The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [79]
“Far be it from me to be critical, Emerson, but it seems to me you haven’t made good use of your time. I would have insisted upon seeing and speaking with the Forths.”
Ramses said quietly, “Papa has sat by your side since we arrived here, Mama. He would not have left you even to sleep if I had not insisted.”
Tears filled my eyes. The truth is, I was weaker than I had thought, and that made me cross. “My dear Emerson,” I said. “Forgive me.”
“Certainly, my dear Peabody.” Emerson had to stop to clear his throat. He had taken the hand I had offered him; he held it like some fragile flower, as if the slightest pressure would bruise it.
Was I moved? Yes. Was I annoyed? Very. I was not accustomed to being handled like a delicate flower. I wanted Ramses to go away. I wanted the Handmaiden to go away. I wanted Emerson to seize me in his arms and squeeze the breath out of me, and… and tell me all the things I was dying to know.
Emerson read my mind. He can do that. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he said affectionately, “I have the better of you just now, my dear, and I mean to take full advantage. You are not yet fit for prolonged activity, or even conversation. Apply yourself with your usual determination to recovering your strength, and then I will be delighted to supply—er—supply answers to all your questions.”
He was right, of course. Even the brief interlude with Tarek (for so we agreed to call him, his full name being something of a mouthful) had tired me. I forced myself to eat the bowl of soup the Handmaiden gave me; it was hearty and nourishing, thick with lentils and onions and bits of meat. “Not chicken,” I said, after tasting it. “Duck, perhaps?”
“Or goose. We have been served roast fowl on several occasions. They also raise cattle of some kind. The meat tastes strange; I have not been able to identify it.”
I forced myself to finish the soup to the last drop. Soon afterward Ramses and Emerson took their leave.
“We sleep in the adjoining room,” Emerson explained, when I protested. “I am, and have always been, within reach of your voice, Peabody.”
Blue-veiled twilight crept into the room. I watched drowsily as the ghostly form of the Handmaiden glided to and fro on her duties of mercy. As the darkness deepened, she lit the lamps—small earthenware vessels filled with oil and provided with wicks of twisted cloth. Such lamps are still used in Egypt and Nubia; they are of immemorial antiquity. They gave a soft, limited light, and the oil was scented with herbs.
I was almost asleep when the woman approached my couch and seated herself on a low stool. She raised her hands to her face. Was she about to unveil? I forced myself to breathe slowly and evenly, feigning slumber, but my heart pounded with anticipation. What would I see? A face as frighteningly lovely as that of Mr. Haggard’s immortal She? The withered countenance of an aged crone? Or even—for my imagination had fully recovered, if my body had not—a fair face crowned with silvery-golden hair, that of Mrs. Willoughby Forth?
She did unveil, throwing the folds of linen back with a very human sigh of relief. The face thus disclosed was neither fair-skinned nor terrifyingly lovely, though it had a beauty of sorts. Like Prince Tarek’s, her features were finely cut, with high cheekbones and a strong, chiseled nose. A net of gold mesh confined the masses of her dark hair. I enjoyed the display of girlish vanity in her use of cosmetics on a face that was not meant to be seen—kohl that emphasized her dark eyes and long lashes, some reddish substance on lips and cheeks. She seemed so gentle and ordinary, in contrast to the enigmatic figure she had presented while veiled, that I debated as to whether I should speak to her, but before I could make up my mind I fell asleep.
For the next few days I did little except sleep and eat. The food was surprisingly well prepared—roasted goose and duck served with different sauces, mutton in a variety of forms, fresh vegetables such as beans, radishes, and onions, and several