Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [205]
After they had finished taking photographs, she laid it at the feet of the god.
It had been worth it. Sennia was beside herself, fluttering from person to person like a ruffled white butterfly, tearing the wrappings off her gifts, shrieking with pleasure. A letter from Rose had arrived that morning, with the news that Seshat had had her kittens—four of them, all healthy and handsome and brindled like their parents—and Sennia was still puzzling over how to allocate them. One for herself, of course (Nefret wondered how Horus would react to that!), and one for Ramses; but should the others go to Gargery, or “the Professor,” or Daoud, or Mr. Amherst, who was clearly in need of appreciation and affection, or Bertie? Bertie sat by his mother, holding her hand—or perhaps she was holding his hand, to prevent him from joining Jumana, who was sitting next to Emerson, her foot on a hassock, fluttering her lashes and talking nonstop. Emerson listened with an indulgent smile, but his eyes, like Nefret’s, wandered round the room, lingering longest on the face of his wife. Wearing a gown of her favorite crimson, she was bustling about, managing everything and everyone—persuading Gargery to rewrap his replica of Abu Simbel, which had an unforeseen tendency to shed sand all over the carpet, pausing for a moment to chat with Amherst and give him an encouraging pat on the back, helping Fatima pick up the ribbons and paper Sennia had scattered. She looked very handsome, her cheeks flushed and her hair twisted into a coil atop her head. (Nefret had certain suspicions about the unrelieved black of that handsome head of hair, but she would never have expressed them.)
All the Egyptologists Cyrus could collect were there, as well as several friends from Luxor. Marjorie Fisher and Cathy Flynn had not brought their cats, who were usually honored visitors; Horus was roaming free, at Sennia’s insistence, and since he regarded all male felines as potential rivals and all females as potential prey Coco and Bes had been forced to miss the festivities. “The family” had sent their representatives—Daoud and Selim, Fatima and Kadija and Basima, graciously sharing in a festival that was not their own—though Daoud had remarked, in that innocently shrewd way of his, “The Lord Issa is one of the great prophets. Why should we not honor his birth?”
The occasion was certainly ecumenical. In the center of the room, on a plinth, sat Amon-Re, candlelight streaking his face and crown with gold. Emerson had been unwilling to leave him unguarded any longer and clearing the shrine had proved to be a disappointingly simple business. There had been nothing in the chamber but the god and his offering vessels—no papyri, no final plea scratched on an ostracon or on the walls. Perhaps it had not been necessary. He heard the prayers of the silent, and no one deserved his mercy more than the devoted priests who had saved him from the invaders. Remembering her mother-in-law’s account of Abdullah’s enigmatic words, Nefret shivered a little. He had spoken of Amon . . .
I mustn’t be superstitious and sentimental, she told herself firmly.
One look at Sethos was enough to dispel such fancies. She could not exactly call him a skeleton at the feast, but he bore no perceptible resemblance to Father Christmas, even with the beard he had insisted upon wearing. Bolt upright, in a particularly uncomfortable armchair, he watched the proceedings with a singular absence of expression. He did not look at Margaret, or she at him, though she was seated not far away. Catching Nefret’s wandering eye, his lips curled in acknowledgment of the absurdity of his presence: the prodigal son, the black sheep. Not even her formidable mother-in-law, she thought, could bring that sheep back into the fold.
“What will happen to those two?” she asked.
“What two?” Ramses had been watching Sennia, when he wasn’t looking at her. “Oh. The mind boggles. Aunt Margaret? God save us! He does care for her, though. If you had seen his face