Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [174]
Emerson said, “Hrmph,” and rolled over, turning his back to me.
His recalcitrance, which I ought to have expected, gave me time to have second thoughts. Prudence overcame archaeological fever. I returned to a supine position and proceeded to have them.
Emerson would not consider a dream a sufficient guide to excavation. It was impossible to explain to someone who had not experienced them how vivid and real those visions were. I could still feel the pressure of Abdullah’s lips on my brow; had I been gifted with artistic talents, I could have reproduced every line and every whisker on his face.
What the devil had been the point of that particular dream? Surely those tantalizing hints of tombs in the Valley had only been meant to tease me. Hints were of no use if I couldn’t get the confounded firman. He must have said something else. I was going over that conversation in my mind when Emerson turned and flung out his arm.
As he later admitted he had been dreaming too, of fighting with an opponent whose identity he claimed not to remember; the blow he directed at this phantom landed squarely across my ribs, evoking a cry of indignation and pain which was loud enough to rouse Emerson.
He was still apologizing and looking for bruises when the servant brought our tea. I sent my spouse off to bathe and dress, and consulted my list. In fact, I had already determined on a course of action which did not include describing my dream to Emerson. There was only one other person who might give credence to it, and she was the very individual I had meant to consult about an equally important matter.
She and Ramses arrived at the Castle as we were finishing breakfast, and joined us on the veranda with their little entourage. It was a pretty, shaded spot, curtained with vines, a place conducive to friendly social intercourse. One would never have supposed that the smiling faces hid so many dark secrets! Jumana pounced on Emerson; she had been reading his History, and showered him with questions which were not so much designed to obtain information as demonstrate how clever she was. The innocent man, bemused by fluttering lashes and wide dark eyes, nodded and smiled, while Bertie tried to get a word in. My tall son was holding his wife’s hand under the table (he thought no one noticed, but of course I did) and chatting with Sennia, who had pulled her chair next to his. It occurred to me that I might have some difficulty getting Nefret to myself. And how were we to elude Miss Minton, whose cool black eyes moved from face to face as if trying to read the thoughts those countenances concealed?
Finally Cyrus pointed out that they had yet to decide where they would go that day. Many of the most promising sites, including the East and West Valleys and the Asasif had already been allocated to other excavators. There were a number of pleasant ruins scattered about, but Cyrus was only interested in tombs. They finally settled on the Valley of the Queens.
Six unknown tombs in the Valley of the Queens . . . Remembering Abdullah’s words I was gripped by a brief spasm of archaeological fever. But no, I told myself, duty before pleasure. It wasn’t likely that they would find any of the missing tombs that morning. I informed Emerson that I would not accompany him since I had other tasks, including some necessary shopping in Luxor.
My remark fell into one of those silences that sometimes occur (though not often with us, I admit), and a number of heads turned in my direction. I had expected Emerson would be suspicious, but since he could not force me to go with him and since he would rather have been hanged than go to the shops with me, he would have no choice but to acquiesce. Suspicious he unquestionably was. His sapphirine eyes narrowed. Then they opened wide, in an unconvincing display of affability, and he said, “Very well, my dear. Whatever you say.”
This was an extremely disconcerting development. Emerson must be up to something. Ah well, I thought, I cannot be in two places at once.