The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [164]
The chair gave off a series of alarming squeaks. Cyrus leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Cyrus,” I said very gently. “You knew this. You lied to me, Cyrus. I asked you where Emerson had gone, and you said—”
“It was for your own good,” Cyrus protested. “Doggone it, Amelia, you scare the dickens out of me sometimes, the way you figure things out. You sure you don’t practice witchcraft on the sly?”
“I wish I did. I would like to be able to put curses on certain people. Speak up, Cyrus. Tell me all.”
I had been absolutely correct, of course. A party of tourists had arrived that morning, on horseback. They had requested the hospitality of the ‘Omdeh but had changed their minds and departed, somewhat abruptly, shortly after we returned.
“They—or someone who reported to them—must have overheard Abdullah announce the dog was not rabid,” I mused.
“The whole darned countryside heard Abdullah,” Cyrus grunted.
“It was not his fault. It was no one’s fault. So that is why Emerson was wandering around the northern cliffs this afternoon! He believes the ‘tourists’ are still in the neighborhood. It may well be so; our enemy is not likely to give up now. And Emerson means to deal with the fellow himself, of course. I cannot permit that. Where is Abdullah? I must—”
I started to swing my feet off the bed. Cyrus sprang to my side; gently but firmly he forced me to lie back. “Amelia, if you don’t stop this I will hold your nose and pour a dose of laudanum down your throat. You will only aggravate your injury if you don’t give it a chance to heal.”
“You are right, of course, Cyrus,” I said. “It is so cursed inconvenient! I cannot even pace to relieve my pent-up feelings.”
How quickly he had overcome his embarrassment at being alone with me in my room! He was now actually sitting on the bed, and his hands still rested on my shoulders. He looked deeply into my eyes.
“Amelia—”
“Would you be good enough to get me a glass of water, Cyrus?”
“In a minute. You have to hear me out, Amelia. I can’t stand this any longer.”
Out of respect for feelings that were—I am convinced—genuine and profound, I will not record the words in which he poured them out. They were simple and manly, like Cyrus himself. When he paused I could only shake my head and say, “I am sorry, Cyrus.”
“Then—there is no hope?”
“You forget yourself, my friend.”
“I’m not the one that’s forgotten,” said Cyrus harshly. “He doesn’t deserve you, Amelia. Give it up!”
“Never,” I said. “Never, if it takes a lifetime.”
It was a dramatic moment. I believe my voice and my look carried conviction. I certainly meant them to.
Cyrus took his hands from my shoulders and turned away. I said gently, “You mistake friendship for deeper feelings, Cyrus. One day you will find a woman worthy of your affection.” Still he sat in silence, his shoulders bowed. I always think a little touch of humor relieves difficult situations; I added cheerfully, “And just think—it is most unlikely she will have a son like Ramses!”
Cyrus squared his broad shoulders. “No one else could have a son like Ramses. If you mean that as consolation, however… Well, I will say no more. Shall I fetch Abdullah to you now? I guess if I don’t you’ll hoist yourself out of bed and go stumping off after him.”
He had taken it like a man. I had expected no less of him.
Abdullah looked even more out of place in my room than Cyrus had. He studied the frills and furbelows with a scowl of deep suspicion, and refused the chair I offered. It did not take me long to force him to confess that he too had deceived me.
“But, Sitt, you did not ask me,” was his feeble excuse.
“You ought not have waited till you were asked. Why did you not come to me at once? Oh, never mind,” I said impatiently, as Abdullah rolled his