The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [147]
Her eyes opened. A smile of triumph curved her white lips.
“I suspected him…from the first!” she whispered.
She would consider that a fitting epitaph,” Emerson said hoarsely.
Ramses sat with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He couldn’t stop shaking.
They were waiting on the bench outside Nefret’s clinic, all in a row like worshipers in a church pew—Ramses and his father, David, Sethos, and Selim. There wasn’t room on the bench for Daoud; he stood next to them, monolithically calm. Overhead the feathery fronds of a tamarisk rustled lightly. Sunlight filtered through the leaves like a rain of gold.
A hand clasped his shoulder. “She’ll be all right,” Emerson repeated, for the fourth or fifth time. “Nefret said so.”
“I thought she was dying,” Ramses said, through his fingers. “There was so much blood.”
“Some of it was yours,” said his wife, standing in the open door of the clinic. “Come in and let me have a look at you.”
“It’s nothing.” He didn’t want to move.
“Go on, my boy.” Emerson’s hand tightened. “She’s all right now. Isn’t she, Nefret?”
“Inshallah,” Daoud intoned.
“Inshallah,” Nefret echoed. She looked like a weary angel, Ramses thought, with sunlight stroking her hair and her blue eyes warm. “She’ll be waking soon. I think she will want to see you and Father.”
I had never beheld Abdullah in such a rage. He shook his fist at me. “What did I tell you? Why did you not heed me?”
There was no pain here. I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. “Did I die?” I asked.
“No,” Abdullah said grudgingly. “Not this time. You have as many lives as a cat, Sitt, but you have used most of them.”
“What was I supposed to do?” I demanded. “Stand by and let him kill my son?”
Abdullah’s scowl softened. “You love him best, next to Emerson.”
“Love cannot be measured, Abdullah. ‘The more I give, the more I have to give.’” I couldn’t remember the rest of it, so I paraphrased. “For love is infinite as the sea.”
“Poetry?” Abdullah asked suspiciously.
I laughed and threw my arms wide, embracing the day. All in all, I was glad to hear that my life was not over. I had a good many things left to do.
“Stop scolding and tell me you are happy to see me,” I coaxed.
“Hmph,” said Abdullah. He stroked his black beard and covered his smile with his hand.
“I have remembered the clue you gave me.”
“Is it so?”
“Will I still remember it when I wake up?”
“Only the god knows,” said Abdullah, no longer hiding his smile.
Waking was not a pleasant process. Hot air smelling of antiseptic replaced the morning breeze and I had a feeling that deep down under the cottony comfort of morphine, something was hurting. There was a lump on my feet, heavy and warm. And there was Emerson’s face, hovering over me and his strong hand holding mine. Anxiety had carved deep lines in his face, which was set in a scowl.
“Don’t yell at her,” said Nefret’s voice, distant yet distinct.
“I don’t mind if he does,” I murmured. “Ramses. Is he—”
“I’m all right, Mother. Thanks to you.”
“Excellent. What is that weight on my feet?”
“The cat,” Emerson said. “I’ll take him—ouch!”
“That’s all right, Emerson, leave him,” I whispered. “We have a great deal to talk about.”
“Not now,” Nefret said.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I have remembered.”
It was late the following afternoon before I awoke from a refreshing sleep, feeling almost myself again. I was in my own bed and the Great Cat of Re was curled up at my feet. Sunset light gilded the air and there was the scent of flowers. Emerson sat beside me. When I stirred he pounced, his big gentle hands on my shoulders.
“Don’t move, Peabody. Fatima, run and tell Nefret she’s conscious.”
Cautiously I turned my head. On the table beside the bed was an enormous bunch of flowers, jammed helter-skelter into a vase—roses, zinnias, marigolds, hollyhocks,