He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [74]
“What should I do, then?” I inquired, lunging.
“Run,” said Ramses, helping me up from the floor.
After we had parted for the night and Emerson and I were alone in our room I thanked him again, with gestures as well as words. “I don’t know any other man who would have given his wife such a lovely gift, Emerson.”
“I don’t know any other woman who would have been so thrilled about a sword,” said Emerson.
Afterwards, Emerson immediately dropped off to sleep. I could not follow suit. I was remembering my son’s face, alight with laughter, and wishing I could see that look more often. I thought again of David and the peril he faced because of love and loyalty. I consigned Thomas Russell to the nethermost pits of Hades for putting my boys in such danger—and then, since it was the season of peace and goodwill, I forgave the scoundrel. He was only doing his job.
Abdullah was also in my thoughts. I dreamed of him from time to time; they were strange dreams, unlike the usual vague vaporings of the unconscious mind, for they were distinct and consistent. In them I saw my old friend as a man still in his prime, his face unlined, his black hair and beard untouched by gray. The setting of the dreams was always the same: the clifftop behind Deir el Bahri at Luxor, where we had so often stopped to rest for a moment after climbing the steep path to the top of the plateau. In one such vision he had warned me of storms ahead—had told me I would need all my courage to pass through them, but in the end . . . “The clouds will blow away,” he had said. “And the falcon will fly through the portal of the dawn.” He frequently employed such irritating parables, and refused to explain them even when I pressed him. There was no doubt about the stormclouds he had mentioned; even now they hung heavy over half the world. The rest of it sounded hopeful, but when I was in a discouraged state of mind I needed more than elegant literary metaphors to cheer me. I could have used his reassurance now. But I did not dream of Abdullah that night.
Dawn light was bright in the sky when I woke. There was a great deal to be done, since we were expecting the Vandergelts for dinner and holding an open house afterwards. However, I could not resist trying out my new parasol, and I was lunging and parrying with considerable skill (having seen Mr. James O’Neill in the film of The Count of Monte Cristo) when a comment from Emerson made me stumble and almost lose my balance. After a short discussion and a longer digression of another nature, he consented to give me a few lessons if Ramses would not. He had studied fencing some years before, but had not kept it up, having found that his bare hands were almost as effective in subduing an attacker.
“I’m not certain Ramses can bring himself to do it,” he remarked. “A gentleman does not find it easy to attack a lady, especially if the lady is his mother. He is in considerable awe of you, my dear.”
“He certainly didn’t sound as if he were in awe of me last night,” I remarked, buttoning my combinations.
Still recumbent, his hands behind his head, Emerson watched me with sleepy appreciation. “It was good to see him laugh so heartily.”
“Yes. Emerson—”
“I know what you are thinking, my dear, but dismiss those worries for today at least.” He got out of bed and went to the washbasin. “Fatima has put rose petals in the water again,” he grumbled, trying to sieve them out with his fingers. “As I was saying, the situation is temporarily under control. Russell has been informed of what transpired and will keep the warehouse under surveillance.”
“I still think we ought to have invited him to our open house. We might have found an opportunity for a little chat.”
Emerson deposited a handful of dripping petals onto the table and reached for his shaving tackle. “No, my dear. The fewer contacts between him and Ramses, the better.”
We had only the family for dinner that year, including