The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [128]
They were gone for quite some time. Amenit was the first to return. She went about her duties, imperturbably as ever (it is very easy to look imperturbable when one is completely swaddled in veils). My anticipation had risen to fever pitch before Reggie entered, yawning and stretching and declaring that he had had a most refreshing nap.
“I seem to have lost a button off my shirt, though,” he added, gazing at his chest with an expression of chagrin that would not have fooled an infant. “Could I impose on you, Mrs. Amelia?”
I followed him into my sleeping chamber. “You silly young man,” I hissed. “I gave my sewing kit to the queen; every woman in the city must know of it by now.”
“Well, how could I have known?” Reggie asked, looking injured. “I wanted an excuse to speak with you alone.”
“You have no talent for intrigue, Reggie. You had better… Well, what is it, Ramses?” For he had entered, followed by his father.
“Here is your needle and thread, Mama,” said Ramses. “I borrowed it. I hope you do not mind.”
It was not my needle and thread. The dirty gray color of the latter (not its original shade) betrayed its real ownership. I was afraid to ask why Ramses had needle and thread. Too many hideous possibilities came to mind.
“Thank you,” I said, advancing upon Reggie. Seizing cloth and button firmly, I plunged the threaded needle into the hole.
“Ouch,” cried Reggie.
“Talk quickly,” I ordered. “I can’t prolong this indefinitely. We look ridiculous.” For Emerson and Ramses were pretending to watch intently, as if the sewing on of a button were a rare and remarkable event.
“Everything is prepared,” Reggie hissed. “Tomorrow night Amenit will lead us to the waiting caravan.”
“What about Mrs. Forth?” I asked. Reggie sucked in his breath. “I am sorry,” I said. “I am no needlewoman.”
“You are determined on this?” Reggie inquired.
“Yes, certainly, of course,” came our united replies.
“Very well. Amenit will try. She laughed when I told her of your theory, but if you cannot be convinced otherwise… Be ready tonight.”
“When?” we chorused.
“At whatever time she can manage it,” was the grim reply. “It will be very dangerous. Don’t sleep; await her summons.”
“That should do the trick,” I said aloud, as one of the attendants appeared in the doorway, bright-eyed with curiosity.
“Thank you,” said Reggie, staring at his shirtfront.
“I think you have sewn the button to his undervest, Mama,” said Ramses.
How long I lay waiting in the dark I cannot say; it seemed an eternity. I did not have to fight sleep, for I had never been more wakeful. After a rather acrimonious discussion with Reggie I had reluctantly agreed to leave my belt and its accoutrements behind. Not so unexpectedly, Emerson supported him. “You jingle, Peabody. You always say you won’t and you always do, so don’t say you won’t. Besides, if we are surprised along the way we might be able to pass for natives if we wear native attire.”
I was deep in thought—not slumber—when a hand brushed mine. Silently I rose from the bed and stood beside the white-veiled figure.
After the other three had joined us, Amenit glided away, not toward the garden or the outer door, as I had expected, but toward the rock-cut chambers at the back of the palace. Farther back and farther we went, through narrow doorways and rooms dusty with disuse. The darkness pressed in on us like something actively malevolent that had fed on centuries of lightlessness. The tiny flame of Amenit’s lamp flickered like a will-o’-the-wisp. Her white robes might have enclosed empty air.
At last she stopped in a small windowless chamber.