Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [173]
“Damnation,” said Emerson.
“Sir?”
“Er…never mind. Go on.”
“Unfortunately he had already left for the day,” David said.
“Ah,” I said. “We will thank him for you, David. Er—you don’t need his permission to sell it to the ILN, you know. His and Carnarvon’s legal rights are questionable.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do it unless he said it was all right,” David exclaimed. A smile of utter bliss transformed his face. “The important thing is that I could do it. That I have it. I wouldn’t lower myself by attempting to make money from such a marvelous task.”
“It’s a damn good thing David is leaving tomorrow,” said Emerson, after our guests had left and David had gone to his room to finish packing. “He’d be determined to call on Carter personally. Confound the boy’s confounded principles!”
“What matters to him is the work itself,” Sethos said. “He has that and will always have it.”
“Yes,” said Emerson. “Quite. Er—well done. What do you say to another whiskey and soda?”
We saw them off early next morning, amid tears and laughter and assurances that we would soon meet again. David carried the box containing his painting as if it were made of glass.
“Be good,” I said, giving him a final embrace.
“I’ve got off much easier than I deserved, Aunt Amelia.”
“You got precisely what you deserved, David. Our fondest love and a wish come true, and, perhaps, a little lesson to be pondered.”
“I will,” David said earnestly. “You may count on that.”
When we gathered for tea later that day, Emerson grumbled, “The house is too quiet. I miss that child.” I gave him a little poke and he said hastily, “But I have you, my darlings, to console me.”
“I presume that isn’t meant for me,” Sethos said. “Margaret and I will be taking our departure before long, but I expect you will endure that loss manfully.”
“He was talking to us,” Charla said emphatically. “Come and play archery, Grandpapa.”
“Or chess,” said David John.
Caught between Scylla and Charybdis, Emerson decided on archery. He and Charla went off together, and while David John was setting up the chessboard I said to Sethos, “Now that you have retired, what are your plans?”
“I am going to try my hand at writing thrillers. David John has promised to collaborate.”
David John, who had his eye on Sethos as an opponent, took the bait. “Would you like to see the ending I wrote for the book Grandmama would not let me finish reading?”
“Nothing would please me more,” Sethos declared with heartfelt sincerity. Anything was better than losing another game of chess to a five-year-old.
David John ran off to get his manuscript. “Not that I mean to sound inhospitable,” I said, “but have you settled on a date for your departure?”
“That depends on you, Amelia.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“No? You’ve been watching the road and snatching at every message that has been delivered. I think I know what you’re up to, and I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“Good Gad,” I said, in some confusion.
“Good Gad,” Sethos exclaimed, taking the manuscript David John handed him and scanning the first page.
I had indeed been waiting for a message. The delay was beginning to wear on me. What the devil could the man be waiting for?
The long-expected letter arrived that afternoon, by messenger. We were on the veranda when I read it, and I was unable to repress a cry of triumph.
“Aha! As I suspected!”
Emerson was somewhat wroth when I explained. However, the prospect of action was sufficient to distract him from what he was pleased to term my confounded reticence. We made plans to leave shortly after dinner, taking the path that led over the plateau to the Valley of the Kings. The moon was bright, and we all knew every step of the way. Since Margaret did not, she was persuaded to remain at home.
When we reached the top of the gebel above Deir el Bahri, I cautioned everyone to move quietly and refrain from speaking. We had not gone far before I heard the