Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [116]
“What can she do?” Emerson demanded. “There was nothing left of the fellow except pieces of…er…”
“He was blown to bits,” Sennia said, tucking into her porridge with hearty appetite.
“Good Gad,” Emerson cried. “Who told you that? Was it you, Fatima? I trust you have not shared that delightful description with the twins.”
“Goodness, but you are in a combative mood this morning, Emerson,” I said. “Fatima would never do such a thing. I expect it was Kareem or one of the others.”
“Thank you, Sitt Hakim,” said Fatima, giving Emerson a reproachful look. With great dignity she swept from the room—taking the coffeepot with her.
“She always takes the coffeepot when she is annoyed with me,” Emerson muttered, looking sadly at his empty cup.
Fatima was persuaded to accept his apology and refill his cup. Emerson was then persuaded to accept my suggestion that we ought to return to the East Valley.
“Sennia deserves a look,” he admitted. “Anyhow, I had better make certain Carter installs that gate of his today. Fellow can’t be trusted.”
This was unfair to Howard, but I did not say so. I was becoming less inclined to be fair to him, considering his treatment of us.
David declined to accompany us, explaining that he had promised Cyrus he would make a few sketches in Ay’s tomb. “Mlle. Malraux is on leave for a few days, entertaining her grandfather, you see. It would not be…that is, I would rather not…”
“Suggest that her work was not good enough,” I finished, giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “It is like you, David, to be so sensitive to her feelings.”
“Bah,” said Emerson, pushing his chair back. “The girl is barely competent. I cannot imagine why you took her on, Peabody.”
“It was you who took her on, Emerson.”
“At your recommendation.”
He probably hadn’t even bothered to look at her portfolio. All the same, the responsibility was mine, so I felt obliged to defend myself. “It is difficult to find outstanding artists, Emerson. Howard and the Davies, and David, are becoming supplanted by photographers. Before long there will be color photography, and then—”
“But we haven’t it yet,” said Emerson. “And it will never replace the trained eyes of a human observer like David. Speaking of that, my boy, if you could stay on for a few—”
Knowing what he was about to ask, and determined to prevent him from asking it, I inquired of my brother-in-law, “What about you?”
Sethos leaned back in his chair with a sigh of repletion. “I am going to help Fatima mix the Christmas cake.”
We weren’t the only ones who found it impossible to stay away from Tutankhamon’s tomb. After weeks of being inaccessible, it was now reopened, and soon the removal of the antiquities would begin. Hopeful spectators, cameras at the ready, lined the wall. They expected to see golden treasures being carried out and down the path to the tomb of Seti II, which had been selected to serve as a storage room and conservation laboratory. They were doomed to disappointment, at least for a few days. If Howard followed the proper methodology, the objects would have to be photographed in situ and a detailed sketch of their locations made. The jumble of objects in the first room resembled a game of spillikin; they would have to be cautiously disentangled, piece by piece, and some were in fragile condition. The slightest touch could damage them.
My heart went out to my dear Emerson, who stood watching the activity round the tomb with a look of purest agony.
“He’ll need to devise a system of recording,” he said, as if to himself. “Every scrap, every object, numbered, sketched, photographed, and listed. He’ll muck it up, Peabody, I know he will.”
“Not with you looking over his shoulder,” I said, taking his arm and squeezing it.
“If he had an ounce of sense he would consult Father,” Nefret said indignantly.
“He has had the sense to acquire the best of assistants,” Ramses said, adding, with a wry smile, “ourselves excepted. Hall and Hauser are excellent draftsmen, and they say Mr. Lucas has offered his services.”
“I wonder if Mr.