He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [91]
She heard. She stopped and looked down. Nefret made a lunge for her, and then . . . I could not see what happened; I only saw Nefret lose her balance and fall. There was nothing to stop her; followed by a long plume of sand and broken stone, she rolled all the way to the ground. The child’s scream of laughter changed to quite another sort of scream.
I hastened at once to where my daughter lay on her side in a tumble of loosened golden hair and twisted limbs, but I was not the first to reach her. When I joined him Ramses had brushed the sand from her face. His fingers were stained with blood. “Your canteen,” he said, and took it from me.
“Don’t move her,” I cautioned.
“No. Nefret?” He poured the water in a steady stream, bathing her eyes and mouth first. She stirred, murmuring, and Ramses said, “Lie still. You fell. Is anything broken?”
Woolley and Lawrence hurried up. “Shall I go for a doctor?” the latter inquired. “Bound to be one, in that gaggle of tourists.”
“I am a doctor,” Nefret said, without opening her eyes. “Is Molly all right?”
“She is coming down by herself, quite competently,” I said, looking round.
She had selected a nice smooth slope of sand and was descending in a sitting position, and—to judge by her expression—quite enjoying herself. However, as soon as she reached the ground and saw Nefret, she began to cry out.
“I’ve killed her! It’s my fault! Oh, I am sorry, I am sorry!”
She ran toward us and would have flung herself down on Nefret had not Ramses intercepted her. She clung to him, weeping bitterly. “I didn’t mean to! Is she dead? I am sorry!”
“So you damned well should be,” said Ramses. He shoved her away. “Woolley, take her back to the Poynters.”
“Don’t be unkind to the child.” Cautiously Nefret stretched her limbs, one after the other, and sat up. A trickle of crimson laced her cheek, from a cut on her temple. “I’m not hurt, Molly. No bones broken, and no concussion,” she added, giving me a shaky but reassuring smile.
Ramses bent and lifted her up into his arms. I thought she stiffened a little; then she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He started back toward the tomb, but he had not gone more than a few steps when he was met by Emerson, who must have been told of the incident by one of the onlookers. My husband was in an extreme state of agitation and dishevelment. He snatched Nefret out of his son’s grasp and pressed her to his broad breast.
“Good God! You should not have lifted her! She is bleeding—unconscious—”
“No, sir, I’m not unconscious,” Nefret said out of the corner of her mouth. “But you are covered with sand, and it is getting in my eyes.”
“Take her back to the shelter,” I directed. “She is only a bit shaken up.”
“She is bleeding, I tell you,” Emerson shouted, squeezing her even more tightly. Both corners of her mouth were now pressed against his shirtfront, but I heard a stifled giggle and a murmur of reassurance.
“Head wounds always bleed copiously,” I said. “Don’t just stand there, Emerson, go on.”
I then turned my attention to Molly. She looked so woebegone and guilty, my annoyance faded. After all, she had intended no harm, and no real harm had been done. I took her hand and led her toward the shelter. She went unresisting, head bowed and eyes downcast.
“It was an accident,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean—”
“You are becoming repetitive,” I informed her. “If you regret your actions you can best show it by returning at once to Cairo with the Poynters.”
The Poynters would have lingered, but I gave them no excuse to do so. Once they had departed, and Woolley and Lawrence had gone on their way, I bathed Nefret’s head and was about to apply iodine to the cut when she requested I use alcohol instead.
“That rusty red clashes horribly with the color of my hair,” she explained. “Thank you, Aunt Amelia, that will do nicely. Now shall we all get back to work?”
“You should return to the house and rest,” Emerson said anxiously. “What happened?”
“I tripped,”