Free Children of the Storm by Elizabeth Peters Page A

was; he followed the Five Pillars of Islam, observing the fast of Ramadan and giving generously to the poor, but some of his habits had been affected by his unabashed Anglophilia. He was more indulgent to his young wives than most local men, and he had adopted a number of English customs.
    Including afternoon tea, which was ready when they reached the house, and the mingling of the sexes for that meal. Ramses had hoped for a private conversation with Selim; but there was no chance of that, with the children dashing around and shrieking, and the women all talking at once. Accepting a cup of tea from Selim’s younger wife, he smiled at Nefret, who had Selim’s baby on her lap. Did she want another child? he wondered. They hadn’t talked about it. As far as he was concerned, two were quite enough. He never wanted to see Nefret go through that ordeal of blood and pain again. Being a father was such a gigantic responsibility. A dozen times a day he asked himself if he was doing it right.
    The dregs of his tea spattered the floor but he managed to hold on to the cup as Davy clambered onto his lap. He held the warm little body close. Maybe he was doing something right.
    Kadija was watching them from over her veil. She was the only one of the women who would not unveil in his presence. His mother had often reminded her that since David’s marriage to Lia they were all one family now, but Kadija came from a Nubian tribe where the old traditions were strong. She had finally consented to use his first name, however.
    “How did you hurt your hand, Ramses?” she asked. “They are like the marks left by the claws of an animal.”
    He glanced at his wrist, where the cuff of his shirt had been pulled up. The scratches were deeper than he had realized, ragged and ugly. “A little souvenir from a man named François,” he said. “Though he does have some beastly habits, including sharp nails and a willingness to use them. It’s nothing.”
    He tried to pull his cuff down but was prevented by Davy, who clutched his hand and pressed damp kisses on the scratches, murmuring distressfully (or perhaps chanting incantations).
    “Why didn’t you tell me?” Nefret demanded, putting the baby down.
    “It’s nothing,” Ramses repeated.
    Kadija rose and went into the house.
    “Not the famous green ointment,” Ramses protested. “It leaves indelible stains on one’s clothes. Thank you, Davy, that’s done the job. All better now.”
    “I’ve never been able to isolate the effective ingredient, but the ointment certainly has antiseptic and anti-inflammatory qualities,” Nefret said. “Human fingernails are filthy, and I doubt if our François visits a manicurist. Those scratches should have been disinfected immediately.”
    “What is this?” Selim demanded. “Who is this man like a wild animal? A new enemy?”
    “Nothing of the sort,” Ramses replied. Kadija came back, carrying a small pot, and Ramses submitted to having the stuff smeared over his wrist while he told Selim about the encounter. Selim’s handsome face fell. He had been with them on several of their wilder adventures, and he thoroughly enjoyed a good fight.
    “Sorry to disappoint you, Selim,” Ramses said. “They are tourists, and it is most unlikely that we will encounter them again. Anyhow, the whole business was a misunderstanding. The fellow bears me no ill will.”
    “Huh,” said Selim.
    Before long the children had reached a stage experienced parents know well; tears and howls of juvenile rage became more frequent, and Labiba slapped Davy for pushing the baby. He slapped her back.
    “Time we were going home,” Nefret said, holding the combatants apart by main force. “They’re getting tired.”
    “Right.” Ramses collared his daughter, who began an indignant explanation—or perhaps it was a protest. He recognized two words. One sounded like Swahili and the other like Swedish. Neither could be said to have any particular bearing on the