He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [50]
“No, thank you,” Ramses said, feebly but decidedly.
“You must have something for pain.”
“Brandy will do.”
I doubted it very much, but I could hardly pinch his nose and pour the laudanum down his throat. I prepared the brandy and Emerson helped him to sit up. He had just taken the glass in his hand when I heard footsteps in the hall outside.
“Hell and damnation!” I ejaculated, for I knew those light, quick steps. “Emerson, did you lock the—”
The haste with which he sprinted for the door made it evident that he had neglected to do so. Emerson can move like a panther when it is required, but this time he was too slow. However, he managed to get behind the door as it was flung open.
Nefret stood in the doorway. In the light from the corridor her form glimmered like that of a fairy princess, the gems in her hair and on her arms sparkling, the chiffon skirts of her gown surrounding her like mist. I had just presence of mind enough to kick the ugly evidence of our activities under the bed. The smell of blood and antiseptic was overcome by a strong reek of brandy. Ramses had slid down so that the sheet covered him clear to his chin, except for the arm that held the glass. Half the contents had spilled onto the sheet.
“How kind of you to drop in,” he said, with a curl of his lip. “You missed Mother’s lecture on the evils of drink, but you’re just in time to hold the basin while I throw up.”
She stood so still that not even the gems on her hands twinkled. Then she turned and vanished from sight.
Not until we had heard her door close did any of us move. Emerson shut Ramses’s door and turned the key. Ramses tipped the rest of the brandy down his throat and let his head fall back against the pillow. “Thank you, Mother,” he said. “There’s no need for you to stay. Go to bed.”
I ignored the suggestion, as he must have known I would. Indicating the basin and the stained cloths that filled it, I said, “Dispose of this, Emerson—I leave it to you to find a safe hiding place. Then make the rounds and—”
“Yes, my dear, you need not spell it out.” His hand brushed my hair.
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Ramses’s eyes opened. “I still hate this bloody war, you know,” he said indistinctly.
“Then why are you doing this?”
His head moved restlessly on the pillow. “It isn’t always easy to distinguish right from wrong, is it? More often the choice is between better and worse . . . and sometimes . . . sometimes the line between them is as thin as a hair. One must make a choice, though. One can’t wash one’s hands and let others take the risks . . . including the risk of being wrong. There’s always better . . . and worse. . . . I’m not making much sense, am I?”
“It makes excellent sense to me,” I said gently. “But you need to rest. Can’t you sleep?”
“I’m trying.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You used to sing me to sleep. When I was small. Do you remember?”
“I remember.” I had to clear my throat before I went on. “I always suspected you pretended to sleep so you wouldn’t have to listen to me sing. It is not one of my greatest talents.”
“I liked it.”
His hand lay on the bed, palm up, like that of a beggar asking for alms. When I took it his fingers closed around mine. My throat was so tight I thought I could not speak, much less sing, but the iron control I have cultivated over the years came to my aid; my voice was steady, if not melodious.
“There were three ra’ens sat on a tree
Down a down, hey down a down . . .”
There are ten interminable verses to this old ballad, which is not, as persons unfamiliar with it might suppose, a pretty little ditty about birds. As soon as he was old enough to express an opinion on the subject, Ramses had informed me that he found lullabies boring, and had demanded stronger stuff. This attitude was, perhaps, not unnatural in a child who had been brought up with mummies; but I would be the first to admit that Ramses was not a normal child.
His lips curved slightly as he listened, and his eyes closed;