Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [47]
Sethos’s eyes fell. “What do you suggest?” he asked meekly.
Emerson studied him with suspicion. Meekness was not one of Sethos’s normal traits. “You will need a new persona,” he said. “The role that comes to mind is one you’ve played before. It is known that we are taking on additional staff.”
“Brilliant,” Sethos exclaimed. “Who shall I be, then? Petrie? Alan Gardiner?”
“Control yourself,” I said firmly. “You cannot take on the identity of a well-known person. You had better be a philologist. You can spend your time with Ramses, ostensibly working on the papyri from Deir el Medina, and avoiding situations that could betray your ignorance of archaeological technique.”
“I’m not all that ignorant,” Sethos said indignantly.
“We can work out the details later,” said Emerson. “The most important thing is that the elderly beggar must go.”
Little did we know, but he already had—into a more distant realm.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Cyrus was delighted with the additions to his staff. Some of the others were less enthusiastic. When they met at dinner that night, Jumana was unnaturally silent. Ramses couldn’t decide which of the newcomers she resented; she was cool, verging on brusque, with both of them. Bertie flirted clumsily with Suzanne and Katherine smiled benignly upon them. She would have been delighted to see Bertie turn his attentions from Jumana to a “respectable” European girl. Bertie did have a gift for falling in love with women of whom his mother disapproved. For a while he had taken a fancy to Sethos’s illegitimate daughter, whose criminal past did not recommend her as a daughter-in-law. Presumably Maryam’s engagement, to a dull but respectable merchant, had put an end to that. They had all been surprised at the announcement: Bennett was middle-aged, plain, and dull; Maryam’s background was not precisely respectable. However, as Ramses’s mother was fond of saying, love is unpredictable. To dull Mr. Bennett Maryam must represent youth, charm, romance, and after her exotic life Maryam might look forward to a bit of boredom.
“Now we can make progress,” Cyrus declared, motioning his butler to refill the wineglasses. “As soon as we finish clearing the burial chamber of Ay’s tomb, Mam’selle can start copying the paintings and Bertie can draw up a final plan. First thing tomorrow morning, eh? Is that all right with you, Emerson?”
“What?” said Emerson, staring.
His wife frowned at him. “Emerson feels, as do I, that we ought to allow our new friends a day of sightseeing before they begin work. It has been some time since they were in Luxor, I believe.”
“I’ve never been,” said Suzanne. “And I would love to see the places I’ve read about. Deir el Bahri, the Valley of the Kings, Deir el Medina, and all the rest. If you don’t mind, Mr. Vandergelt?”
“Fine, fine,” said Cyrus. The Sitt Hakim’s word was law to him.
“Good,” said that lady. “Why don’t you all join us for breakfast and we will decide upon an itinerary.”
The Emersons did not keep a carriage. It was pure perversity on Emerson’s part; he clung to the hope that his wife would accept the motorcar as a substitute—which Ramses doubted she ever would. When she nagged her husband, Emerson pointed out that Cyrus’s carriage was always at their disposal, as was the case that night. On the return trip no one spoke for a time. Only the distant howl of a jackal broke the stillness. Ramses put his arm round his wife; the crisp night breeze blew a strand of her hair across his face and starlight turned the landscape into patterns of iron-gray and silver. He thought of Cairo—the stench of rubbish, the fetid air, the crowded noisy streets. Shut away in their walled compounds, the foreign residents avoided these discomforts. He wouldn’t, though, and neither would Nefret. The hospital she had founded was in one of the foulest parts of the city, near the infamous Red Blind District. She had walked those vile streets many times, unafraid and unmolested; but he had always hated the thought of