Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [137]
The longer I could delay our departure, the better for me, but I could not think of any way of doing that. To pretend illness would not deceive Sethos; to pretend a sudden, overwhelming affection would be even less convincing, supposing I could bring myself to simulate that emotion. However, it would do no harm to simulate tolerance at least, and encourage him to talk in the hope that he might inadvertently betray some information I could use.
“Who are you really?” I asked. “Is this your true appearance?”
Sethos smiled. “That is another of the qualities I love in you, Amelia—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Emerson. You are not subtle. Much as I yearn to confide in you, greatly as I burn to come to you as myself, caution compels me to preserve my incognito until we are truly united. This face you see is only one of a thousand I can assume if I wish. I am, if I may say so, a master in the art of disguise. Permit me the indulgence of boasting a little—of making myself appear admirable in the opinion of one I adore—”
“Pray continue,” I said, helping myself to a salad. “The subject interests me a great deal.”
“But it is not a subject in which you could excel. You are my antithesis, direct where I am subtle, forthright where I am cunning and indirect. You go straight to your goal, banging people over the head with your parasol, and I glide as slyly and sinuously as a serpent. The art of disguise is essential in my business, not only for practical reasons but because it casts an aura of the supernatural over my actions. Many of my ignorant assistants believe I change my appearance by magical means. Whereas in reality it is only a matter of grease paint and hair dye, wigs and beards and costumes, and a more subtle yet equally important alteration of demeanor. Gestures, carriage, the tone of the voice—these change a man’s appearance more effectively than any physical trick. I can make myself an inch or two taller by means of special shoes and boots; but I make myself appear shorter by holding myself in a certain way. If you had examined the viscount with a critical measuring eye, you would have seen that he was taller than his stooping posture suggested; that his bowed shoulders were not so narrow as they seemed; that his hesitant speech and foolish mannerisms suggested a physical weakness his actual proportions did not support.”
“But his eyes,” I exclaimed—for I was genuinely fascinated. “Surely the priest of Dronkeh had black eyes; and Ramses assured me—”
“Ramses has a great deal to learn,” Sethos said. “There are ways of changing the color of the eyes. Certain drugs enlarge the pupils. Paint applied to the eyelids and lashes make the iris appear darker or lighter, especially if one is fortunate enough to have eyes of an ambiguous shade between brown and gray. Someday I will show you my bag of tricks, Amelia; in each of my hideaways I have a laboratory fitted out with my equipment, including a few items I developed myself. It may amuse you to experiment with them; though in your case it would be difficult to conceal those sparkling, steely orbs or dim their brilliance. . . .”
He gazed into them as he spoke, his voice dropping to a soft murmur.
“I would rather hear rational discourse than empty compliments,” I said—though I was conscious of a perceptible quickening of my pulse.
He drew back. “Forgive me. I will keep my word, though you make it very difficult. . . . I will answer any questions you may have—except one.”
“Your real identity, I suppose. Well, Mr. Sethos, I have a dozen others. Why do you lead such a life? With your abilities you could succeed in any one of a number of lawful professions.”
Thoughtfully he replied, “Someday I will tell you my history, and then you will understand the motives that impelled me into this admittedly curious way of life. But one I may confess now. It is not for monetary gain alone that I rob the dead and the living. The finest