Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [123]
Once again his sinewy arms reached out and drew me into a close embrace—not quite so close, and with some degree of caution. “Tell me about it, Peabody,” he said.
“It sounds foolish,” I murmured, resting my head against his breast.
“I love you when you are foolish, Peabody. It is a rare event—if by foolish you mean gentle and yielding, timid and fearful. . . .”
“Stop that, Emerson,” I said firmly, taking his hand. “I am not fearful; only puzzled. I had the most peculiar dream.”
“That is also a rare event. Proceed.”
“I found myself in a strange room, Emerson. It was decorated in the most luxurious and voluptuous fashion—rosy-pink draperies covering the walls and windows, a soft couch strewn with silken pillows, antique rugs, and a tiny tinkling fountain. Upon a low table of ebony and mother-of-pearl was a tray with fruit and wine, silver bowls and crystal glasses. A dreaming silence filled the chamber, broken only by the melodious murmur of the fountain.
“I lay upon the couch. I felt myself to be wide awake, and my dreaming self was as bewildered by my surroundings as I myself would have been. My eyes were drawn to a fringed and embroidered curtain that concealed a door. How I knew this I cannot say; but I did, and I also knew something was approaching—that the door would soon open, the curtain lift—that I would see . . .”
“Go on, Peabody.”
“That was when I woke, Emerson—woke in a cold sweat of terror, trembling in every limb. You know, my dear, that I have no patience with the superstition that dreams are portents of things to come, but I cannot help but believe there is some deeper meaning in this dream.”
I could not see Emerson’s face, but I felt a hardening of the arms that held me. “Are you sure,” he inquired, “that the emotion you felt was terror?”
“That is a strange question, Emerson.”
“It was a strange dream, Peabody.” He sat up and put me gently from him, holding me by the shoulders and looking deep into my eyes. “Who was it, Peabody? Who was approaching the door?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmmm.” He continued to gaze at me with that peculiar intensity. Then he said quietly, “I believe I can identify the origin of your dream, Peabody. Your description sounds like the one Father Todorus gave of his prison.”
“Why, of course,” I exclaimed. “You are quite right, Emerson. No doubt that explains it. Even my emotions were the same as those the poor old man must have felt.”
“I am glad to have relieved your apprehension. Have I done so, Peabody?”
“Yes, Emerson, and I thank you. Only—only I still have a sensation of approaching doom—that something lies in wait on the threshold of our lives—”
“That is a sensation to which you should be accustomed,” said Emerson, in his old sardonic manner. “Never mind, Peabody, we will face the danger together, you and I—side by side, back to back, shoulder to shoulder.”
“With Ramses running around getting in the way,” I said, emulating his light tone. “Emerson, I apologize for disturbing you with my nonsense. Do you dress now and I will go out and light the spirit stove and make some tea.”
I handed him his trousers, knowing he could never find them without a prolonged and profane search. Emerson’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug, and he accepted the offering.
I crawled to the entrance of the tent. The flap had been secured by a simple slip knot, running through a ring in the canvas floor. Unloosening this, I saw a slit of daylight outside. It was morning, though still very early. Rising, I pushed the flap aside and went out.
Immediately I felt myself falling. I had tripped over some object that lay before the tent. My outstretched hands struck the hard ground, but I felt the obstruction under my shins. Not until I stumbled to my feet did I see what it was.
Donald Fraser lay on his back. His limbs had been arranged, his hands were folded on his breast. A blackened hole like a third eye marked the center of his forehead; his blue eyes were wide open and their surfaces were blurred by a faint dusting of sand.
I did not scream, as an ordinary