The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [116]
“Sit down, my dear,” said Emerson to me. He was holding himself in such rigid control, I trembled for his health. Before he could say more, the door of the sitting room opened.
Nefret did not bother to knock. She seldom did, and she had no reason now to believe we did not wish to be disturbed. She was holding Ramses by the hand, tugging at him as she did when she was excited about something she wanted us to share. They were both smiling.
The old man pulled the child roughly from her mother and stood her on her feet, holding her so that she faced Ramses. “Salaam aleikhum, Brother of Demons. See, I have brought your daughter. Do you accept her?”
Ramses shook his head. “No,” he said hoarsely.
His face gave him the lie. The color had drained from it, leaving it white under his heavy tan.
The little girl slipped out of the old man’s grasp and ran toward Ramses, holding out her arms and calling to him in a high, quavering voice. She was too small to talk plainly. I understood only one word. It was the Arabic word for Father.
His involuntary recoil stopped her as brutally as a blow might have done. She spread dimpled, dirty hands over her face and crouched down, like a threatened animal trying to make itself smaller. But before the child hid them, Nefret had seen what we had seen earlier—wide, dark gray eyes, of an unusual shade and shape—the exact shade and shape as mine.
Until that moment Nefret had not moved or spoken. The sound that came from her parted lips was wordless: a sharp cry like that of a wounded animal. Her blazing blue eyes shifted, first to the woman in her shabby garments, then back to the child. She did not let go of Ramses’s hand; she flung it from her and ran stumbling from the room.
“Nefret, wait!” Ramses started to turn.
The child must have been watching him between her fingers. She let out a little whimper.
I am not a maternal woman, but I could bear it no longer. I would have leaped to my feet if Emerson’s hand had not held me back. His unblinking eyes were fixed on Ramses.
The old man cackled with laughter. “You see? You say no, but who will believe you if they see her face? For a price—a very small price—I will find a home for her among her own people, where she will be loved and desired, and hidden forever from the eyes of Inglizi.”
Perhaps the child did not understand the unspeakable promise in the leering voice—I prayed she had not—but it was clear to the rest of us. I had thought Ramses could go no whiter, but I was wrong. He dropped to one knee and took the child’s hands in his. His voice was steadier than mine would have been.
“Don’t cry, little bird. There is nothing to be afraid of. I won’t let him have you.”
She threw her arms round his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. Holding her, he rose to his feet.
“I claim her,” he said formally. “She is mine. Get out, Kalaan, while you are able.”
Kalaan licked his lips. “What are you saying? Do you know what you are saying? You have dishonored this woman, who is my—uh—my poor daughter. Give me money and I will—”
“No,” Emerson said gently. “I think if you start now, and move very quickly, you may make it out of the room before I lose my temper.”
The old villain knew that purring voice. He scuttled toward the door, giving Ramses a wide berth. The woman crept after him. She did not look at Ramses, nor he at her. After they had gone, Ramses said, “Excuse me, Mother and Father. I will be back shortly.”
He went out, carrying the child, who clung to him like a little monkey. Emerson sat down next to me, took my hand and patted it, but neither of us spoke until Ramses returned.
“I left her with Fatima, but I promised I would return in time to watch over her during the terrors of the bath,” he explained. “What do you want to know?”
“She is not yours,” Emerson said.
“No.”
“Then who …” I did not finish the question. There was only one other man in Egypt through whom the child could have inherited