The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [72]
As Emerson had predicted, they found several scraps of the gold-encrusted shrine in the rubble of the corridor. Most of the gold foil had fallen off; there was not enough to reconstitute even part of the scene that had covered the side. It was depressing, but not surprising; Ramses had seen the flakes falling like golden sleet, shaken loose by the entrance of air into the sealed space, and by Davis and his crew and his innumerable visitors crawling along the plank that provided a precarious pathway over the shrine and into the burial chamber. If his father had been in charge, the shrine section would have been copied, photographed, stabilized, and carefully removed before anyone went farther into the tomb, but Davis hadn’t been able to wait to see what was down there.
Even Emerson admitted there was no point in marking the location of each scrap of foil. They were so light and so small they had fluttered randomly down. As they collected the bits, squatting uncomfortably, Ramses caught David’s eye and returned his smile. In 1907 David had made a copy of the scene, which showed the queen facing the empty space that had originally depicted her son, his image destroyed by the traditionalists who despised his religious beliefs. It couldn’t be published, though, since that would admit they had been in the tomb without Davis’s knowledge or permission.
He found the whole business more depressing than he had expected—so much lost that could have been saved!—and he wasn’t sorry when midday approached and he got ready to return to the house. He was about to head for the donkey park when his father sidled up to him. Seeing Emerson sidle was a sight in itself; he wasn’t very good at being unobtrusive.
“A word with you, Ramses,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
It was more than one word. “Does Mother know about this?” Ramses asked.
“It’s to be a surprise,” said Emerson. “Can I count on you, my boy?”
“Sir, I don’t think—”
“I’ll ask David, if you would really rather not.”
He looked so disappointed Ramses hadn’t the heart to hold out—or the cruelty of forcing David into a role he would detest.
“All right, Father. Whatever you say.”
“And not a word to your mother!”
I knew what Emerson was up to, of course. I always do. There was no way of stopping him, so I ordered work to be halted earlier than usual in order to give myself time to prepare for guests, and for the worst.
It was as well I had done so, since the first of the guests arrived only a few minutes after I had finished bathing and dressing. I had asked Mr. Katchenovsky to stay for dinner, and in deference to him (and Emerson) I assumed a simple frock of blue voile (with a handkerchief hem, elbow sleeves, and a draped bodice) instead of formal evening dress. I was just in time to greet the Vandergelts, whom Emerson had not mentioned, but whom I was not surprised to see. Katherine, attired in green satin that darkened her eyes to emerald, embraced me affectionately and thanked me for inviting them.
Despite my duties as hostess, I observed that Jumana, wearing pale yellow that set off her hair and complexion, had immediately abandoned Bertie and settled herself on a hassock next to Sethos. He did make rather a dashing figure. Like his brother he had always looked younger than he really was, and the black hair and mustache took several more years off his actual age. His smile dazzled. So did Jumana’s, and her long lashes fluttered like fans. That would be a nice complication! I thought. If Jumana should take a fancy to Sethos, and Bertie to Sethos’s daughter, she might end up as his mother-in-law.
That idea was a wild stretch of imagination even for me! Nevertheless, I took Jumana away to join the group that included young Mr. Barton.
We were twenty for dinner, including Daoud and Selim. Mr. Winlock was in Cairo, but the remainder of the Metropolitan Museum crew had accepted Emerson