The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [121]
“How long has it been since you have eaten?” his mother demanded. “You had no lunch, at least not here, and I do not suppose you had sense enough to think of it.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Fatima, please tell cook to get dinner on the table.”
“Yes, Sitt. It is ready.”
His mother was right. (She always was.) The hot soup revived him, and by the time they reached the main course he was almost back to normal.
“What about Nefret’s clinic?” his mother asked—they were still discussing ways of tracing Rashida. “Had she ever been there?”
“No,” Ramses said. “She knew of it, but said Kalaan had forbidden his girls to go there. I am at somewhat of a loss as to where to look next.”
“He will probably keep her hidden for a while,” his father said. “Hell and damnation! I should have strangled the old buzzard this morning when I had the chance. Never mind; we’ll track him down, and he will tell us what he’s done with her.”
“I hope so,” Ramses said.
“What are you worrying about?” his mother asked. “One hates to think of her in the power of such a man, but she and many others have been in that position before. Do you believe he will harm her?”
It was a waste of time trying to spare his mother.
“I think she might be in danger,” he admitted.
Fatima let out a hiss of distress. Since her trip to England she had become emancipated to the extent of not veiling herself in the presence of his father or himself—she was now part of the family, after all—and her plump, pleasant face was lined with worry. He patted the brown hand that was reaching for his plate.
“It’ll be all right, Fatima.”
“She is a bad woman,” Fatima murmured. “But she is very young, Rameses.”
It had taken him a long time to persuade her to use his name; she didn’t do it often, and when she did, she pronounced it, not as the others did, but with an odd accent. When he was in a fanciful mood he wondered whether that was how the name had sounded in the thirteenth century B.C.
“She is not a bad woman, Fatima, only unlucky and unhappy and very young. She wouldn’t have done this of her own accord,” he went on. “She hadn’t the guile or the malice even to think of such a thing. Someone made her do it—someone she feared more than she trusted me.”
“Agreed.” Emerson nodded. “When you went to her house that day, Kalaan found out about it—he would, of course. The seeds of the idea must have been planted then, and he saw the opportunity for a spot of blackmail. No good deed ever goes unpunished, my boy; never forget that. Good Gad, Kalaan may even have taught the little creature to call you Father.”
“Someone may have done.”
“You are worrying unnecessarily, I believe,” his mother said. “Kalaan didn’t get the money he expected from us, but he has no reason to be angry with her. She did as he asked. Why should he destroy a valuable piece of merchandise?”
Ramses pushed his half-filled plate away. His parents were watching him anxiously, their faces warm with concern. If he told them what he feared, they would think he had lost his mind. Maybe he had.
The following day brought one piece of good news—a telegram from David announcing their arrival on Wednesday next.
Emerson and I were at the breakfast table when Ali delivered the cable. Although I had applied myself with my usual efficiency to the innumerable alterations in our schedule necessitated by the events of the previous day, there were still a few matters to be settled. Ramses had not yet joined us. I knew where he was; immediately upon arising, I had gone to see how our small charge had spent the night, and had found her awake and demanding her abu.
“We will have to break her of that,” I said to Fatima, who had taken the child to sleep with her. “What is she to call him, though?”
Fatima had no opinion on the subject. She had a number of opinions on other matters relating to the child, however, and we were discussing them when Ramses joined us. I left the three together and went down