Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [115]
“I have taken steps to guard the children.”
“That is not what I mean. No one threatens the children. No man in Egypt would dare touch them for fear of the wrath of the Father of Curses.”
“That is what Selim said.”
“Selim is right—for once,” said Selim’s father. “Make them happy and guard the tomb.”
He got to his feet in a single flowing motion. Seeing that he was about to walk away in his usual abrupt fashion, I scrambled up.
“Wait! The tomb of Tutankhamon is not ours to guard, Abdullah. It is Lord Carnarvon’s.”
Abdullah turned in a whirl of white skirts. His face was set in a scowl and he spoke with unusual vehemence. “It is not his. It is not yours. It belongs to Egypt and to the world. Sitt, you are not usually so slow to understand. Guard the tomb, not only from petty thieves like the ibn Simsahs but from the greedy men who would seize its treasures for themselves.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“HE WAS REFERRING TO CARTER AND CARNARVON,” I EXPLAINED.
I had described my dream of Abdullah to the assembled family at breakfast. I had kept the dreams secret at first, but by now everyone, including every villager on the West Bank, knew about them, and expressions of doubt or derision no longer bothered me. Not that I received many of either. The Gurnawis believed firmly in Abdullah’s status as a saint. Ramses and Nefret were neutral—open-minded, I should say. Emerson had learned to confine his doubts to raised eyebrows and inarticulate grumbles. For the most part.
“Not only them,” Ramses said, accepting a bowl of porridge from Fatima. “The Metropolitan Museum will get its share, as such institutions have done in the past.”
Nefret chuckled. “Who would have supposed dear old Abdullah would have nationalist sympathies?”
“Strangely similar to those held by Peabody,” said Emerson.
“Make up your mind, my dear,” I said pleasantly. “Either my visions of Abdullah are true or they are the product of my unconscious mind.”
“I don’t believe in the unconscious mind,” Emerson grumbled.
“There you are, then,” I said.
“We have almost finished the middle of bacon,” said Fatima. “And I will use the rest of the raisins with my holiday baking. Will you order more, Sitt?”
“Make a list,” I said. “I will send it off to Cairo.”
Her effort to change the subject did not succeed. Smarting under my irrefutable riposte, Emerson inquired sarcastically, “Why not order direct from Fortnum and Mason? That is where Carnarvon gets his supplies. Tinned salmon and tongue and curried guinea fowl, good Gad.”
“The expense is unwarranted, Emerson,” I replied. “To return, if I may, to my conversation with Abdullah. His other recommendation was that we make this a joyous season for the children. We have only a week left in which to prepare, and there is a good deal to do. I must start David John on the portrait. Abdullah specifically requested that.”
“How can he paint a portrait of a man he never met?” Emerson demanded.
“We have photographs,” I said patiently. “And David will help him. Won’t you, David?”
“Of course. He’s becoming quite a talented little artist.”
We had almost finished when Sennia came running in. I observed that she was wearing one of her “working suits,” which resembled those of mine and Nefret’s, except that it had a divided skirt instead of trousers.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” she demanded, slipping into the chair Ramses held for her. “I am going with you today.”
“A growing girl needs her sleep,” I replied. “Aren’t you going to help Fatima decorate the house and bake the Christmas cake?”
“The children can do that,” said Miss Sennia loftily. “I want to see the tomb of Tutankhamon.”
“We aren’t going there,” said Emerson—but he said it less emphatically than usual. We had taken Sennia into our home when she was barely two years of age, and she had found a permanent place in Emerson’s heart.
“Perhaps we ought, Father,” Nefret said. She finished a piece of toast and reached for another. “I expected to hear from Mr. Aziz this morning, but there has been no message.”
“He is a man of great delicacy,” I said. “No doubt he is waiting