Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [92]
“He has quite a talent,” said Evelyn proudly.
“It is a donkey,” Dolly explained. “I am riding it.”
“Yes, I see.” Walter’s dour face softened. “And a very good donkey, too. Er—why does it have six legs?”
“Because it is running.” Dolly took the paper from him and examined it critically. “I think I will give it more legs. It is running very fast.”
The dear child’s innocent intervention had reduced the tension. I wondered if he had been aware of the discord between his father and grandfather; he was a very sensitive little chap. Walter looked self-consciously at David. “I apologize. It is only that I—”
“You worry about your hostages to fortune.” David was not the man to bear a grudge. His brown eyes were warm with affection and understanding. “So do I, sir.”
“What are those papers you have, Walter?” I asked, accepting a glass of whiskey from Emerson.
“What papers?” Walter asked blankly.
Evelyn picked them up from the floor and handed them to him. “He has been working on a very important manuscript,” she explained. “I expect you wanted to read us your translation, Walter?”
“Oh, yes, to be sure.” Walter smoothed the papers out. Someone had drawn an object that may have been meant to be a pyramid on the back of one.
“He isn’t supposed to bring his work to a social occasion,” Emerson grunted. “Ramses, have a look at these.”
He extracted a roll of paper from a portfolio beside his chair and handed it over. “David’s work?” Ramses inquired, examining the meticulously tinted sketch of a section of coffin lid.
“Evelyn’s,” Emerson corrected. “This is David’s. He’s finished drawing the decoration on the robe.”
“They’re both marvelous,” Ramses said in sincere admiration.
“Put them away before someone spills tea on them,” I said. “You ought not have brought them to a social occasion, Emerson.”
Emerson ignored this dig with the skill of long experience. “How much longer are you going to work on Vandergelt’s collection? How many more objects to copy?”
“We could spend years at the job,” David answered, taking a cup of tea from me. “Obviously that’s not practical. We’ll have to settle for the most important and fragile objects. That decision is up to you and Cyrus.”
Emerson opened his mouth but before he could voice his opinion I cut in. “We will have a little committee meeting, Emerson, and solicit the advice of all those concerned—including Cyrus. Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps? Excellent. I will inform Cyrus. Now let us listen to Walter’s translation.”
“Oh, very well,” said Emerson. “What is this text you find so important, Walter?”
“I told you about it a few days ago, Radcliffe. The horoscope.”
“Ah, yes,” said Emerson, who obviously had no recollection of any such conversation.
“The word isn’t entirely accurate,” Walter explained eagerly. “It doesn’t seem to be based on astrology, or any other system familiar to us. It lists the days of the year, classifies them as good or bad, and predicts what is likely to happen. For example: ‘First month of Akhet, day twenty-four. Very good. The god sails with a favorable wind. Anyone born on this day will die honored in old age.’ “
“Akhet is the first season of the year, isn’t it?” Lia asked.
Her father nodded. “The season of inundation, when the Nile rose and overflowed its banks. The first day of the year was marked by the reappearance of the star Sirius.”
“Well, well,” Emerson said, making a valiant effort. “Most interesting.”
“Isn’t it?” Walter beamed at him. “But that’s not the most interesting section. I came across this bit yesterday. ‘The day of the children of the storm. Very dangerous. Do not go on the water this day.’ “
He had succeeded in capturing Emerson’s attention—and mine, and that of several others. Ramses’s eyebrows lifted.
“You remember what our—er—what—er—Sethos said the other evening, about