The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [102]
However, the danger posed by his ordinary journalistic instincts was real enough. I knew I had not convinced Cyrus that Emerson’s mental condition had to be kept secret, though the reasons I had given him were perfectly sound. Why distress our loved ones unnecessarily? Why give them an excuse to rush en masse to Egypt and drive me to distraction? Yet I knew, as had my perceptive and understanding friend, that that was not my only reason.
I decided not to think about it. The important thing was to keep Kevin away from Emerson. I began calculating schedules. If he had taken the fastest possible means of transportation and pushed himself to the limit, he might even now have arrived in Cairo. Would he be clever enough to make inquiries there concerning our present whereabouts instead of following our original trail to Luxor? Several of our archaeological friends knew we had gone to Amarna; it had been necessary to appeal to them in order to obtain permission to excavate. M. Maspero’s kindly concern and powerful influence had been of enormous help in cutting through the red tape, and he was not the only one who knew. If Kevin came directly to Amarna he could be here in a few days.
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” I reminded myself. At least I was now forewarned. I would deal with Kevin when—I felt sure it was “when,” not “if”—he appeared.
The lovely night of Egypt had worked its magic; I was calmer now. The moon was waxing; soon it would reach the full and hang like a globe of living light over the cliffs, washing their pale limestone with silver. As I strolled the deck, the rustle of my skirts blending with the soft lap of water and the murmur of palm fronds stirring in the night breeze, I thought of the last full moon I had watched from the deck of another boat. Less than a month ago… With what high hopes and breathless anticipation had I viewed that silvery orb! Emerson had been with me, his strong hand holding mine, his arm circling my waist. Now I was alone, and he was farther distant from me than he had ever been, though only a few feet of actual space separated us.
The windows of the bedchambers opened onto the deck. His were lighted; the thin gauze of the curtains proved no impediment to vision. Glancing in as I walked past, I saw him sitting at a table strewn with books and papers. His back was to me, his head was bent over his work. He did not look up, though he must have heard the click of my heels. The temptation to stop and contemplate the sight so familiar and so beloved—the smooth stretch of muscle across those broad shoulders, the thick tumbled hair curling around his ears— was well-nigh irresistible, but I conquered it. Dignity forbade that I should risk being discovered peeping in at him, like a lovesick girl.
As I went on without pausing, there was movement in the shadows next to Emerson’s window; a low voice murmured a greeting in Arabic and I gestured a silent acknowledgment. I could not see which of the men it was; in the dark, their silhouettes were all alike, for they all wore the same turbans and flowing robes. They were a fine, upstanding lot, and seemed devoted to their employer. No doubt he paid them well. (I do not mean to be cynical; no reasonable individual can feel loyalty toward a man who underpays him.)
Other anonymous shadows greeted me as I proceeded. The fellow squatting near my window, his back against the wall, was smoking; the glowing end of his cigarette swooped like a giant firefly as he raised his hand to his brow and breast.
The windows of the rooms inhabited by the two young men were dark; from René’s I heard a rumble of bass snoring, positively astonishing from such a delicate, aesthetic-looking young fellow. Bertha’s window was also dark. No doubt she was weary; the walk to and