came in contact with.
Nefret didn’t answer. Her head was tilted, her expression abstracted. She was listening to the shrieks of laughter and meaningless chatter that floated in through their open window from the window of the children’s room farther along the corridor. They were supposed to be asleep, but of course they weren’t. Ramses was used to the sounds, but he forgot what he had been about to say as his eyes moved over the figure of his wife, seated before her dressing table. She hadn’t put on her frock yet; her white arms were raised, her slim fingers coiled the long golden locks into a knot at the back of her neck. He went to her and replaced her hands with his, running his fingers through her hair. It felt like silk.
She smiled at him, her eyes seeking the reflection of his face in the mirror. “I’m sorry, darling; did you say something?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Hurry and dress. I want to look in on the children before we go to dinner.”
He took his hands away. “All right.”
THE SOUNDS OF THE CHILDREN’S voices had died into silence by the time they left the house. It was several hundred yards from the main house, hidden from it by the trees and shrubs his mother had forced to defy the sandy soil and lack of rain. Lanterns lit the winding path that led through the