Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [142]
The passage of time and a sip or two of whiskey had restored my reasoning powers to their normal efficiency. “Does this event suggest, perhaps, that that time is near at hand?” I asked.
“I wondered about that,” Ramses admitted. “But if such is the case, there’s not a bloody thing we can do about it.”
I put a warning finger to my lips. “I hear the children coming. David, dear, you look very careworn, and you have not had a chance to meditate on the wonders of the painted box. If you would like to retire, I am sure Fatima will bring you a cup of tea and a biscuit.”
“I’ll wait until we hear from Sethos, if you don’t mind,” David said. “I can’t really concentrate on aesthetics at the moment. Don’t worry, Aunt Amelia, I am sure there is no reason to fear for her safety.”
If one more person tells me that I will swear, I thought. How could he know? How could any of us know?
The children and the dog burst in. We put the dog out, and Fatima served tea. She had prepared a number of delicacies, as she always did when she believed we were in need of comfort. As I had promised I would, I dispatched a note to Cyrus, informing him that as yet we had no news. After that there was nothing to do but wait.
The chatter of the dear children proved a temporary distraction. As I had expected, several days of excessive virtue had taken their toll on both; Charla knocked over the chessboard David John had set up in the hope of finding an opponent, and David John kicked her. They fell upon each other. The dog began to howl. I was attempting to separate the combatants when there was a tap on the door.
“Is it safe to come in?” Sethos inquired.
“Get hold of the dog,” I gasped, taking Charla in a firm grip.
“She’s already got hold of me,” said Sethos. “What seems to be the trouble?”
Charla stopped struggling as soon as I got my arms round her; to do her credit, she never kicked or bit any of the family except her brother. David John, sobbing with rage and/or remorse, had subsided into the arms of his father. The dog stopped howling and began to whine. She never bit anyone either; she had only seized Sethos by the arm, leaving a large slimy spot on his sleeve.
The children were sent off to bed and the dog admonished. “Any news?” I asked Sethos.
“No. Thank you, Fatima, I don’t believe I care for tea. May I…?”
“Yes, yes,” said Emerson. “Help yourself. And Peabody, if she would care for another.”
“I believe I will, now that you mention it.”
“You look worried,” said Sethos, handing me a brimming glass. “I didn’t know you were so fond of Margaret. She treated you rather shabbily, after all.”
“How can I blame her for behaving as I might have done under similar circumstances? Of course I am fond of the cursed woman.”
“I assure you, Amelia,” Sethos said earnestly, “that there is no cause for concern.”
“Bloody hell and damnation!” I shouted.
A united gasp shivered through the air, and Fatima dropped a cup.
“Peabody!” Emerson said in shocked surprise.
“I beg your pardon.” I took a restorative sip of whiskey and drew a deep, calming breath. “Fatima, stop wringing your hands, it was my fault. But I weary of meaningless reassurance. How the devil—excuse me—do you know there is no cause for concern? Why aren’t you worried?”
“What makes you suppose I am not?” Sethos asked. He sank heavily into a chair, and now that I got a good look at him I saw that his appearance did suggest a certain degree of distraction. Hair windblown, mustache drooping, garments wrinkled, he was the image of a concerned spouse.
“I was attempting to reassure you,” he said, his eyes lowered. “We have as yet no evidence that Margaret is in the hands of my enemies. Even if she is, they have no reason to offer her harm.”
“Your confidence in their goodwill is not borne out by their actions,” I exclaimed. “They have broken their word to leave us in peace.”
“Perhaps they suspect we have broken our word,” Sethos said.
“Have you?”
“No.”
Her face drawn with sympathy, Fatima thrust a plate