He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [199]
When Percy stopped raving he wasn’t literally foaming at the mouth, but he looked as if he were about to. “Well? Say something!”
“I would if I could think of anything pertinent,” Ramses said. He hadn’t meant to laugh; it was the sort of thing some posturing hero in a melodrama would do, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Now’s your chance to say something clever,” he added helpfully. “He who laughs last laughs best, or fools laugh at men of sense, or what about—”
The side of his head struck the wall as Percy released his grip. He took off his coat and hung it neatly over the back of the chair, removed his cuff links, and rolled his sleeves up. Watching his careful preparations, Ramses was vividly reminded of a scene from their childhood: the bloody, flayed body of the rat Percy had been torturing when Ramses came into the room, too late to prevent it, and Percy’s expression, lips wet and slightly parted, eyes shining. His face had the same look now. He’d tried to blame that atrocity on Ramses too. . . .
Once Ramses had believed that he feared the kurbash more than anything in the world, more than death itself. He’d been wrong. He was as frightened as he had ever been in his life—dry-mouthed and sweating, his heart pounding and his stomach churning—but he didn’t want to die, and there was still a chance—maybe more than one—if he could hang on long enough. . . .
Percy gripped the handle of the whip, lifted it from the hook and let it uncoil. Ramses turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes.
:
Emerson and I dined alone and then retired to the parlor. A long evening stretched ahead of us; as a rule Emerson and I had no difficulty finding things to talk about, but I could see he was no more inclined toward conversation than I. The prospect of seeing David, of keeping him safe in my care, was a cheering thought, but the closer the moment came, the more impatient I was to see it. Emerson had sought refuge in the newspaper, so I took up my darning. I had scarcely finished one stocking before Narmer began to howl. The door burst open and Nefret ran in. She flung her cloak aside; it slipped to the floor in a tumble of blue.
“They aren’t here,” she said, her eyes sweeping the quiet lamplit room. “Where have they gone?”
“Who?” I sucked a drop of blood from my finger.
She struck her hands together. Her eyes were so dilated they looked black, her face was deathly pale. “You know who. Don’t lie to me, Aunt Amelia, not now. Something has happened to Ramses, perhaps to David as well.”
Emerson put his pipe aside and went to her. “My dear, calm yourself. What makes you suppose they are. . . . confound it! How do you know that David is—”
“Here in Cairo?” She moved away from him and began to walk up and down, her hands clasped and twisting. “I knew the moment I set eyes on him that the man Russell took us to meet wasn’t Wardani. I thought it must be Ramses, even though he didn’t move quite the same way, and then Ramses produced that convenient alibi, and I saw the whole thing. I don’t blame him for not telling me; how could he ever trust me again, after what I did? But you must trust me now, you must! Do you suppose I would do anything to harm him? You must tell me where he went tonight.” She dropped to her knees before Emerson and caught hold of his hand. “Please! I beg you.”
Emerson’s expressive countenance mirrored his distress and pity. He raised her to her feet. “Now, my dear, get hold of yourself and try to tell me what this is all about. What makes you suppose Ramses is in danger?”
She was a little calmer now. Clinging to those strong brown hands, she looked up at him and said simply, “I’ve always known. Since we were children. A feeling, a fear . . . a nightmare, if I was asleep when it happened.”
“Those dreams of yours,” I exclaimed. “Were they—”
“Always about him. What do you suppose brought me home that night a few weeks ago? I came straight to his room, I wanted to help and . . .” Her voice broke in a sob. “It was