The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [133]
Straightening, she squared her little shoulders and tried to smile. “Professor and Mrs. Emerson, I presume?” she said.
Her voice was soft and sweet, with a quaint little accent. There was another gurgle from Ramses, and a choking sound from Emerson, who is very sentimental under his brusque exterior.
I ran to her and threw my arms around her. I cannot remember what I said. It is safe to assume that I said something.
She clung to me for a moment, and I felt a few hot tears dampen my shoulder. They were quickly controlled, however. “I beg your pardon,” she said, drawing away. “I had quite given up hope. You cannot know what it means to me.… But we are in desperate danger, and we dare not waste time. You are—you will—you won’t leave me here?”
Emerson cleared his throat noisily and stepped forward, holding out his hand. She gave him hers; his big brown fingers closed over it. “I would as soon leave Ramses,” he declared.
“Ramses.” She glanced at him and smiled. “Forgive me for failing to greet you. I have heard a great deal about you from—from a friend of mine.”
“You must forgive us, my dear,” I said. “For staring so rudely and behaving as if we had lost our wits. The truth is, we had no idea you were here.”
“The truth is we had no idea you existed,” said Emerson. “Good Gad! I have not recovered my wits yet. You can only be Willoughby Forth’s daughter, but you seem so… How old are you, child?”
“I was thirteen years of age on April 15,” was the reply. “My father taught me to reckon time as the English do, and impressed upon me the importance of remembering that date—and many other details, so that I would not forget my heritage. But please forgive me if I do not answer your other questions—you must have many, and, oh! so do I. I must return at once; my loyal handmaidens—of whom, alas! there are only a few—will suffer a hideous fate if my absence is discovered. This meeting had to be arranged in haste, without the precautions I would have preferred. We learned only a short time ago that you had been shown an impostor. I was afraid—so afraid!—you would believe in her, and leave without me.”
“Wait, my dear,” I exclaimed. “Questions that serve only to satisfy our curiosity must wait, but there are others of burning importance. How are we to communicate with you? Whom can we trust? This place appears to be a hotbed of intrigue.”
“You are quite right, Mrs. Emerson.” Mentarit touched her shoulder and whispered in her ear, and she nodded. “Yes, we must hurry. Fear not, those questions and others will be answered, by the person who will take you back to your house.”
“Mentarit?”
“No, she must return with me. But your guide is someone you know—the friend of whom I spoke. My dearest friend.” She turned; and from the passageway behind her came a man. He wore the short coarse kilt of a commoner; a hood or mask of the same loosely woven fabric covered his head and the upper part of his face. Feet, breast, and arms were bare, with no distinguishing marks of rank or rich ornaments. I knew him, though, even before he pushed the hood back from his brow.
“Prince Tarek,” I said. “So you are the Friend of the Rekkit. I thought so.”
“Your eyes are keen as an eagle’s, Lady,” said Tarek with a smile. “I came to you in darkness because I knew that you would recognize your servant even when he was masked and in the dress of a commoner. Now we must hasten. And you, little sister—”
She threw her arms around him. It was the innocent embrace of a child; her shining head barely reached his shoulder. “Take care, dear brother. I will be ready when you summon me.”
And with a last radiant smile at us she wrapped the veils around her and vanished into the opening from which Tarek had come. Mentarit and the other girl followed. Tarek stood looking after her until the glow of the lamp died into darkness.
“Come,” he said in sonorous tones. “You shall know all; but there is no time to lose. You must be back in your accustomed place before dawn