The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [0]
THE
SERPENT
ON THE
CROWN
TO SALIMA IKRAM
I HAVE ROBBED THEIR NOSTRILS OF THE BREATH OF LIFE
AND MADE THE DREAD OF YOU FILL THEIR HEARTS.
MY SERPENT ON YOUR BROW CONSUMED THEM.
—The Poetical Stela of Thutmose III
Contents
Epigraph
ONE
He woke from a feverish sleep to see something bending…
TWO
Emerson’s abrupt volte-face took me by surprise, but only…
THREE
It was an empty robe,” I said. “There was nothing inside. I…
FOUR
He looked very much like his brother—a scant inch…
FIVE
They found Amira lying beside the path. No one’s heart…
SIX
I felt it my duty to be the one to inform the Pethericks of the…
SEVEN
Wake up, dammit! Say something!”
EIGHT
I’ve got to find them,” Ramses said.
NINE
The desk clerk at the Mena House remembered the lady…
TEN
I wondered briefly if Mr. Anderson was a relation of Kevin…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Elizabeth Peters
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
He woke from a feverish sleep to see something bending over him. It was a shape of black ice, a tall featureless outline that exuded freezing cold. He tried to move, to cry out. Every muscle was frozen. Cold air touched his face, sucking out breath, warmth, life.
We had gathered for tea on the veranda. It is a commodious apartment, stretching clear across the front of the house, and the screens covering the wide window apertures and outer door do not interfere with the splendid view. Looking out at the brilliant sunlight and golden sand, with the water of the Nile tinted by the sunset, it was hard to believe that elsewhere in the world snow covered the ground and icy winds blew. My state of mind was as benevolent as the gentle breeze. The delightful but exhausting Christmas festivities were over and a new year had begun—1922, which, I did not doubt, would bring additional success to our excavations and additional laurels to the brow of my distinguished spouse, the greatest Egyptologist of this or any age.
Affectionately I contemplated his impressive form—the sapphire-blue eyes and ebon hair, the admirable musculature of chest and arms, half bared by his casual costume. Our son, Ramses, who had acquired that nickname because he had the coloring of an Egyptian and, in his youth, the dogmatism of a pharaoh, sat comfortably sprawled on the settee, next to his beautiful wife, our adopted daughter, Nefret. Faint cries of protest and distress drifted to our ears from the house the dear little children and their parents occupied; but even Nefret, the most devoted of mothers, paid them no heed. We were well accustomed to the complaints; such sounds always accompanied the efforts of Fatima and her assistants (it took several of them) to wash and change the children. It would be some time before the little dears joined us, and when a carriage drew up in front of the house I could not repress a mild murmur of protest at the disturbance of our peace.
Emerson protested more emphatically. “Damnation! Who the devil is that?”
“Now, Emerson, don’t swear,” I said, watching a woman descend from the carriage.
Asking Emerson not to use bad language is tantamount to King Canute’s ordering the tide not to surge in. His Egyptian sobriquet of “Father of Curses” is well deserved.
“Do you know her?” Emerson demanded.
“No.”
“Then tell her to go away.”
“She appears to be in some distress,” Nefret said. Her physician’s gaze had noted the uncertain movements and hesitant steps. “Ramses, perhaps you had better see if she requires assistance.”
“Assist her back into her carriage,” Emerson said loudly.
Ramses looked from his wife to his father to me, his heavy black eyebrows tilting in inquiry. “Use your own judgment,” I said, knowing what the result would be. Ramses was too well brought up (by me) to be rude to a woman, and this one appeared determined to proceed. As soon as he reached her she caught hold of his arm with both hands, swayed, and leaned against him. In a breathy, accented voice she said, “You are Dr. Emerson, I believe? I must see you and