The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [46]
I saw absolutely no reason to mention the little bottle of hair coloring I kept in a drawer of my dressing table. A husband’s illusions should not be shattered, and anyhow I didn’t use it often enough to matter.
“I might ask you the same question, my dear Emerson,” I replied. “But perhaps this is not the proper time—”
“Anytime is the proper time. Curse it,” he added, as the bridge of his nose came into contact with the brim of my pith helmet.
“Selim—”
“The devil with Selim,” said Emerson, removing my hat and tossing it aside.
The interlude was brief but refreshing, and it left Emerson in a conciliatory frame of mind. He went so far as to ask my opinion as to which “pyramid” we should tackle, and my own mood was so forbearing I did not comment sarcastically on the word. I cast my vote in favor of the Layer Pyramid. Emerson grinned.
“You want to crawl into the cursed substructure. Really, Peabody, your penchant for dark, hot, dirty tunnels makes me wonder about you.”
“Ah,” I said, my interest reviving. “There are dark, hot, dirty tunnels in the substructure?”
Emerson chuckled. “Very dark and very dirty. Shall we have another look?”
Selim, who had tactfully disappeared behind a ridge, now returned, and I said, “We should start back, Emerson, we promised we would meet the children at two.”
“Plenty of time,” said Emerson, as I had expected.
So we headed back toward the other structure (the word “pyramid” stuck in my throat), which was farther south but closer to the cultivation. It is possible to see for quite a distance in that clear dry air (after the morning mist has dispersed, and providing there is no wind to raise clouds of sand). I was unable to resist glancing back toward Giza from time to time; the pure perfection of those triangular silhouettes drew my eye like a magnet. We had not proceeded far when I beheld other shapes advancing in our direction. I called out to Emerson to stop.
“There are three individuals on horseback advancing in our direction, Emerson. I think—yes, it is Miss Maude and her brother and Mr. Godwin. I expect they are looking for us.”
“Why?” Emerson inquired.
“We did mention yesterday that we were planning to visit the site. It is a delicate attention.”
“You and your delicate attentions,” Emerson grumbled. “Idle curiosity would be nearer the mark. Haven’t they anything better to do than bother me?”
“Probably not. Mr. Reisner is still in the Sudan, and their season does not begin till January. No doubt they wish to give you the benefit of their experience at the site.”
The young people were soon with us. Miss Maude looked very businesslike in a divided skirt and matching coat and a pair of well-cut tasseled boots. I had not supposed she meant to offer the benefit of her experience, since she had none; my supposition as to her reason for coming was soon confirmed, for her ingenuous countenance fell when she realized Ramses was not one of the party.
Geoffrey remained modestly silent, allowing Jack Reynolds to do most of the talking. He had spent several weeks excavating in the cemeteries adjoining the pyramid (as he called it) and offered to show us round.
Emerson was graciously pleased to accept and we went on together, with Miss Maude trailing disconsolately in the rear. Listening to Jack’s comments, I was increasingly impressed with his competence, though, as he was the first to admit, they had not spent enough time at the site to enable him to answer many of Emerson’s pointed questions.
According to Jack, the monument had in fact been completed. It had been a step pyramid like the magnificent tomb of Zoser at Sakkara, with fourteen steps or layers. The original height was impossible to calculate, since the upper layers had disintegrated into a mass of formless rubble. Mr. Reisner had cleared the base