The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [133]
Whereupon Professor Radcliffe Emerson, the Father of Curses, holder of innumerable honorary degrees, scourge of the underworld and the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other age, growled and tickled her on the back of her neck.
It was impossible to ignore him, but we did our best. Lia’s eyes were bright with tears of emotion. Nefret got slowly to her feet. I will never know what she meant to do, for at that moment, with the awful inevitability of an omen sent by some inimical deity, the massive, brindled form of Horus emerged from behind a potted plant, tail lashing and teeth bared.
We had not seen him for three days. He had disappeared the same morning Nefret left the house, and I would be the first to confess that I had not spent a great many minutes wondering what had happened to him. He was heading purposefully toward Nefret when the child’s high-pitched chirps attracted his attention. Emerson had persuaded her to come to him, and she was investigating his pockets, for it had not taken her long to learn there was usually something in them for her. She and the cat caught sight of one another at the same moment.
If a cat’s jaw could drop, Horus’s did. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring.
Everyone in the room was familiar with the cat’s vile temper, including Geoffrey, who still bore the scars of a recent attempt to make friends with Horus. Several of us moved at once. Ramses jumped up, I reached for a pitcher of water, Emerson wrapped his muscular arms protectively about the child and Nefret lunged for Horus. A scene of utter pandemonium ensued as our frantic efforts to intercept the beast countermanded one another; Horus slipped through Nefret’s hands, bit Ramses’s thumb, shook the water off his back (most of it had splashed onto the floor) and sat down with a thump at Emerson’s feet, still staring. The child compounded the confusion by squirming and demanding to be put down so she could talk to the little lion.
“Be calm,” I implored. “Everyone be calm. Don’t get him excited. Emerson, hold on to her. Ramses, can you …”
“I can try,” said Ramses. He slipped out of his coat, raised it, and advanced cautiously on the cat.
“He won’t hurt her,” Nefret said. Still on her knees, she began edging forward, and addressed Horus in a soft cooing voice. “Come to Nefret, bad Horus. Did you miss me? I missed you. Come and say hello. Good boy, Horus …”
The wretched beast did not even turn his head. I became aware of another sound, loud enough to be heard over Nefret’s murmured endearments. It was quite an unpleasant sound, like the rasp of a rusty file, but it was unquestionably Horus’s best attempt at a purr.
“Good Gad,” I said.
“Good God,” Emerson corrected. “Peabody, do you think—”
Horus flopped over onto his back and waved his paws. He looked perfectly ridiculous.
“It’s a ruse,” Ramses muttered. “A trick, to lower our guard. Nefret, get out of the way.”
“No, don’t.” She pushed his raised coat aside and reached for the cat. Horus remained as unresponsive and as heavy as a rock when she lifted him up, only twisting his head round at an impossible angle so he could continue to stare at Sennia. Nefret sat down next to Emerson, who edged away.
“He won’t hurt her, I tell you. He wants to make friends.”
“Ha!” said Emerson.
“I’ve got him,” Nefret assured him, taking a firm grip on the cat’s front legs. Then—for the first time—she looked directly at the child and smiled. “Hold out your hand, little bird. Pat the lion. Gently, gently.”
It was a most touching moment, and would have been even more touching if the child, squeaking with delight, had not grabbed hold of one of Horus’s prominent ears and tugged.
“Gently,” said Nefret, while the rest of us remained petrified in horrified anticipation. She detached the small fingers and put them on the cat’s motionless head. “So.”
Watching the creature submit meekly to hard pats and prodding fingers, I felt kindly toward him for the