He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [28]
And if she tries to slap me, he thought, I’ll slap back. A sovereign cure for hysteria, his mother always claimed. What the deuce was wrong with the damned fool governess, allowing a child to attempt such a dangerous feat? Either she was incompetent or the kid was unmanageable.
Like a certain unmanageable boy whose competent mother hadn’t been able to prevent him from attempting equally dangerous feats. As he started up, he remembered the first time he had climbed the pyramid alone. He had been ten years old, and he’d come close to breaking his neck several times. His mother seldom employed corporal punishment, but she had spanked him soundly after that escapade. Perhaps he was in no position to be critical of adventurous children.
Pulling himself from step to step, he looked up only often enough to orient himself. He’d climbed all four sides of the Great Pyramid at various times, but he wasn’t fool enough to take unnecessary chances. Some of the stones had crumbled at the edges, some were broken, and they were of different heights. Nor did he raise his eyes when a voice from above hailed him.
“O Brother of Demons! We came with her, we did what she said. Then she sat down and would not move, and she struck at us when we tried to help her. Will you speak for us? Will you tell them we did our best? Will you—”
“Make certain you are paid?” Ramses stepped onto the same level as the speaker. He was a wiry little man, his long robe tucked up to expose bony shanks, his feet bare. He and his wife inhabited a hut in Giza Village with several goats, a few chickens, and two children. Two others had died before they were a year old.
Ramses reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Here. Go down now, I can manage her better alone.”
Blessings showered him as the two guides began the descent. He made certain his expression was stern before he turned to face the object of the emergency. He’d formed a picture of her in his mind. She’d be eleven or twelve, with scabs on her knees and elbows, freckles on her nose, a stubborn chin.
He had been right about the chin. There was a scattering of freckles too. His guess about her age was verified by her hideous and impractical garments. The dress looked like a female version of the sailor suits his mother had forced on him when he was too young to fight back; the knotted tie hung like a limp blue rag from the base of her throat. The skirt reached just below her knees, and the legs that stuck out at a defiant angle were encased in thick black stockings. He could only begin to wonder what she was wearing underneath—several layers of woollies, if his understanding of the governess mentality was accurate. Mouse-brown hair hung in damp tangles down her back, and her rounded cheeks were wet with perspiration. Her eyes were her most attractive feature, the irises a soft shade of hazel. He put their penetrating stare down to terror, and decided she needed reassurance, not a scolding.
He sat down next to her. “What happened to your hat?” he asked casually.
She continued to stare, so he tried another approach. “My name is Emerson.”
“No, it’s not.”
“That is odd,” he said, shaking his head. “To think that for over twenty years I have been mistaken about my own name. I must have a word with my mother.”
Either she had no sense of humor or she was in no mood for jokes. “It’s your father’s name. That’s what people call him. I’ve heard about him. I’ve heard about you too. They call you Ramses.”
“Among other things.” That got a faint smile. He smiled back at her and went on, “You mustn’t believe all you hear. I’m not so bad when you get to know me.”
“I didn’t know you looked like this,” she said softly.
The stare was beginning to bother him. “Has my nose turned blue?” he asked. “Or—horns? Are they sprouting?”
“Oh.” The color flooded into her face. “I’ve been rude. I apologize.”
“No need. But