The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [185]
“Well, I sure don’t want to miss that,” Cyrus declared. “I’ll be waiting for you in the morning. You’ll all dine with us tomorrow evening, I hope. Katherine is anxious to see you.”
Ramses and Nefret decided they did not want to miss it either. I went along to make certain Emerson behaved himself. Jumana went along because I insisted. Nefret’s diagnosis might be correct—it was in keeping with the principles of psychology I favored—but she had confessed herself uncertain as to the appropriate treatment. I had my own ideas on that subject. If my methods were not effective, at least they could do no harm.
Jumana ate very little at breakfast, but I had checked the larder before retiring and again when I arose, and was not surprised to find that half a loaf of bread and a chicken breast had disappeared overnight. It was no wonder Fatima had not noticed anything amiss. The larder was open to everyone in the house, and Sennia had an appetite quite out of proportion to her little frame.
Cyrus and Bertie had been looking out for us and joined us at the end of the track that led up to the Castle. It was a bright, beautiful morning with clear skies; after the fog of Cairo and the rainy weather of Palestine, I appreciated Luxor even more.
“How well you look, Bertie,” I said. “The foot is completely healed?”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you. I need not ask if you are in good health; you are blooming, as usual. We had heard that Ramses—”
“The reports were exaggerated,” Ramses said with a smile. “As you can see.”
“And your arm, Professor?” Bertie asked.
“A confounded nuisance,” said Emerson. “Can we get on now? I want to finish this little job, so I can start work.”
Bertie was not given the opportunity to ask after the person who interested him most. Jumana had not spoken to him or to Cyrus. She sat slumped in the saddle, her head bowed and her pretty mouth twisted. The taste of the medicine I had insisted she take lingered on the tongue.
We left the horses in the donkey park and proceeded on foot, along paths long familiar to us. I should explain that the Valley of the Kings is not a single long canyon. From above it resembles a lobed leaf, like that of an oak or maple, with side wadis branching off to left and right. The tomb of Hatshepsut was at the far end of one of these branches. We had worked in that area before and knew it well.
The tourists had come early to the Valley in order to avoid the heat of midday. We were not so early as Emerson would have liked, but in part it was his own fault; he had wasted some time playing with the Great Cat of Re, who had come to breakfast with Ramses and Nefret. It had grown quite fat, through overfeeding (by Sennia—she claimed to have been training it, to do what I could not imagine). She had also combed and brushed it every day, so that its fur had become long and silky. Emerson was highly entertained by its antics. As it leaped at the bit of chicken he dangled above it, it looked like a bouncing ball of fluff. (Horus’s look of contempt as he watched this degrading performance was equally entertaining.) However, when we left the house it declined to ride on his shoulder and climbed onto that of Ramses.
“Must we take it?” he asked. “You rather overdid the grooming, Sennia, its fur is all over my face.”
“His,” said Sennia. “Yes, you must take him. What if you were attacked by a snake? I am coming too.”
So that caused another delay. I did not want her to see—or hear—Emerson evicting the Albions. He was bound to lose his temper and employ bad language. We pacified her by promising to stop back at the house and take her to Deir el Medina, and distracted her by asking her to help Fatima prepare a very elaborate picnic basket.
Draped over Ramses’s shoulder, with his tail hanging down behind, the Great Cat of Re resembled a luxuriant fur piece. Several ladies wanted to stroke him; several gentlemen stared and laughed. Among the latter was Mr. Lubancic, whom I had met at Cyrus’s soiree. “Still here, are you?” I called, as we passed.
“Yes, ma’am. What