He Shall Thunder in the Sky (64 page)

     “Quite,” said Emerson emphatically.

     “Thank you,” said Ramses, wide-eyed and red-faced.

     Nefret rose in a single graceful movement. She came to me and put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. Turning to Emerson, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him too, as she had done when she was a girl. “Good night, Mother,” she said softly. “Good night, Father.”

     My dear Emerson was so overcome I had to lead him from the room. The door closed behind us, and I heard the key turn in the lock.

     Emerson must have heard it too, but he was in such a state of emotion we had almost reached our room before he reacted.

     “Here!” he exclaimed, coming to a dead stop. “What did she . . . What are they . . .”

     “You heard her. I would think you would be pleased.”

     “Pleased? I have waited half my life to hear her call me Father. I suppose she felt she could not until she had earned the right by . . . Good Gad, Peabody — she locked the door! He isn’t fit —”

     “Really, my dear, I don’t think you are in a position to determine that.” I tugged at him and he let me draw him into our room and push him into a chair. After considering the matter for a moment, I went back to the door and locked it.

     “They are going to be married, aren’t they?” Emerson inquired anxiously. “When we get back to England?”

     “Oh, Emerson, don’t be absurd. They will be married as soon as I can make the arrangements. I don’t suppose she will want a conventional wedding dress.” I began unfastening my gown. “One of those lovely robes of hers, perhaps,” I continued thoughtfully. “Fatima will insist on making the cake. Flowers from our garden — if the camel left any — a small reception here afterwards, for our closest friends. We will hold the ceremony in David’s room if he is not able to be out of bed. They will both want him to be present. Neither of them cares much about the formalities.”

     It was clear from Emerson’s expression that he cared more than I would have supposed. He started up from his chair. “They aren’t married yet,” he exclaimed. “Good heavens, Amelia, how can you allow your daughter —”

     “Oh, Emerson!” I put my arms round him and hid my face against his breast. “They love one another so much and they have been so unhappy.”

     “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well, but if it is only a matter of a few days —”

     “Do you remember a night on the dear old
Philae
— the night you asked me to be your wife?”

     “Of course I remember. Although,” Emerson said musingly, “there is still some doubt in my mind as to who asked whom.”

     “Am I never to hear the end of that?”

     “Probably not,” said Emerson, holding me close.

     “Do you remember what happened later that night?”

     “How could I ever forget? You made me the happiest of men that night, my love. I would not have had the courage to come to you.”

     “So I came to you. Did you think less of me for that?”

     “Are you blushing, Peabody?” He put his hand under my chin and raised my head. “No, of course you aren’t. I loved you with all my heart that night, and I have loved you more every day we have been together, and I will go on loving you . . . Er, hmph. Did you lock the door?”

     “Yes.”

     “Good,” said Emerson.

From Manuscript H

     Nefret pushed Seshat out onto the balcony. For a breathtaking moment she stood silvered by the moonlight before she closed the shutters and came back to him. “First thing tomorrow morning I am going to speak to Reis Hassan about having the
Amelia
ready for us when we return in April,” she announced.

     “Is it Mother or Seshat you want to avoid?”

     “Both of them. All of them!” She laughed softly and turned her face into his shoulder. “I’m afraid the poor dears were scandalized when I shut them out; people of their generation would never violate the conventions in this way.”

     His voice muffled by her hair, Ramses murmured ambiguously. He had learned never to make a dogmatic pronouncement about either of his parents.

     “I don’t care,” Nefret whispered. “I don’t care about anything except being with you, always, forever. We’ve lost so much time. If I had only —”

     “Nefret, darling.” He took her face between his hands. It was too dark to see her features, but he felt the wetness on her cheeks. “Never say that again. Never think it. Perhaps we had to go through the bad times in order to earn —”

     “Good Gad, you sound just like Aunt Amelia!” She kissed him fiercely on the lips. He tasted blood, and so must she have done, for she lifted her head. “I’m sorry! I hurt you.”

     “Yes, and you’re dripping tears all over my face. Stop it at once. Mother would also say that the secret of happiness is to enjoy the present, without regretting the past or worrying about the future.”

     “I know she would, I’ve heard her say it at least a dozen times. Does this seem an appropriate time to talk about your mother?”

     “You were the one who —”

     “I know, and I wish I hadn’t. I love her with all my heart, but I won’t let her or anyone else come between us now.”

     “My dearest girl, she’ll hustle us into a church as soon as she can make the arrangements — not more than two days, if I know Mother.”

     “Oh, well, in that case perhaps you would prefer that I leave, and not come back until after —”

     “Just try it. I’ve learned my lesson, too.”

     “Someday I will, so you can crush me in your arms and overpower me,” Nefret said dreamily. “I think I’d like that.”

     “So would I. Give me a few more days.”

     She let out a little cry of distress, and pulled away. “I keep forgetting. Your poor face, and your poor back, and your poor hands and —”

     “I keep forgetting too. Come here.” She moved lightly into his embrace, and he smoothed the silky hair away from her face and kissed her temples and brows and closed eyes. “Uh — you did lock the door, didn’t you?”

     “Yes, my love.”

     “Good,” said Ramses.

From Letter Collection B

Dearest Lia,

We will be with you shortly after you receive this. We sail from Alexandria in two days’ time. I have so much to tell you I’m fairly bursting with it, but I can’t do the subject justice in a letter. So why am I writing? It’s because I want you to be the first to whom I sign myself

With fondest love,
Nefret Emerson

About the Author

E
lizabeth Peters was born and brought up in Illinois and earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago’s famed Oriental Institute. She was named Grandmaster at the inaugural Anthony Awards in 1986 and Grandmaster by the Mystery Writers of America at the Edgar Awards in 1998. She lives in an historic farmhouse in Western Maryland with six cats and two dogs.