Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [69]
When we came out into the daylight, Abdulrassah came with us. “The saint is happy that his family came,” he announced. “Now will you make an offering?” He indicated a bowl that sat on the floor just inside the entrance. There were a few coins in it.
“Certainly,” Walter exclaimed. Good-hearted man that he was, he wanted to compensate for what might have been viewed as a lack of respect, so I made no objection when he emptied his pockets of most of the coins they contained. Abdulrassah’s face took on a positively seraphic smile.
“What is the money used for?” I inquired.
The ingenuous youth did not dissemble. “For me, Sitt Hakim. Am I not the servant? I say the prayers, I sweep the pavement.”
In evidence thereof he picked up the broom that was used only for that purpose, and began energetically sweeping our footprints away. It was one of those fascinating survivals one finds in Egypt; so the ancient priests had swept the corridors of the tomb after the mummy had found its last resting place and the mourners had gone, removing all traces of the outer world.
We left him to his prayers, or a facsimile thereof. I said thoughtfully, “He was a very lazy little boy.”
David burst out laughing. “Aunt Amelia, you are a hopeless cynic. Are you suggesting that he took on the job to avoid manual labor?”
“Far be it from me to impugn anyone’s motives, David. Someone would have succeeded Hassan.”
“His death might be considered a bad omen, though,” David murmured.
“That is not how religious persons think,” I explained. “To a true believer, in our faith as well as that of Hassan, death is not an end but a beginning; and what greater guarantee of immortality could there be than service to a holy man?”
Emerson opened his mouth. Then he looked down at the little boy who was holding his hand, and closed it.
“Shall we go by Selim’s house and collect the others?” I asked.
“We had better get young Sekhmet home,” David said. He was carrying his daughter, and I was forced to admit that the nickname suited her, with her lion-colored mane of hair and her explosive temper. At that moment she was like the goddess in one of her more benevolent moods, limp and yawning in her father’s arms.
“We must arrange for a proper visit,” Lia added. “Not just a quick call and quicker departure. We are all tired.”
Evvie roused long enough to insist on riding with Emerson, and promptly fell asleep in his strong embrace. We went slowly, to spare the donkeys and their riders. Shadows lengthened across the sand as the sun sank westward.
“The others must have returned,” I said, as we drew near the house. “Is that Nefret on the veranda?”
“Go on in,” David said, quickly dismounting and assisting Evelyn to do so. “I’ll take the animals round to the stable.”
I had seen a glimmer of golden hair, but I had been mistaken as to the identity of the individual in question. Seated, perfectly at ease, he greeted us as coolly as if he had been an invited guest. “There you are at last! I have been waiting quite some time.”
“Justin,” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
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There could be no doubt of her identity, despite the smeared lines of makeup and the unattractive garments. Her hazel eyes overflowed. “I didn’t mean you—any of you—to see me. Let me go. I’m all right.”
“You can’t just walk off into the sunset,” Ramses said. He had never seen anyone cry so much; the tears were not a trickle but a flood. Fearing she would go into hysterics if he said the wrong thing, he ventured, “How did you get here? Not on foot, surely.”
She gave him a blank, wet stare. He drew his knife and she shrank back with a little cry. “I’m just going to cut your