Free He Shall Thunder in the Sky by Elizabeth Peters

are eating properly again. I apologize for the euphemism, I know you despise them as much as I do, but I don’t want to shock the censor! I’m sure Sennia is tempting you with jam and biscuits and other good things, and I hope you are stuffing them down! She is a comfort to you, I know, and I am so glad. Greatly as we miss her, she is far better off with you.
We miss all of you too. That is a very flat expression of a very heartfelt sentiment, darling. I can’t confide in anyone as I do in you, and letters aren’t suitable for certain kinds of news. After all, we wouldn’t want to shock the censor.
It is wonderful that you finally heard from David, even if the letter was brief and stiff. His letters are certainly being read by the military, so you mustn’t expect him to pour his heart out. At least he is safe; that is the most important thing. The Professor hasn’t given up hope of gaining his release — if not immediately, at least before the baby comes. The dear man has been badgering Important Personages in Cairo, from General Maxwell on down. That he should take time from his beloved excavations to pursue this should prove, if proof were needed, how much he cares for David.
We haven’t got inside the tomb yet. You know the Professor; every square inch of sand has to be sifted first. The entrance . . .
(The editor has omitted the following description, since it is repeated by Mrs. Emerson.)

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    E xcavation is, essentially, an act of destruction. To clear a site, tomb, temple or tell down to the lowest level means that all the upper levels are gone forever. For this reason it is absolutely essential to keep detailed records of what has been removed. My distinguished spouse was one of the first to establish the principles of modern excavation: precise measurements, accurate copies of all inscriptions and reliefs, innumerable photographs, and the thorough sifting of the debris. I could not quarrel with Emerson’s high standards, but I must admit that there were times when I wished he would stop fussing and get on with the job. I had made the mistake of saying something of the sort when we began digging that season. Emerson had rounded on me with bared teeth and an impressive scowl.
         “You, of all people, ought to know better! As soon as a monument is exposed it begins to deteriorate. Remember what happened to the mastabas Lepsius found sixty years ago. Many of the reliefs he copied have now disappeared, worn away by weather or vandalized by thieves, nor are the copies as accurate as one would wish. I will not uncover the walls of this tomb until I have taken all possible means to protect them, or go on to the next mastaba until Ramses has recorded every damned scratch on every damned wall! And furthermore —”
         I informed him that he had made his point.
         One morning a few days after the conversation on the rooftop I had allowed the others to go on before me, since I had to speak to Fatima about various domestic matters. I had completed this little chore and was in my room, checking my pockets and my belt to make certain I had with me all the useful implements I always carry, when there was a knock on the door.
         “Come in,” I said, as I continued the inventory. Pistol and knife, canteen, bottle of brandy, candle and matches in a waterproof box . . . “Oh, it is you, Kadija.”
         “May I speak to you, Sitt Hakim?”
         “Certainly. Just one moment while I make certain I have everything. Notebook and pencil, needle and thread, compass, scissors, first-aid kit. . . .”
         Her large dark face broke into a smile as she watched me. For some reason my accoutrements, as I called them, were a source of considerable amusement to my acquaintances. They were also a source of considerable aggravation to Emerson, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that on numerous occasions one or another of them had proved our