Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [18]
Nefret nodded. She had, at my urging, assumed a comfortable dressing gown and slippers. I myself lifted her feet onto a hassock and put a pillow behind her. She smiled faintly and pushed a loosened lock of golden hair away from her face.
“Yes, we talked about it. He’s torn, Mother. And so am I. We love Luxor and our house, and the family. But I begin to wonder whether we might be better off—”
“Safer, you mean. It is true that we seem to attract unprincipled persons.” I sipped my whiskey. Warm milk is all very well for some, but there is nothing like a whiskey and soda for calming the nerves.
The minutes pass slowly when one is concerned for loved ones. I made an effort. We discussed various candidates for the staff, and agreed that two in particular stood out—Miss Malraux, and a young Egyptian, Nadji Farid. Nefret made an effort too, but as the slow seconds ticked by she fell silent, her golden head bowed. Fatima dozed in her chair. I was not at all drowsy. Having finished my whiskey, I rose and tiptoed out of the room. The veranda was dark, the door barred on the inside. I stood there for a time, looking out across the stretch of moon-silvered sand. Nothing moved along the road to the river. Then I became aware of an indistinct form just outside, half concealed by the twining roses. The sharp turn of my head brought an immediate response.
“It is I, Sitt Hakim.”
“Selim?” I whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“Standing guard, Sitt. Why did you not send for me?”
“Fatima did, I suppose? Yes. I am sorry you were disturbed, it was unnecessary.”
He replied with one of his father’s favorite adages. “There is no harm in protecting oneself from that which does not exist, Sitt. It would bring shame upon us if we failed to keep you safe.”
“You have never failed us. You may as well be comfortable, Selim. Come in and keep me company.” I unbarred the door. He slipped soundlessly in. In the dim starlight I saw the gleam of the knife at his belt.
We sat in companionable silence, waiting, until a faint sound turned our eyes toward the door of the house. At the sight of the white form in the doorway, Selim let out a stifled cry.
“It’s only Nefret,” I said. “Dear girl, I had hoped you were asleep.”
“Selim?” She peered at him through the darkness. “I might have expected you would be here. It’s all right, they will be home soon.”
I didn’t ask how she knew. Dearly though I loved her, I found Nefret a bit uncanny at times. Since they were children she had always known when Ramses was in imminent danger—“a fear, a feeling, a nightmare,” as she had once put it. So strong was that bond that it had never misled her, and I had seen it demonstrated often enough to believe in it, as I believed in my dreams of Abdullah.
She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, and eyes turned to the screened window beside her. My eyes were not as keen as they once had been; I was the last to see the two tall forms coming with long strides along the road.
“They are unharmed,” Selim said, with a sigh of relief.
“Ah, there you are,” said Emerson, looking in. “Selim too? Excellent. Let us have some light, eh, and perhaps a refreshing drop of whiskey. We deserve it, I believe.”
“You weren’t worried, were you?” Ramses asked, putting his arm round his wife.
“Oh, not at all,” she replied, and slipped away from him in order to help Fatima light the lamps. Ramses looked at her uncertainly, and then went into the house, returning with the drinks tray.
“Everything all right here?” Emerson asked, settling himself in a comfortable chair and stretching his legs.
“There is not a stranger within half a mile,” Selim replied, stroking his beard. “We made certain of that. You had no trouble?”
“Oh, not at all,” I said, echoing Nefret. “Emerson, what have you done to your new boots? And the bottoms of your trousers are scorched. And—”
“I’ll tell you all about it if you will stop fussing, Peabody.” He took the glass Ramses handed him, nodded his thanks, and