Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [93]
“It was ‘The Doomed Prince,’ ” Sennia explained to Emerson and Cyrus, who had come in at the end. “The one Aunt Amelia translated. She translated lots of other stories. I will tell them too, if you want.”
“Another time,” I said firmly.
“One story a day, like Scheherazade,” Bertie suggested.
She liked that idea, but was quick to point out that Scheherazade had left off in the middle of her stories—“so the Sultan wouldn’t chop her head off next morning”—so perhaps she should start another one.
“Bertie is not going to chop your head off,” I said. “And it is time you went up to the nursery for supper. Say good night—and take Horus with you.”
She gave Bertie a kiss, which he returned. There was no need to carry Horus away; he jumped down off the bed and followed her, snarling at Cyrus as he passed him.
We chatted for a while longer, while Fatima bustled about clearing away the plates and glasses, and then left Bertie to rest.
“He has had quite enough excitement for one evening,” I explained, as Katherine and I went arm in arm along the corridor. “Sennia is getting to be as Machiavellian as Ramses used to be. She knew that if she asked permission to visit Bertie I would say no, so she simply neglected to ask.”
“She did him so much good, though,” Katherine said. “Perhaps she could be that new interest he needs just now.”
“I think not. We will administer small doses of Sennia for a few days, but she will wear him out if we let her. An individual must be in excellent physical condition to deal with a small energetic child.”
“So you still recommend our going on to Luxor immediately?” Cyrus inquired.
“My opinion on that matter is unchanged.”
Emerson gave me a quizzical look but remained silent. He knew, as did I, that it was imperative to get our friends away from Cairo. They would be safe in Luxor. Everything was quiet there.
From Manuscript H
The man was his uncle. Sethos, the Master Criminal, the War Office’s most valued secret agent, his mother’s ardent admirer, his father’s deadliest enemy—and illegitimate half-brother. They had learned that astonishing bit of information only the previous winter, and Ramses still hadn’t fully adjusted to the idea. Even more unbelievable was the fact that the man he had last seen on a stretcher bleeding from a bullet hole through the lung was still alive. He had attacked a man who was not only old enough to be his father, but who had suffered a near-fatal injury less than a year ago—and he’d had to use several of his “filthier” tricks to come out ahead. He caught Nefret’s cold blue stare, and wondered whether an apology was in order, and if so, to which of them it ought to be addressed.
“You promised you wouldn’t hurt him,” she said accusingly.
The bloody wad of cloth Sethos was holding to his nose was her handkerchief. He lowered it and sniffed experimentally. The bleeding had stopped.
“I hurt him first,” he pointed out, with visible satisfaction. “My apologies, Ramses. One reacts instinctively, as you know. May I sit up now, Nefret? I hope you don’t mind the familiarity. It’s all in the family, after all.”
She had inspected him from head to toe to make sure a bloody nose was his only injury. He’d enjoyed it too, flinching theatrically when she touched one spot or the other and then bravely denying it hurt. Ramses rubbed his aching wrist and winced. There was no reaction from Nefret. He decided he would be damned if he would apologize.
“So what are we to call you?” he demanded. “ ‘Uncle Sethos’ doesn’t sit trippingly on the tongue.”
“Never mind the Uncle,” the other man said with a grimace. “It’s rather late to acknowledge