Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [60]
I directed the question at François, but it was Justin who answered. “Our horses are waiting. I ride very well. But I don’t want to go yet. I want to stay with the pretty Mrs. Emerson.”
“You must do as you are told. François—”
“Yes, madame. We will go now. I regret . . .”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson, fixing him with a steady stare. “It is lucky for you that you didn’t try your tricks on a less—er—athletic individual.”
“It is my duty to protect the young master,” François muttered sullenly.
“If you injure someone in the course of your duty, you will be dismissed and possibly imprisoned,” said Emerson. “I promise you that. Control your temper, as I am controlling mine. Only the boy’s presence prevents me from teaching you a lesson you would not soon forget.”
Emerson really was controlling himself quite well, but in my opinion he ought to have omitted the last sentence. It was meant as a challenge and it was understood as such. François’s scarred face twisted and he gave Emerson a hostile look.
“Go now,” I said sharply.
I sent David with them to locate their horses. When he returned, he reported that they had departed, and that Justin’s naive boast was not greatly exaggerated. “He handles a horse well. And he has excellent manners. He thanked me nicely. How did you become acquainted with an odd pair like that?”
Emerson, twitching impatiently under Nefret’s attempts to bandage a few of the deeper scratches on his arms and knees, said, “She’s always getting involved with lame ducks and hapless lovers.”
“It was Ramses who got involved this time,” I retorted. “The poor lad had one of his fits on the corniche in Luxor, and Ramses—quite understandably—misunderstood François’s efforts to restrain him. He is too young to be a lover, hapless or otherwise.”
“I don’t know about that,” Lia said with a knowing smile. “He could hardly take his eyes off Nefret. Boys of that age sometimes develop violent attachments.”
“There isn’t a scrap of violence in the lad,” I said. “And he thinks of Nefret as a goddess—Hathor, perhaps. He seems to have got it into his poor confused head that she manifests herself here in her temple.”
Selim, who was waiting for instructions, looked up. “He is not the only one to think so, Sitt Hakim. Two of the men of Gurneh say they have seen a white lady, veiled and crowned with gold, standing before the temple.”
The description struck a chord of unpleasant familiarity. “Why didn’t you tell me about this, Selim?” I demanded.
Selim shrugged. “Such tales are common, they spread quickly among superstitious persons. The men prowled here after nightfall, looking for something to steal; they saw a moonbeam or a shadow and wished to make themselves important by telling lies . . .”
His eyes moved from my frowning face to that of Emerson, and widened in sudden comprehension. “Are you thinking of the woman in Cairo? Surely it is only a coincidence. This was a vision, a dream, a lie.”
“My grandfather might have said that the old gods still linger in their holy places, for those who have eyes to see,” David said. “It would make a good subject for one of my popular romantic paintings: the temple ruins by night, dim shapes in the darkness, and between the pylons, shining in her own light, the veiled and crowned goddess . . .”
“Well, it is cursed unlikely that one of the old gods would pop up in a Cairo tenement,” I said. “You are right, Selim, it is only a coincidence.”
“Are you going to tell Ramses about Hathor?” Nefret asked.
I said in surprise, “If the subject arises. Why not?”
“Because he will want to see for himself. What if—”
“Nonsense,” I said firmly. “You are too sensible to talk of ‘what ifs.’ Has everyone finished eating?”
“Back to work,” Emerson exclaimed, jumping up. “That little episode cost us over an hour.”
“Goodness, yes,” I said, looking at my watch. “You had better run along, David.”
“Run along where?” Emerson demanded indignantly. “I need him to—”
“I promised