Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [58]
“Oh, very well,” Justin said. “I will come and visit you another day. Where do you live?”
“That would be nice,” Nefret said, tactfully avoiding an answer. “But now we must get back to work. Good-bye.”
It took them some time to get themselves away; looking up from my work periodically, I caught glimpses of Justin’s bright head as he darted to and fro, and heard his attendant’s voice pleading with him to come. Then I saw them no more. It was getting on toward midday by then, and I reminded Emerson he had promised to send Walter back to the house for the afternoon. One look at Walter halted any objections my spouse might have made; he had not complained nor faltered in his tasks, but he was red with sunburn and staggering with fatigue. Emerson did not even complain when I sent Ramses with him. The rest of us settled down in the little shelter I had erected in the shadow of the temple walls and opened our picnic baskets.
Most of the tourists had also sought repose and refreshment, at Cook’s Rest House or at their hotels. A welcome quiet descended upon the valley—quiet, that is, except for Emerson’s voice, lecturing. I let him talk, since it would have been difficult to stop him. I had been a little concerned about Lia, but she had kept up well. David was the same as he had always been, lean and lithe and enthusiastic. As soon as he had wolfed down a few sandwiches he jumped up and declared he wanted to have a closer look at some of the reliefs of the Ptolemaic temple.
“Look all you like, but don’t get too interested,” said Emerson. “Vandergelt has some scheme of copying the tomb paintings. The tomb of Sennedjem . . .”
His voice trailed off. He was looking at the hill, where the crumbling remains of small brick pyramids and little chapels marked the site of the village cemetery. Slowly and deliberately he put down his half-eaten chicken leg and got to his feet.
“What is it?” I asked. “What do you—”
Emerson was on his way, running and leaping over the broken ground toward the hill. A very loud “Hell and damnation” was the only response to my question. Then I looked up and saw what had prompted his action. High above were two figures, moving slowly along one of the paths that crossed the slope. I recognized, as Emerson must have done, the brown tweeds and slender form of the boy Justin, followed by his bulkier shadow.
“Good heavens,” Nefret exclaimed. “Is that Justin? He shouldn’t be up there.”
“Emerson reached the same conclusion and, as you see, he is acting upon it with his customary promptitude,” I replied. “I had better go along too, in case a woman’s soothing presence proves necessary. The rest of you stay here.”
Nefret had half risen. She nodded in agreement, though her brow was furrowed. “Be careful, Mother.”
I felt sure a soothing presence would be necessary—not, in this case, because of a premonition or foreboding, but because I was only too familiar with my husband’s character and habits. I knew I could never catch Emerson up, but I went as fast as I dared, and I uttered a few low-voiced expletives of my own as I hurried along. Had the boy eluded his grandmother, or had he persuaded her to go on without him? Ordinarily I would not have been concerned, for the path, though steep in some places, was not beyond the skill of an ordinary healthy young lad. A slip and a tumble could result in serious injury, however, and I doubted that François could act promptly and effectively enough if Justin had another of his seizures. Neither of them was accustomed to terrain like this.
I was on the lower slope when Emerson reached the pair. His voice rolled like thunder. “What the devil do you mean, letting the boy attempt this? Come with me, Justin.”
As I could have told Emerson, and would have, had I been closer, it was precisely the wrong approach. Emerson compounded it by taking peremptory hold of the