The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [161]
“Does that include Nefret?”
“There is nothing she can do. She would only worry.”
It was true, but it was not the real reason. A young wife who has not learned better is likely to confide in her husband, and we did not know Geoffrey well enough to count on his discretion.
I woke before daylight and found I was unable to woo slumber again. The Reader may well imagine why. The boys (I could not help thinking of them that way still) had been involved in their perilous and disgusting quest for at least a week. Since I had not known of it, I had slept soundly; now that I did know of it, I did not see how I could sleep again until I knew they were safely back.
With the utmost caution I folded the thin sheet back, and was about to slip silently out of bed when an arm wrapped round me and pulled me back.
“If you intended to go haring off to the Amelia, I advise against it,” Emerson said in my ear. “It is near dawn; if they had not returned Lia would have come to us.”
“So you say,” I retorted, wishing he had not done so in such close proximity to my aural orifice. Emerson’s whispers are as penetrating as a shout.
“So I do.” Another arm enclosed me, drawing me closer.
“I thought you were asleep.” “Obviously I am not.”
Obviously he was not.
If he was trying to take my mind off the boys he succeeded, but only temporarily. By the time I rose and dressed, the dawn was breaking. As if in sympathy with my mood it was not the pearly pink of a normal sunrise, but a soggy gray. White mist veiled the windows. I knew the sun would probably dissolve the fog in a few hours, but the sight of it intensified the uneasiness that had returned following the conclusion of Emerson’s engaging attentions. Like darkness, mist and fog are of great assistance to assassins.
When we went down to breakfast I was relieved to see Lia already there. So was Nefret, but in that first instant I had eyes only for my niece, whose greeting told me that my apprehensions had been needless.
“David will be along shortly. He and Ramses were up till all hours talking.”
“Ah,” I said. “Is Ramses coming with him?”
“He went straight to Harvard Camp.” She smiled affectionately. “Don’t worry, Aunt Amelia, I made Ramses eat something before he left.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. He looked at Nefret, whose untouched breakfast had a congealed look about it. “What’s wrong with you? Feeling ill?”
“No, sir.” She would have left it at that, but Emerson’s piercing blue stare is difficult to ignore. “I had trouble sleeping,” she admitted.
“One of your dreams?” I inquired.
“Yes.” She picked up her fork and took a bite of scrambled egg.
I knew she would say no more. She would never discuss those nightmares, which had troubled her for years. They were infrequent but very disturbing, and she claimed she could never remember the content. I had my doubts about that; but my efforts to induce her to discuss them, with me or with a qualified medical person, had come to naught.
The others soon joined us: first David, then Geoffrey a few minutes later. Fatima was in seventh heaven, with so many people to be stuffed with food. She kept pressing delicacies upon us and replacing people’s plates with freshly cooked food. Everyone did his or her best to eat, but as I looked round the table I thought I had never seen so many haggard faces and drooping eyelids. The only ones who appeared normal were Geoffrey and Emerson. I wondered how the lad could have slept so well while his wife suffered the pangs of nightmare … And then I dismissed the rude speculation that had entered my mind.
As if feeling my gaze upon him Geoffrey looked up from his plate and gave me a cheerful smile. “You ought to have come with us last night, Aunt Amelia. I had a most interesting conversation with Sir John.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Emerson declared. “It’s time we were off.”
I suggested we go by way of the Giza plateau but Emerson, misunderstanding my motives, vetoed