Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [123]
“I didn’t have to do what he told me,” said Charla, throwing her arms round her brother.
“That is true,” I said. “And I hope David John appreciates your coming to his defense. You are both culpable. However, in view of the season, we will let you off with a warning this time, so long as the offense is not repeated.”
“Thank you, Grandmama,” David John said. “I assure you it will not. May we give the mouse a proper burial?”
“Not in my flower beds,” I said, handing over the deceased.
They went off, cheerfully discussing the funeral arrangements, and Ramses, who had listened in astonished silence, said, “Mother, you never cease to amaze me. How did you know?”
“Psychology, my dear.”
The hand-crafted ornaments David had made many years before were ceremonially put in place, the children taking turns to hang the little tin and ceramic animals. Paper chains filled in the empty spaces. Charla proved to be expert at making them, and I praised her accordingly. She spent much of her time with David, presumably working on her little books. Many of the surfaces in the house were sticky with paste, and Fatima had to buy more flour.
Sethos took an active part in the proceedings, hobnobbing with Fatima and assisting her by tasting various products, helping make paper chains, and even bursting into song from time to time. He had a pleasant baritone voice, and, unlike his brother, he could carry a tune.
Naturally I wondered what he was up to. Apparently he had decided not to make a Judas goat of himself. As he informed me when I asked him point-blank, he had concluded there was no need. The return of the document seemed to have satisfied our unknown adversaries; there had been no activity on their part. Margaret had returned unscathed from wherever she had been, and had taken up her routine in the Valley.
“Shall we ask her here for Christmas?” I inquired of Sethos, who was helping me write out invitations.
“I see no reason why you should. She hasn’t even apologized for banging you on the head.”
“It is too sad to spend Christmas alone. I have forgiven her, as Scripture requires.”
“The more fool you, then,” said Sethos, dropping a blot of ink on the paper he was inscribing.
“Kevin O’Connell, too,” I said, consulting my list. “I suppose there is no use asking Howard or any of the Metropolitan Museum people.”
Sethos crumpled the spoiled paper and tossed it into the wastepaper receptacle. “According to Daoud, they are having their own celebration at Metropolitan House. We won’t be asked.”
“Nevertheless, I shall invite them,” I said, writing busily. “In a spirit of Christian love. If they choose not to reciprocate, that is their decision.”
Sethos blotted another sheet of paper and threw it away.
The only member of the “other camp” who had demonstrated Christian love (or simple good manners) was Harry Burton. He had come to tea one day, as promised, and described without reserve what the excavators had been doing. This occurred just in time to prevent a fit of bad temper from Emerson, whose enjoyment of the Christmas preparations did not entirely succeed in keeping his mind off Howard’s proceedings. We knew, from Daoud, that Professor Breasted had been allowed inside the tomb, together with Mr. Winlock and a few others; that Mr. Burton had begun photographing; and that Lucas had arrived from Cairo. Mr. Burton was able and willing to provide more detailed information.
“We’ve cleared out KV55 to use as a darkroom,” he explained to his absorbed audience. “Most convenient, being just across the way.”
“Quite,” said Emerson. “I trust that, in addition to photographs, Carter will make detailed sketches before removing any objects?”
“He has begun doing so. He’s a good draftsman, you know, and he has Hall and Hauser to help.” Burton sipped his tea. “He hopes to remove the first of the artifacts shortly after Christmas. It will be taken to the tomb of Seti II, which is to serve as a conservation and storage place.”
“Not too convenient, that,” said Emerson, who was looking for something to criticize.