Free Children of the Storm by Elizabeth Peters Page B

situation.
    Daoud enveloped both squirming, grubby children in a loving embrace and handed them up to Ramses and Nefret after they had mounted their horses. “You’re disgusting,” Ramses informed his daughter. “What is that purple stuff on your face?”
    She gave him a wide grin and rubbed her face against his shirt.
    As usual, the women took forever to say good-bye. While they were exchanging final farewells and last-minute gossip, Selim came and stood by him.
    “Will you tell the Sitt Hakim about Hassan and my father’s tomb?”
    “She’ll find out sooner or later. What’s the trouble, Selim? I could see something was worrying you.”
    “It is not important.” Selim tugged at his beard. “Only . . . what did Hassan do, that he should feel guilt and the need for forgiveness?”
    EMERSON STORMED WHEN HE DISCOVERED I had finished his article for him. We had a refreshing little discussion, and then he set about revising my text, muttering under his breath and throwing pens at the wall. I congratulated myself on this idea, which served two useful purposes: it forced Emerson to finish the article, which he would never have done without my intervention, and it stopped him from brooding about the theft and his inability to do anything about it. Emerson is always greatly relieved by his explosions, which in my opinion are an excellent method of reducing an excess of spleen.
    As I had expected, our telegrams produced no new information. Thomas Russell’s reply arrived on the Saturday. Like Emerson’s, his epistolary style was terse. No one of that description or name had been on the train. He had not wasted extra words demanding an explanation; he knew Emerson well enough to know none would be forthcoming.
    Emerson crumpled the flimsy paper into a ball and tossed it to the Great Cat of Re, who sniffed it, decided it was inedible, and ignored it.
    By the time we prepared to take the Sunday-evening train, there had been no response from Sethos. Emerson had telegraphed him at both his residences. At my request he showed me the telegram, and I must say he had communicated the necessary information without giving away the truth. That would have been disastrous, since the clerks at the telegraph office would have spread the news all over Luxor.
    Cyrus’s initial frenzy had been replaced by a state of profound gloom. He had been torn between rushing off to Cairo in pursuit of the thief and mounting guard over the remaining artifacts. The latter consideration won out, after I explained to him that although Martinelli might well have eluded the police, we had no certain proof that he was in Cairo. The very idea that the evildoer might be lurking, waiting for an opportunity to make another raid on the treasure, made Cyrus break out into a cold sweat. He did not even come to the railroad station to see us off.
    Other friends and family members were there. Daoud considered it his duty to send us away with the proper blessings; he had dressed in his most elegant silken robes, as he always did on such occasions, though he was sulking a bit because he had wanted to come along. The twins were not coming either. If I understood the tenor of their remarks, they were extremely indignant at being left without parents and grandparents for several days. Emerson, who is a perfect coward with children and women, had wanted to creep away without telling them, but Nefret had insisted that we could not suddenly disappear without explanation and reassurance of return. I agreed with her, and began quoting from various authorities on child-rearing until Emerson cut me off with his usual shout of “Don’t talk psychology at me, Peabody!”
    After bidding the others an affectionate farewell, I turned last of all to Selim. A little pang, half pleasure, half pain, ran through me, for he looked so like his father—more slightly built and not as tall, but with the same aristocratic bearing and finely cut features. He was the only other person we had