Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [99]
I took his outstretched hands. “My dear Emerson. I beg your pardon.”
“Granted. Er—did you mean it about the beard?”
I made it clear that I did.
Emerson’s presence was a great comfort in every way, but sleep did not come easily to me, perhaps because I was trying too hard. I wanted to dream of Abdullah, not only in the hope that he might have a useful suggestion, but because I was beginning to fear that that wonderful vision would never be repeated—that the comfort it had given was the sole reason why it had been vouch-safed to me.
I was in that state of drowsy discontent that can be more tiring than full wakefulness when a faint sound broke the stillness. There was always at least one lamp left burning, to save the laborious business of making a new fire, which was done in the old way. The lamp on a stand near the bed illumined only a small part of the chamber and bred shadows that huddled in distant corners. The sound had come from the doorway. I lay on my side, facing in that direction, but the large bulk of Emerson—lying flat on his back, arms folded across his breast like a pharaoh of old—blocked my view of the lower part of the curtain. The sound came again…No, I thought, not the same sound—the first might have been a soft footfall, the second was that of expelled breath. It might be Ramses, on the lookout for intruders. Or—it might be the intruder himself! My heart beat faster with excitement. I lay motionless, waiting for him to creep into the chamber. If they expected to find me alone, they might not have sent more than one abductor. I would have to climb over Emerson and locate my parasol, but I felt confident I could deal with one man. If there were more than one, I would have to fight them off until Emerson came fully awake, which always takes a while.
The fighting blood of the Peabodys was up, but I reminded myself that I must not be hasty. It was possible—not likely, but possible—that Tarek had heard of our being there and was attempting to communicate with us as he had done once before, secretly and by night.
Whoever he was—or they were—they—or he—was in no hurry. The seconds ticked by. The curtain moved slowly and cautiously away from the right-hand wall and a pale oval appeared in the gap, visible only because it was not so dark as the darkness behind it. A face! Surely it was a face, though I could not make out the features. I felt eyes upon me—eyes that burned with the intensity of their regard—heard another exhalation of breath, louder than the first…
Emerson let out a shout. “Peabody!” His hand groped wildly, trying to find me. It was the wrong hand. I was on his other side.
The face vanished, the curtain fell into place. I cried, “Curse it! Emerson, wake up!” Eluding his flailing arms, I got out of bed and ran for the doorway. I was too late. Nothing moved in the moonlit room.
“Burning eyes, indeed,” growled Emerson. “You admitted you could not make out the fellow’s features.”
“I felt the eyes, Emerson. Ramses, may I have a drop more of that whiskey?”
Aroused by Emerson’s cries and mine, the others had rushed out of their rooms to find us embracing in the sitting room. The embrace was not friendly. Convinced I was suffering from nightmare, Emerson was attempting to keep me from pounding on the door. It was, as he proceeded to demonstrate, immovable.
Ramses fetched the whiskey and we sat down to discuss this latest development.
“You were dreaming,” Emerson insisted. “The door is still bolted. How could anyone get out that way?”
“By bolting it again after he had gone out the way he came in,” I snapped. “I resent the implication, Emerson. If you think I cannot tell the difference between a dream and reality…Hmmm.”
No one took notice of my momentary confusion. Ramses ran his fingers through his tangled curls and said tactfully, “Go over it again, Mother. Every detail.”
So I did. I thought it better to omit the adjective to which Emerson had objected, but stuck to the