Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [127]
Emerson blew out his breath in a sigh of relief. He considered religious ceremonies of all kinds to be gross superstition, but he had learned to keep his opinions to himself around the children.
“Well, now, that was fine,” said Cyrus, who had contributed largely to the fund. He replaced his hat. “I hope Abdullah was pleased.”
They had all become accustomed to speaking of him as if he were still among them. Ramses’s mother was responsible for that, of course. She had followed the proceedings with a smile, and from time to time she had nodded, her smile broadening, as if she were listening to words no one else could hear.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“He was a great man,” said Nadji seriously. “I have heard much about him.”
“Did you know that he saved Grandmama’s life by giving his own?” David John asked. “If you have not heard the story, I will tell you.”
Nadji smiled down at the little boy. “I would like to hear it.”
Emerson edged away. To say he was jealous of his wife’s attachment to Abdullah would have been absurd, but there was something…
The excitement reached its peak on the morning of Christmas Eve. One would have supposed that after days of preparation there was nothing left to be done, but Charla had thought of several other friends who required little books and Fatima was convinced she had not prepared enough food for the party. Shrieks and curses came from the kitchen, mingled with the sobs of Maaman, for Fatima in a frenzy tried the nerves of those around her. When Kareem spilled an entire pot of coffee across the breakfast table, Emerson leaped to his feet with a roar.
“I am going to—to the Valley,” he announced, mopping at the stains on his shirt and trousers with a napkin.
“An excellent idea,” said his wife, exchanging glances with Nefret.
“Yes, go away, all you men,” said Nefret. “None of you is up to this sort of thing.”
“Does that include me, madam?” asked Gargery, who had finally been persuaded to take meals with them—but only if guests were not present.
“Yes,” Nefret said.
“No,” said Emerson.
Eventually the women got all the men out of the house, except for Gargery. Emerson had pointed out that he would have to ride a donkey. Gargery did not care for donkeys.
“That was an excellent idea, Father,” Ramses said feelingly, as they rode out of the stable.
“Don’t know why women get in such a pother about holidays,” Emerson grumbled.
“Where are we going?” Sethos asked. He had resisted coming at first, but had been shoved out with the rest of them. “Cyrus won’t be working in the West Valley today.”
“Does it matter?” David adjusted his pith helmet and buckled the strap under his chin. There was a stiff breeze that morning, and the sun was veiled by light clouds.
Emerson mumbled something, and Ramses said, “I doubt Carter will be working either.”
“I don’t give a curse what he’s doing,” said Emerson.
So it was to be the East Valley. Emerson had probably had that in mind from the first. He had stayed away for several days, and curiosity was eating at him.
They rode single file in order not to impede the traffic, which included local villagers as well as tourists. The latter were not so considerate; their hired carriages yielded the way to no one except the camels, who yielded the way to nothing. The donkey riders spread out across the road, and some of them stopped to photograph anything that moved: camels, rude carts loaded with produce, a man perched on a donkey with his wife walking alongside, women balancing heavy water jars on their