Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [60]
“So where are we going today?” she asked, buttering a piece of leathery toast.
“Gurneh. I sent word to Yusuf last night.”
“Yes, of course.”
He looked up from his plate. The dark eyes that were so often half hidden by drooping lids and long lashes met hers directly. “Don’t be patient with me, Nefret. Slap me down when I go all brooding and theatrical.”
“Eat your eggs,” Nefret said tenderly.
“They’re stone cold.” He pushed his plate away. “I hear voices. It must be the fellow who’s brought the horses. He’s early. Take your time, I’ll go down and—”
“No, I’ve finished.”
They descended the stairs to the lower deck, where they found Ashraf, the crewman on guard duty, confronting the newcomer. It wasn’t Yusuf or one of his sons. It was a girl, wearing a blue tob, whose wide sleeves had been turned up over her head to get them out of the way. The long face veil was not as common in this area as it was in Cairo, but no respectable woman would go about with her head bare; the kerchief she wore instead of a tarhah was tied at the nape of her neck, covering her hair except for two long curling locks on either side of her face. At the moment the lower part of her face was concealed by a fold of the tob. Turning her back on Ashraf, she let the cloth fall and addressed them in a piercing shout, and in carefully enunciated English. “Welcome—good morning—please, I must talk to you, now, before Jamil comes; I ran very fast so I would be here before him and now this person will not let me pass!”
Nefret poked her husband in the ribs, reminding him of something he knew only too well: that a fixed stare at a Muslim female was worse than rude. She couldn’t blame him for staring, though. The girl must be one of Abdullah’s far-flung and extensive family. They were a handsome lot, but she was something special: big melting brown eyes, rounded cheeks, and a full, pink mouth. She was a tiny creature, barely five feet tall and at the moment every inch was rigid with indignation.
“Yes, of course,” Ramses said. Ashraf was trying to look as if he weren’t there. He hadn’t done any harm or meant any, but he had no business making advances, even harmless advances, to female visitors. “Come into the saloon. Would you like coffee?”
“Yes, thank you. If it is not too much trouble.” She gave Ashraf a triumphant look and swept past him.
“No trouble at all,” Nefret murmured. “At least I hope not.”
If Ramses heard, he pretended he hadn’t. Like his father, he was genuinely and endearingly bewildered by the effect he had on susceptible women (which included most women, Nefret thought).
By the time Nasir had stumbled through the coffee-serving process they had established the girl’s identity. She was Jumana, the daughter of Selim’s uncle Yusuf, the head of the Luxor branch of the family. It was no wonder they had not recognized her immediately; five years ago she had been one of a cheerful pack of children, indistinguishable from the rest. Jamil was her brother.
“He is lazy,” she said, pursing up her pretty mouth. “He should have been here with the horses before this. But it is good for me that he is so slow. I ran all the way.”
“All the way from Gurneh?” Nefret asked.
“No, from the house of the Father of Curses. He told my father to stay there to look after it. Do you want it back now?”
“No,” Nefret said. They had discussed the matter with the senior Emersons before they left Cairo. “We will only be in Luxor for a few weeks, and we would prefer to stay on board the dahabeeyah.”
“That is good, but someone should have told my mother. She has been cleaning everything and making me work too.”
Ramses was smiling. He spoke to her as he would have to Sennia. “You don’t like to do housework?”
“No. I want to work on the excavations, like the men.” She leaned forward, slim brown hands clasped, eyes wide and serious. “I