He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [167]
“Mother?”
I was leaning forward, peering round the doorframe. He startled me so badly I lost my balance and would have stumbled into the room had he not taken my arm.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“The same thing you are doing,” said Ramses. “Spying on Nefret. I hope you are enjoying it as much as I am.”
His even, controlled voice made a shiver of apprehension run through me. “You are not to go near Percy. Give me your word.”
“Do you suppose I’m afraid of him?”
“No, I do not!”
“I am, though.”
“You could beat him senseless with one hand.”
Ramses let out an odd sound that might have been a muffled laugh. “Your confidence is flattering, Mother, if somewhat exaggerated. I might have to use both hands. That wasn’t what I meant, though.”
“He can never deceive us again, Ramses. We know his real nature too well. Surely you don’t believe Nefret has succumbed to his flattery and his advances?”
“No.” The word was too quick and too vehement.
“No,” I insisted. “He is everything she loathes and despises. Perhaps . . . Yes, it can only be because she thinks Percy has some new villainy in mind, and that she is helping to protect you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ramses said. “Time to retreat, Mother, she’s standing up.”
We returned to the ballroom. Nefret was not far behind us. Had she seen us? I hoped not; she had some cause for resentment if she believed I had been spying on her.
Emerson had been prowling round the room, looking for me, as he explained accusingly.
“Hand her over, Ramses,” he ordered. “The waltzes are all mine, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Emerson took my arm, and I turned to see Nefret beside us. Except for being a trifle flushed, she displayed no evidence of self-consciousness. She put her hand on Ramses’s sleeve. “Will you dance with me?”
“Aren’t you engaged for this one?”
“I have disengaged myself. Please?”
He could not in courtesy refuse. With a formal bow he offered her his arm.
The music was a waltz, a piece with which I was not familiar, sweet and rather slow. Instead of leading me onto the floor Emerson stood watching our son and daughter.
“This is the first time they have danced together in a long while,” he said.
“Yes.”
“They look well.”
“Yes.”
They had always looked well together, but that night there was a kind of enchantment about the way they waltzed, every movement so perfectly matched, they might have been directed by a single mind. She moved lightly as a bird in flight, their clasped hands barely touching, her other hand brushing his shoulder. They were not looking at one another; Nefret’s face was averted and his was the usual impassive mask; but as I gazed, the forms of the other dancers seemed to fade away, leaving the two alone, like figures captured and held forever in a globe of clear glass.
With an effort I shook off this somewhat unnerving fantasy. As I glanced about I realized Emerson and I were not the only ones watching the pair. Percy’s eyes followed their every moment. His arms were folded and his face bore a complacent smile.
When the dance ended he turned and withdrew. Nefret had not seen him; her hand still on Ramses’s shoulder, she looked up into his face and spoke. Composed and unresponsive, he shook his head. Then another gentleman approached Nefret; she would have refused him, I think, had not Ramses stepped back, bowed, and walked away.
Emerson took hold of me. My eyes on the retreating form of my son, I said absently, “It is not a waltz, Emerson, it is a schottische.”
“Oh,” said Emerson.
Threading his way through the whirling forms, Ramses reached the door of the ballroom. Not until that moment,