Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [35]
Emerson sat up with a roar whose reverberations echoed through the quiet night. As if in answer came the queer, coughing cry of a jackal prowling the desert waste.
“Hush, Emerson,” I implored. “You will waken the entire village—not to mention Ramses. What the devil is the matter with you? I was speaking of the Master Criminal—”
“I heard you.” Emerson lowered his voice. The blanket had fallen away, baring his body to the waist and exposing more of my own than was strictly proper. Mesmerized by the ripple of muscle on Emerson’s broad chest as he struggled for breath, I did not replace it. Emerson went on in a hissing whisper, “Great mind, did you say? How can you ramble on about that—that—that creature at a time like this? And in such terms—terms almost of respect! Devil take it, Amelia, one might suppose you think I am incapable of dealing with that scoundrel! Curse it! If you believe I am not man enough—”
“My dear Emerson—”
“Be quiet, Peabody. If you have any doubts as to my fortitude, I will prove you wrong.”
And he did so, with such determination and zeal that when, at a later time, he requested my assessment of the situation, I was able to reply with utter sincerity that his arguments had been entirely convincing.
I woke at dawn, as is my habit in Egypt, whatever distractions the night may bring. Our lofty perch presented me with an unexampled view of the glorious sunrise and I lay in sleepy content for a time, watching the soft shades of gold and rose strengthen in the eastern sky. Emerson’s regular expiration ruffled the hair on my brow. After a time a sense of vague uneasiness penetrated the pleasant laziness of my mind, and I raised my head. Fortunately I raised no other part of my body, for the first thing I saw was the face of Ramses, apparently detached from the rest of him, solemnly regarding me. It was an uncanny apparition and I was somewhat startled until it occurred to me that everything except his head was out of sight on the stairs leading to the roof.
“What are you doing there?” I whispered.
“I came to see if you and Papa were awake. Since I see that you are, I have brought you a cup of tea. I tried to bring two cups, but unfortunately dropped one, the stairs being extremely steep and my—”
I put my finger to my lips and pointed at Emerson, who was twitching restlessly.
Ramses’ neck and narrow shoulders rose up out of the stairwell, and I saw that he was indeed holding a cup. Whether or not it contained tea was yet to be seen. I rather doubted that it did. I started to sit up and then remembered that in the extreme fatigue following the ultimate conclusion of my discussion with Emerson, I had neglected something.
I dismissed Ramses and groped for my clothes. Assuming those garments under cover of the blanket without rousing Emerson was no easy task. By the time I was finished I quite agreed with my husband that we might do well to transfer our sleeping quarters to the place he had suggested. Ramses was even more unnerving when he was not present than when he was, because one never knew when he would turn up.
There was approximately an eighth of a cup of tea in the bottom of the cup. The rest had been spilled on the steps, as I discovered when I started to descend them.
However, it had been a kindly thought, and I thanked Ramses when I found him busily burning toast over the camp stove. “Where is Mr. Nemo?” I asked.
“Outside. I offered to prepare a light repast for him, but he said he didn’t want any cursed tea and toast, and—”
I went out the door, leaving Ramses still talking. Nemo was squatting on the mastaba bench. He had resumed his filthy turban and once again resembled an Egyptian of the lowest type. I never could have mistaken him for one of our men, for they prided themselves on the elegance of their attire, and their habits were as fastidious as circumstances allowed. They