Nefret had also noticed that her husband seemed abstracted. He submitted without comment to her examination, but she found no cause for concern. The wound was healing well. “It’s nice to have an evening to ourselves,” she said. “Yes.” He was prowling restlessly around the sitting room, picking up a book and putting it down, straightening a stack of papers. Hands folded in her lap, she watched him for a while and then took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. “I have something to tell you,” she said. He came to her at once, dropping to his knees in front of the chair and taking the hand she offered. “I wondered.” His other hand came to rest lightly on her waist. “But I didn’t want to ask.” “Why not? You had every right.” “No, I hadn’t. When did you know? Nefret, look at me. Before Gaza?” She might have equivocated, mentioned the various factors that made certainty difficult. She met his troubled gaze squarely. “Yes.” “And you risked that? That awful trip, the danger, the —” She took his face between her hands. “I knew it would be all right. I can’t tell you how I knew, but I did. I would have risked it anyhow. I want this very much, but you are the dearest thing in the world to me. I let you go — I let you take the risk — but I’d have died of suspense waiting in Cairo. Oh, darling, aren’t you glad?” “Do you suppose I don’t feel the same about you? I’m beginning to understand what you went through, all those times when I was off on some bloody damned job without you. Glad? I suppose I am. Will be. At this moment, I . . . I’m afraid, I think. I can’t take this risk for you. I can’t even share it.” She had never seen tears in his eyes before. Her heart turned over. He hid his face against her and she held him, her arms tight around his bowed shoulders. “It’s too late to change our minds now,” she murmured. He let out a long breath and when he raised his head she saw again the boy she had loved so long without realizing how much she loved him. His eyes were bright with laughter and dawning joy. “Are you sure you’re prepared for this, Nefret? You’ve heard Mother’s stories. What if it turns out to be like me?”

The house was very quiet. I was alone, without even a cat to keep me company. Many duties awaited me, but for some reason I didn’t feel like tackling any of them. Seating myself on the sofa, I found my sewing box and took out the crumpled scrap of linen. The sitting room door opened. One look at their faces was all I needed. Hand in hand, they came to stand before me. “We wanted you to be the first to know, Mother,” Nefret said. I had to clear my throat before I could speak. I got out four words before my voice failed me. “Well! Naturally, I am . . .” “Oh, Mother, don’t cry.” Nefret sat down beside me and put her arms round me. “You never cry.” “Nor will I mar the happiness of this moment by doing so,” I assured her, somewhat huskily. I held out my hand to Ramses, who seated himself on my other side, let out a yelp, and sprang up. He had sat on my embroidery. We laughed until the tears came; they had not far to come. Returning to his seat, Ramses held up the miserable object. “She’s going to claim she has known for weeks. What isthis, Mother?” I wiped my eyes. “A — er — a bib. Babies dribble quite a lot. These blue bits are violets, and these . . . It is rather nasty-looking, isn’t it? I think the bloodstains will wash out.” “It’s the most beautiful bib I’ve ever seen,” Nefret said, wiping hereyes. “And I hope the bloodstains never wash out. You did know!” “Not until this moment,” I said firmly. It would have been the height of unkindness to spoil such a wonderful surprise. “I was making it for Lia’s little girl.” “Girl?” Ramses’s eyebrows tilted. “I suppose Abdullah told you,” Nefret said with a chuckle. “Did he happen to mention ours?” “He never tells me anything important,” I said. Nefret laughed, and I saw Ramses shape the word with his lips: “Ours.” He was still trying to take it in. I had known, of course, for some time. To an experienced eye the symptoms are unmistakable. “When?” I inquired. “September,” Nefret said. “Ah. So the worst is over, and you are obviously in splendid health. If bouncing across the desert in that motorcar and stealing horses didn’t bring on a miscarriage, nothing will.” I spoke with all the authority I could summon, which is, if I may say so, considerable, and the faint shadow of anxiety on Ramses’s face faded. “If you say so, Mother.” “I do. And,” I added, “next time I see Abdullah he will verify it.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

They told Emerson next morning. It took a while to get his attention; he and Cyrus and the others were already planning the day’s activities when they arrived at Deir el Medina. After his wife had poked him with her parasol a time or two he agreed, amiably but in some perplexity, to join them for a brief private conversation in a corner of the vestibule. They had discussed various ways of breaking the news. “If I say we have something to tell him, he’ll look blank and ask what,” Nefret said with a chuckle. “And announcing he is about to become a grandfather is too sickeningly coy.” So, in the end, she blurted it out. “I’m going to have a baby, Father.” Emerson’s jaw went slack. “A . . . a what?” “We don’t know yet,” Ramses said. “But we’re pretty sure it’s bound to be either a boy or a girl.” Emerson choked. “Boy? Girl? Baby? Good — good Gad!” “Take my handkerchief,” said his wife. Emerson indignantly refused the handkerchief; if there were tears in his eyes he blotted them on Nefret’s hair as he took her in a close embrace. He turned to Ramses, held out his hand, and then, to the latter’s utter stupefaction, embraced him too. He was with difficulty prevented from rushing out shouting the news at the top of his lungs to everyone present. “A little less publicly, please,” Nefret begged. “We haven’t told Fatima yet, or Kadija, or Sennia, or Gargery, or —” “Oh, of course Gargery’s feelings are of paramount importance,” said Emerson with heavy sarcasm and a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “Naturally, my dears, I bow to your wishes. Good Gad!” Emerson went directly to Cyrus and whispered in his ear. Within five minutes everyone on the site had heard. It was possible to watch the word spread by the smiles that warmed the men’s faces as they turned to look at Nefret. She accepted Cyrus’s hearty good wishes and promises of a celebration to end all celebrations, and then got their minds back to business. “Did anything happen last night?” “Good Gad,” said Emerson, still grinning. “Good Gad! Er — what did you say? Oh. Well, we saw a few shadows flitting about hither and yon, but they vanished when I announced my — our — presence.” “You didn’t recognize any of them?” Ramses asked. “I didn’t have to see them to know who they were,” his father retorted. “Members of our distinguished tomb-robbing families having a look round just in case.” “They may try again,” Ramses said. “Bah,” said Emerson. “It’s been over fifty years since the Gurnawis attacked an archaeologist.” He added, his face falling, “The greatest nuisance will be sightseers. They will be swarming as soon as the news spreads.” In this he was correct. Following regulations, Cyrus had immediately informed the Service des Antiquités of the find. An enthusiastic telegram of congratulations from Daressy was followed in two days by a visit from that gentleman. It was his official duty to inspect the place and make sure the rules were being followed, and a find of that magnitude happened very seldom. Timber balks and a complex arrangement of scaffolding and ladders had been erected, so it was now possible to reach the tomb from below. They had to haul Daressy up by means of a net. He didn’t much enjoy the process, but as he informed them afterward, he would have undergone worse to see the astonishing spectacle. “My felicitations,” he declared, mopping his sweating face. “For once we have got in ahead of our energetic friends from Gurneh! It is a pleasure to know I can safely leave the clearance in your capable hands, mes amis.” He accepted a cup of tea and mopped his face again. “By the by, I meant to ask how it is that M. Vandergelt is involved. I was under the impression that he had the firman for Medinet Habu.” “You are familiar with how it is, monsieur,” Emerson said glibly and ungrammatically. “Thanks to the bedamned war, we are all short of hands. We help one another, as professional goodness demands. It was the young M. Vandergelt who in fact discovered the hiding place.” “Ah, je comprends bien,” said Daressy, amused. “C’est admirable, messieurs. Proceed, then. I will return from time to time, if I may, not to interfere with your work, but to admire the wonders you will find.” “I told you he wouldn’t object,” Emerson said to his wife, after they had got Daressy off. “You left him no choice in the matter,” said that lady. Every tourist in Luxor wanted to see the tomb. Most of them left in a hurry, driven off by Emerson’s curses and by the fact that there was not much to see as yet. Cyrus was determined nothing should be removed from the chamber until he had arranged for proper lighting and had made certain that objects like the coffins could be moved without damage. One group of visitors was more persistent. The Albions arrived, en masse, the day after the discovery. Jumana retreated as soon as she saw them, drawing Bertie away with her, and nobody offered them a chair or a glass of tea. The coolness of their reception would have disconcerted sensitive persons, but that adjective did not apply to any of the Albions. “So that’s how you’re going to get in and out of the place,” Mr. Albion remarked, eyeing the scaffolding. “Too much for me, but Sebastian would like to have a look.” “Sebastian will have to do without a look,” said Emerson. “Good Gad, I have not the time for this.” He stalked off to join Jumana and Bertie at the foot of the scaffold. Ramses lingered, marveling at the Albions’ thick skins. Cyrus was unable to resist the temptation to gloat, boasting extravagantly about Bertie and describing the contents of the tomb in loving detail. Mr. Albion’s fixed grin remained in place. “Sounds like a big job,” he said. “How long do you think it will take?” “Hard to tell,” Cyrus said. “We’ll have to see what’s there and what needs to be done.” “Fascinating,” Sebastian declared. He looked around with a complacent smile. “I’ve never observed an excavation in process. Hope you don’t mind if we drop by now and then to watch.” Ramses had had enough. “Apparently it has escaped your attention that you are not welcome here,” he said. “After what happened the other night —” “Oh, that. An unfortunate misunderstanding.” “Quite,” said Mrs. Albion, speaking for the first time. “I do think, Mr. Emerson, that you owe my son Sebastian an apology.” Ramses caught his mother’s eye. He took a deep breath. “I am indeed sorry. Sorry that I didn’t catch up with him.” “Well, really!” Mrs. Albion took her husband’s arm. “Evil is in the mind of the beholder; isn’t that so, Mrs. Emerson? Let us go, Mr. Albion.” Cyrus couldn’t resist one final dig. “No use making arrangements with the dealers on this one, Joe. At the final division, most of the objects will go to the Cairo Museum, and the rest, supposing they are generous enough to leave us a percentage, will not be for sale.” The Albions left, and Ramses said, “You did rather rub it in, Cyrus.” “Enjoyed every minute of it,” Cyrus declared, stroking his goatee. “I hoped Joe would slip and make some dumb remark about how he’d already paid for his share, but he’s too smart for that. I wonder who else is going to turn up?” The next to turn up was Howard Carter, who had to listen to a tirade from Emerson about his exploration of the western wadis. “I’ve been trying to track you down for weeks,” Emerson declared indignantly. “Where have you been? What were you doing in the Gabbanat el-Qirud? Why the devil haven’t you made your notes accessible?” Carter was too much in awe of Emerson to protest the injustice of the complaint. “My notes are at your disposal, sir, as always,” he said meekly. “I apologize if I offended you.” “Bah,” said Emerson. “Now see here, Carter —” “Father, I’m sure Mr. Carter would rather hear about the new tomb,” Nefret interrupted. “Sit down, Mr. Carter, and have a cup of tea.” “Thank you, ma’am,” Carter said with a grateful look at her. “I most certainly would. I will be in Luxor for some time — my next project is to copy the procession reliefs at Luxor Temple — but naturally, if I can assist in any way at all . . .” “You can come by now and then,” Emerson said grudgingly. “It will teach you how to conduct a proper clearance of a tomb.” However, the most unexpected news came in the form of a telegram. “Look forward to seeing you all soon. Fondest regards, Cousin Ismail.”

“I might have known the news of the tomb would fetch him,” Emerson grumbled. “He doesn’t say when he is coming. Damned inconsiderate.” “Even more inconsiderate is that infernal signature,” I said in some vexation. “How are we to introduce him? The Vandergelts are bound to recognize him as Sethos, but we cannot call him that. What is his real name?” “Cursed if I know,” Emerson admitted. “Never gave it much thought.” “Well, my dear, he will turn up where and when he chooses, as he chooses, and there isn’t a thing we can do about it.” He turned up at Deir el Medina, two days later. We had had several other visitors that morning, including the cursed Albions; they came round almost every day, though they did not have the temerity to approach us again. Emerson stormed about this, but there was no way we could keep them away from the site as long as they did nothing but sit in their carriage at a distance and look on. The scaffolding had been completed and the door ordered; since nothing more could be done until we had acquired a generator and electric lighting, Emerson had sent us back to work on our boring village. I looked up from my rubbish dump to see a man on horseback approaching. He came straight to me and removed his hat. “Good morning, Amelia. At your rubbish again, I see.” He looked well. I observed that first: the healthy color in his face, the upright frame and easy pose. A neatly wound turban concealed his hair, and a magnificent coal-black beard hid the lower part of his face. The tweed suit was not the one he had borrowed from Ramses; it was new and very well cut. In short, he was the picture of a distinguished Oriental gentleman, possibly an official of high rank who had, as his accent indicated, been educated at an English university. Cyrus might be able to identify him as the surly, silent individual who had been his guest the year before, but I doubted any of the others who had known him so briefly would be able to do so. “A fondness for beards must run in the family,” I remarked. “You could hardly expect me to appear in Luxor without one, my dear. Some sharp-eyed person might notice I bear a resemblance to a certain well-known Egyptologist.” “How am I to introduce you?” “Cousin Ismail, of course. I rather like the name.” He turned and offered his hand as Emerson came hurrying toward us. The cordial reception he received seemed to surprise him a little. Nefret gave him a kiss, and Cyrus a hearty handshake, a knowing smile, and an invitation to visit the tomb. Sethos had to hear all about its discovery first; he congratulated Bertie and Jumana, who didn’t know quite what to make of him, but who were flattered by his interest. After luncheon we all went up to the platform outside the tomb. Sethos crawled in and out of the passage, and then brushed himself off and remarked, “You’ve quite a job ahead of you, Vandergelt. I would be happy to recommend a good restorer. I suspect you may need one, some of the organic materials appear to be in a delicate condition.” “Are you an archaeologist, sir?” Jumana asked. “I have had a good deal of experience in the field,” said Sethos smoothly. He glanced casually at the rock face above the entrance. It was the first time I had noticed the symbol — a roughly carved circle divided by a curving line. Ramses waited until Bertie and Jumana and Cyrus had started down the ladder before he spoke. “I hope you don’t mind, sir. I took the liberty —” Sethos grinned. “I was about to suggest it myself. The Master’s mark may not deter every thief in Gurneh, but it still carries some weight. By the by, are you acquainted with that lot?” From the height where we stood, the Albions’s carriage was clearly visible. It had been there for several hours. “We know them slightly,” I said. “Do you?” “Albion was one of my best customers. I stopped dealing with him a few years ago, after he tried to cheat me.” “Cheat you?” Emerson repeated. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone could.” “Dear me, Radcliffe, was that meant to be sarcastic? He didn’t succeed. Watch out for him, that’s all I’m saying.” When we parted for the day, Cyrus apologized for not inviting “Cousin Ismail” to dinner. “Got to stand guard tonight,” he explained. “But we’re expecting the door to arrive in a day or two; once that is up and secured, we hope, sir, to see a great deal of you. I would very much enjoy a private chat.” “Thank you,” said my brother-in-law. I had assumed he would stay with us. He said he had made other arrangements, but would be delighted to join us for tea and an early supper. Jumana’s presence prevented conversation of a personal nature, and when we got to the house Sennia was waiting on the veranda. “So this is Sennia,” said Sethos, offering his hand. “I have heard a great deal about you — all to your credit, and all well deserved, I see.” He had a way with women of all ages, and Sennia was no exception. Immensely flattered at the grown-up speech and gesture, she gravely shook hands with him. “Thank you, sir. I have not heard about you, though. Are you a friend of ours?” “A very old friend” was the smiling reply. “Isn’t that so, Radcliffe?” “You call him Radcliffe?” Sennia spread her skirts in a ladylike manner and took the chair he held for her. “He doesn’t like to be called that, you know.” “I had no idea,” Sethos exclaimed. “What shall I call him, then?” “Well, I call him Professor,” Sennia explained. “Aunt Amelia calls him Emerson, or ‘my dear,’ and Nefret calls him Father, which he is, and Ramses calls him ‘sir,’ and some people call him ‘Father of Curses.’ ” “Perhaps ‘sir’ would be best,” said Sethos, wrinkling his brow. “What do you think, Sennia?” I decided it was time to intervene. Emerson was biting his lip and muttering. “Speaking of names,” I said, “perhaps you would allow us — your old friends — to use your given name.” “Call me anything you like, Amelia dear” was the smiling and uninformative response. At least it got us off the subject of names, though Sethos continued to address his brother deferentially as ‘sir,’ which made Emerson swear under his breath. “Do you know Mr. Vandergelt too?” Sennia asked. “Oh, yes. One might say I know him as well as he knows himself.” He left Sennia to puzzle over this enigmatic remark, which the rest of us understood quite well. “I have not met Mrs. Vandergelt, though, or her son.” “Can we have a party?” Sennia asked eagerly. “We must certainly arrange something,” I remarked. “But it will have to wait until the tomb is locked up.” “A wise precaution,” Sethos agreed gravely. “One never knows, does one?” “We are glad to have you here, sir,” Nefret said. “You will stay, we hope, for Cyrus’s celebration.” “He has good reason to celebrate,” Sethos said. “And I understand you and your husband have another cause for rejoicing.” “How did you — how do you — ?” Nefret gasped. “I have my sources,” said Sethos. He held out his hand, and when he spoke the mockery was gone from his face and voice. “I wish you joy, Nefret. And you, Ramses. I suppose you’ll be returning to England before long?” “Our child will be born in Egypt, as is fitting,” Nefret said. “Do you suppose I’d allow a pompous male English physician to take care of me, when there are two trained women obstetricians on the staff of my hospital?” “What about you?” Emerson demanded of Sethos. “I’m in no hurry to leave. England hasn’t much to offer me.” He smiled wickedly at his brother. Emerson’s face reddened. “Neither has Luxor.” “My dear fellow, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your activities. In fact, I would be delighted to assist in any possible manner.” “Ha,” said Emerson. Nefret turned her chuckle into a cough. After dinner the men went off to stand guard. Emerson declined, with thanks, Sethos’s offer to join them. “Do you suppose he will ever get over suspecting my intentions?” inquired my brother-in-law, after we had retired to the sitting room. “Perhaps,” Nefret suggested, “if you would get over teasing him . . .” “I can’t resist, Nefret. He’s such an easy mark. I was teasing, though, when I implied I would stay on here. I must leave tomorrow.” “So soon?” Nefret exclaimed. Impulsively she placed her hand on his shoulder. “You will miss Cyrus’s party. We want to keep you with us a while longer.” “You really mean it, don’t you?” The strange gray-green eyes were, for once, very kind. “I’d like to, Nefret, but I can’t.” “You are going back to the war, aren’t you?” I asked composedly. “I thought you had promised Margaret this would be your last assignment.” “The job’s not finished yet, Amelia dear. I made a quick trip here because — well, for two reasons. I must be getting old; I did want to see all of you. The other reason is more . . . difficult.” “Would you like me to leave?” Nefret asked. “No. Please stay. Did Amelia tell you about a conversation we had recently concerning my daughter?” Nefret’s eyes widened, and I said, “I considered it a private confidence. I have not even told Emerson.” “Thank you, Amelia. I wasn’t quite myself at the time; what precisely did I say?” “You said she held you accountable for her mother’s death, and that she had run away from home. You attempted to find her at that time, I presume. A girl of fifteen or sixteen should not have been able to elude a determined search.” “She was sixteen. But very precocious in a number of ways. Like her mother. I did search, long and hard, without result. I believe she had help, from one of Bertha’s former friends — the same one who told Maryam — Molly — about her mother’s death. Recently I heard that she had found a — a protector, and was in Egypt. I’ve been playing with the Turks ever since; haven’t had time to look for her here.” “I am very sorry,” Nefret said gently. “Can nothing be done to save her?” “She doesn’t want to be saved. Especially by me.” He had not given way, nor would he, but I knew he cared more for the girl than he would admit and that guilt as well as affection motivated his search. I began, “There is a chance that we might —” “You may encounter her; our Egypt is a small world, in a sense. That is why I brought the subject up. But, Amelia dear, don’t assume that because you managed to reform me — up to a point — you can redeem the entire damned universe. If Maryam blames me for her mother’s death, how do you suppose she feels about you?” He rose, rather heavily. “I’ll say good night, and good-bye. My regards to Ramses and — er — Emerson.” “Won’t we see you again?” Nefret asked. “Not this time. I have business in Luxor before I leave tomorrow. If you learn anything about Molly, a message to our mutual friend with the preposterous name will reach me eventually. He will notify you of any change in my situation.” “Your death, you mean?” I asked steadily. “Now, Amelia, it isn’t like you to look on the dark side. Who knows, it may be a wedding invitation!” His mocking smile faded and he said hesitantly, “If you should hear from Margaret —” “I will write her tomorrow,” I promised. “Someone must know her current address.” “Thank you.” He took my hand. “Turn your back, Nefret.” She let out a gasp and so did I. Sethos laughed and caught me in his arms and kissed me — on the brow. “You will always be the woman I love,” he said. “That doesn’t prevent me from loving Margaret as much. You understand, I think.” “Yes,” I said. “Turn your back, Nefret.”

Cyrus was bitterly disappointed when he learned of Sethos’s departure, though the arrival of the steel door, a day ahead of schedule, distracted him temporarily. Selim assured him the men would bend their best efforts to have it in place the following day. “Then I can send out my invitations to the fantasia,” Cyrus said. “Shame Ismail had to leave so soon, I was looking forward to seeing more of him.” “Typical,” Emerson growled. “Comes and goes at his own convenience.” “He has other duties,” I said reprovingly. “As you are well aware.” We did hear from him once again, however. A letter, hand-delivered, awaited us when we got to the house that afternoon. It contained only two sentences: “There are strangers in Luxor. And my former customer is still in the market.” “I can guess who that’s from, but what the dickens does it mean?” asked Cyrus, who had come back with us for tea. Emerson glanced around to make sure Sennia wasn’t listening. He lowered his voice. “It is confirmation of my suspicions, Vandergelt. Tonight is the last night the tomb will be open. I had a feeling Albion wouldn’t give up without a final attempt. He won’t get help from the Gurnawis, but strangers, hired criminals, might be willing to attack us if the rewards were high enough.” “Good Lord!” Cyrus ejaculated. “We’d better get over to Luxor right away. Have the fellows rounded up and put the fear of God into Joe Albion.” “I am surprised at you, Vandergelt. One cannot arrest people without evidence of a crime.” Emerson smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I weary of Mr. Albion and his family. We will arrange a little ambush and catch them red-handed.” “Hmmmm.” Cyrus stroked his goatee. “I like the idea, Emerson. Just so nobody gets hurt.” “And how do you mean to guarantee that?” I demanded. “What if they are armed?” “We will have your pistol, Peabody,” said Emerson, grinning. “We better have more than that,” Cyrus said. “I’ve got a couple of rifles and a pistol, latest-model Mauser. I only hope I can sneak ’em out of the house without Katherine seeing,” he added uneasily. We had to get Sennia off to bed before we made the final arrangements. Emerson had sent word to Selim, warning him of our suspicions and giving him his instructions, and Cyrus did manage to get his weapons smuggled out of the Castle without Katherine’s knowledge. She would have been deeply distressed if she had known what we were up to. A little contretemps arose at the last minute, when the men realized that Nefret and I and Jumana meant to accompany them. I put an end to their protests in short order, however. “So long as you don’t bring that damned sword parasol” was Emerson’s way of conceding defeat. The moon was on the wane, but the dazzling desert stars gave sufficient light for us to make our way over the ancient path that crossed the gebel. When we reached Deir el Medina, all was quiet. The coals of a fire burned near the place where our men were stationed; there were only four of them, including Selim. They had been ordered to look as if they had relaxed their guard, and on no account to resist an attack. One by one we descended the slope, and found concealment in the shadows of the ruined tombs. We waited for over an hour before they came, from the south, creeping along the base of the hill. I counted the dim shapes: twelve in all. The last two carried rifles. Like the others, they were masked, but I had no difficulty in recognizing the rotund form of Mr. Albion and the taller outline of his son. One might have expected they would lead their troops from behind! When Selim sprang to his feet, Sebastian advanced, with his weapon aimed, while one of his hirelings called out in Arabic, “Do not move or we will shoot!” For a moment I was afraid Daoud would forget his orders. It is not in his nature to submit meekly to threats. However, he remained seated, and within a few minutes our fellows were tightly bound, gagged, and blindfolded. “Now?” Cyrus whispered. Emerson shook his head. Sebastian put his rifle down and began to climb the ladder. Obeying his gesture, five of the others followed. Neither he nor his father had spoken; our people could hear, if they could not see, and the use of English would have been a dead giveaway. Mr. Albion sat down with a grunt, and the other men stood close by him. Emerson waited until Sebastian had reached the platform outside the tomb. His stentorian voice echoed between the cliffs. “Stop where you are, all of you. You are surrounded by armed men.” He added in English, “Drop the rifle, Albion.” “Better fire a warning shot,” Cyrus advised. “In case they haven’t noticed our weapons.” We were all on our feet, except for Nefret, who had given me her word she would not expose herself to gunfire. Emerson pointed his rifle toward the temple and pulled the trigger. The men with Albion broke like a drop of quicksilver, scattering in all directions. “Let them go,” said Emerson, plunging down the slope. “It’s Albion I want.” However, he was too late. I would never have supposed such a round, elderly man could move so fast. The bullet Emerson aimed at his heels only made him run faster. “Emerson,” I said, tugging at his arm. “We had better do something about Sebastian, don’t you think?” Emerson looked up and let out an exclamation. The men who had started to follow Sebastian up to the platform were dropping to the ground, but Sebastian himself was still there — hanging by his hands from the edge of the platform and screaming at the top of his lungs. Quite a number of people were shouting, so his cries had been lost in the uproar. He must have lost his balance when the gun went off. “I’ll get him,” Ramses said. “Give him a hand, Bertie,” Emerson ordered. “You’ll need to get a rope round the bloody idiot. There’s plenty in the supply shed. I wonder how much longer he can hold on,” he added with mild interest. Nefret and I set about freeing our men, who set about collecting fallen tomb robbers. Some of them had dropped quite a distance, so there were sprains and a broken bone or two, which Nefret treated in her usual efficient fashion. “Have they got him?” she asked, referring to Sebastian. He was still screaming. “I can’t see from here.” “Bertie got a rope around him,” Cyrus said. “They don’t seem to be in any hurry to pull him up, though.”

Leaving the robbers in Selim’s charge, we took a silent, shivering Sebastian back to his ma and pa. As Emerson declared, he had not finished with Mr. Albion, not by a damned sight. We all went along, naturally. No one wanted to miss the denouement. There was no response to Emerson’s emphatic knocks on the door of the Albions’s sitting room. Fearing that he would wake the poor convalescent officers, I announced in low but penetrating tones, “We have your son. If you want him back you must let us in.” The door was flung open by Mrs. Albion. Despite the lateness of the hour she was fully dressed and bejeweled. “What have you done to him?” she cried, seizing hold of the young man. “He did it to himself,” I replied, pushing mother and son out of the way. Mr. Albion was sitting on the sofa. He must have arrived just before we did, since he was breathless, disheveled, and very red in the face. “Now you’ve brought him back, get out,” he said. “This is not a presentation, it is an exchange,” said Emerson. “Peabody, my dear, may I invite you to take a chair, since no one else has had the courtesy to do so? Albion, I want the artifacts you got from Jamil.” “Be damned to you!” Albion growled. Having determined that her son was intact, Mrs. Albion turned indignantly on Emerson. “Mr. Albion paid for those objects, sir. Are you a common thief?” “Not at all common, madam,” said Emerson, with a smile that reminded me of his brother. “I propose not to press charges for armed assault and purchasing illegal antiquities, in return for the objects that were stolen — and for your promise to leave Luxor immediately. Your husband and your son are extremely inept criminals, but I cannot have this sort of thing. It interferes with my work. Come now, Albion, you are a practical man. Admit you’ve lost.” “Lost?” Mrs. Albion gasped. “Mr. Albion does not lose. Mr. Albion —” “Is a practical man,” her husband said, with difficulty. “All right, then. I’ll get them.” “And I will come with you,” Emerson declared. “To make sure you don’t overlook anything.” They returned with a heavy box, which Emerson handed to Cyrus. “All there. All yours. Shall we go, my dears?” Mrs. Albion appeared to be in a state of shock. Her eyes had a bewildered look and she kept murmuring, “Mr. Albion does not lose. Mr. Albion . . .” Was in for a spot of marital trouble, if I was any judge. I sincerely hoped so. “Just one more thing,” Bertie said, in his quiet voice. “Sebastian, take off your glasses and put up your hands.” “Hopelessly, incorrigibly well-bred,” said Emerson, shaking his head, as Bertie knocked Sebastian flat.

Cyrus’s fantasia was remembered for years as the finest, most extravagant entertainment Luxor had ever seen. The courtyard and the Castle were thrown open; tourists, convalescent officers, Egyptian workmen, and the permanent residents of Luxor mingled in amity, eating and drinking, dancing and singing. It was such a crush I soon gave up trying to do my social duty and was enjoying the sight of Selim and Nefret trying to waltz to the beat of an Egyptian drum, when someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see Marjorie Fisher, a longtime friend who lived in Luxor. “It’s been ages, Amelia,” she said. “What have you been up to?” “Just the usual,” I replied. “And what have you been up to?” She laughed. “The usual. Lunches, teas, visitors . . . That reminds me, I ran into someone recently who asked to be remembered to you. A sweet little thing with freckles on her nose. Her name is Molly Throgmorton.” I swallowed the wrong way. “Molly what?” “She has been recently married,” Marjorie said. “Her husband was with her — a very pleasant but rather coarse American, who looked to be at least fifty years her senior — but she was wearing a diamond the size of a lima bean, my dear, so he must be extremely rich. She said you knew her by her maiden name, but I’m afraid I have forgotten it. Do you know who I mean?” “Yes. I know who you mean. Where is she — where are they staying?” “They left Luxor on Tuesday. Is something wrong, Amelia?” “No. It’s just that I am . . . sorry to have missed her. I don’t suppose she happened to mention where they were going?” Marjorie shook her head. “She said she hoped to see you another time. Her exact words were ‘Tell her she hasn’t seen the last of me.’ Rather an odd way of expressing it, but I suppose she meant it as a touch of humor.” “No doubt,” I said. “I am going to break all the rules of decorum and ask Selim to dance with me,” Marjorie announced with a smile. “He waltzes beautifully! Come to tea on Friday, Amelia?” “Thank you. That would be nice.” The festivities were still in progress when we took our departure, leaving Jumana to “cavort with the young people,” as Emerson put it. The sounds of revelry faded into silence as the carriage traversed the winding road, and the still, starry night of Egypt enclosed us. “Vandergelt informed me that the Albions left Luxor yesterday,” Emerson remarked. He added pensively, “I must say that the general quality of criminals has sadly deteriorated. Not that I mind — especially at the present time. How are you feeling, my dear?” He put his arm round Nefret and she leaned against his shoulder. “A little tired, perhaps. But it was a wonderful evening.” “Life,” Emerson declared, in such a happy frame of mind he actually committed an aphorism, “life could not be better. Eh, Peabody?” “Indeed, Emerson.” Not for worlds would I have cast a shadow on his good humor. Nor was there cause to do so; my fancies were no more than that, idle thoughts of a wandering mind. Yet the words kept going round and round in my head, like a broken gramophone record. “If she blames me for her mother’s death, how do you suppose she feels about you?” . . . “Tell her she hasn’t seen the last of me . . .” “The young serpent also has poisoned fangs.”

The Amelia Peabody Mysteries

Crocodile on the Sandbank When strong-willed Amelia Peabody’s studious father dies, Amelia decides to use her ample inheritance to travel. After rescuing a gentlewoman (Evelyn Barton-Forbes) in considerable distress, the two become friends and Amelia hires Evelyn to be her companion on the next leg of her trip, which takes them to Egypt. There Amelia encounters mysteries, missing mummies, and Radcliffe Emerson, an opinionated archaeologist who doesn’t need a woman’s help to solve the mystery — or so he thinks.

The Curse of the Pharaohs When Lady Baskerville’s husband Sir Henry dies after discovering what may be an undisturbed royal tomb in Luxor, she appeals to eminent archaeologist Radcliffe Emerson and his wife Amelia to take over the excavation. Amid rumors of a curse haunting all those involved with the dig, the intrepid couple proceeds to Egypt, where they begin to suspect that Sir Henry did not die a natural death, and they are confident that the accidents that plague the dig are caused by a sinister human element, not a pharaoh’s curse.

The Mummy Case Amelia and Emerson bring their young son Ramses along on this adventure, where they find themselves investigating the mysterious death of a dealer in illegal antiquities. Before long, mummy cases start appearing and disappearing and a second murder complicates the mystery. When it becomes clear that a Master Criminal is behind the mysterious goings on, Amelia determines to unmask the dastardly fiend.

Lion in the Valley Amelia finally gets her wish — she is returning to Egypt with her beloved husband and colleague in archaeology, Emerson, to excavate a pyramid. However, her excavation is quickly complicated by a disguised nobleman, distressed damsels, and a brilliant (and dashing!) Master Criminal. Amelia, with a pyramid to explore and a mystery to solve, is in her element.

The Deeds of the Disturber [PerfectBound e-book] This time Amelia doesn’t need to leave England to find murder and mayhem. When a night watchman at the British Museum dies with a terrified expression on his face in front of a "haunted" mummy case, Amelia knows she needs to get to the bottom of it.

The Last Camel Died at Noon In this affectionate tribute to H. Rider Haggard (King Solomon’s’ Mines) the Emerson family heads to the Sudan for the season, following an ancient map they hope will lead them to a secret oasis. What they find is one of the most perilous adventures of their lives.

The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog With the children at home in England pursuing their studies, Amelia and Emerson head back to Amarna for a dig that promises to be just like old times. The trip turns out to be more like old times than they plan, however: Emerson’s memory disappears, and Amelia must try to win his love again, amid peril from enemies both old and new!

The Hippopotamus Pool Popular, plucky 19th-century Egyptologist Amelia Peabody romps through her eighth archaeological adventure. When Amelia, her husband Emerson, and their thirteen-year-old son Ramses return to Egypt to begin excavation on an undisturbed Royal Tomb, they find themselves faced with a surprising new villain who is every bit as clever and resourceful as the intrepid Amelia herself!

Seeing a Large Cat Peabody and Emerson receive a warning: "Stay away from tomb Twenty-A!" Along the way to solving the mystery, the Emersons meet a spoiled young woman, an overprotective father, and an intelligent con artist — in addition to discovering that Ramses has grown from a precocious child to a teenage heartthrob. Ramses strikes out with his adopted cousin David and beautiful Nefret on adventures that are best not known to anybody . . . especially Amelia.

The Ape Who Guards the Balance Has all the elements necessary for a classic Amelia Peabody mystery: a dead body (mauled by crocodiles?), young lovers, a reunion of old friends (and enemies), archaeological discoveries — all recounted in Amelia’s own inimitable style. Excerpts from Manuscript H and letters from Nefret provide another perspective on the great detective and Egyptolologist.

The Falcon at the Portal David is accused of forging antiquities, and the Emerson clan springs into action to help clear his name. The romantic tension between Ramses and Nefret finally comes to a head, a body is discovered at Emerson’s excavation site, and the obnoxious cousin Percy reappears.

He Shall Thunder in the Sky It is 1914, the Emersons are in Egypt for another dig. Tensions within the family are heightened by World War I and a threatened invasion of Egypt by the Ottoman Turks. A dangerous game of spy vs. spy ensues, complete with deceit, deception, and disinformation.

Lord of the Silent Undeterred by world war and enemy submarines, Amelia Peabody once again sets sail for Egypt — where ghosts of an ancient past and specters of a present-day evil hover silently over an inscrutable land.

The Golden One A new year, 1917, is dawning, and the Great War that ravages the world shows no sign of abating. Answering the siren call of Egypt once more, Amelia Peabody and her family arrive at their home in Luxor to learn of a new royal tomb ransacked by thieves. Soon an even more disturbing outrage concerns the intrepid clan of archaeologists: the freshly and savagely slain corpse of a thief defiles the ancient burial site.

A Nice, Practical Career for a Woman: Some Questions for Elizabeth Peters, et al. Editor’s note: Barbara Mertzhas written nonfiction Egyptology books under her own name. As Elizabeth Peters, she is the author of many mysteries, including series starring Amelia Peabody, Vicky Bliss, and Jacqueline Kirby. As Barbara Michaels she has written gothic suspense novels. She is often addressed in correspondence and known to her in-the-know fans as "MPM" (for Michaels-Peters-Mertz). In total, MPM has published over sixty books — view the whole list here. MPM answers some frequently asked questions below.

What made you want to be a writer? I didn’t want to be a writer. I wanted to be an archaeologist. My parents wanted me to be a teacher — a nice, practical career for a woman. When they discovered, somewhat belatedly (I had been at the Oriental Institute for six months by then), that I had changed my major, they were bewildered. But, bless them, they didn’t try to make me change my mind. I still believe, with all my heart, that young people should be allowed to follow their own aspirations and inclinations, however impractical these may seem. If they don’t try, they will never know whether or not they might have succeeded.

And who’s to say what is practical? Egyptology was an impractical career, especially for a young married woman forty years ago. Writing was, and still is, an impractical career, because so few people succeed in earning a living that way. I was one of the lucky ones; and if I hadn’t been so obsessed with ancient Egypt — as I still am — I might not have noticed that I did enjoy writing, and that some people thought I was pretty good at it. But I’ve never regretted studying Egyptology, even though I was unable to make it my career.

So how did you become a writer? Luck, accident, or Fate! I had always been a compulsive reader. Sooner or later every compulsive reader finds herself thinking, "This isn’t a very good book. I’ll bet I could do better." So I tried. My first book, an espionage thriller, was written in collaboration with my then-husband. He provided the plot outline, I wrote the book. It was awful, partly because I was just learning how to write and partly because it wasn’t my kind of book. I wrote two more novels, solo, before I began to get a sense of what I wanted to write. Unfortunately, nobody wanted to publish that kind of book. It wasn’t until Mary Stewart and Victoria Holt hit the bestseller lists that publishers realized mysteries written by women, about women protagonists, could make money. (This despite the fact that authors like Phyllis Whitney had been doing it for years!) I finally sold my first mystery during this period. I’m not particularly proud of The Master of Blacktower[by Barbara Michaels], but I was able to sell it because it was what publishers were looking for just then. By that time I had learned that I loved to write, and I kept at it, learning with every book, and finally developing what I like to think of as my own style. Or is it styles?

So was The Master of Blacktower the first book you sold? The first book I sold wasn’t a mystery. I had despatched my early unappreciated mss. to every publisher in New York, every one of whom promptly returned them. When the third ms. made the rounds an editor at one of the publishing houses liked it. She couldn’t persuade her boss to buy it, but she recommended an agent. He couldn’t sell that book either, but without him I probably could not have sold the next, which was a nonfiction book on Egyptology. These days it is much more difficult to sell a book without an agent, and much more difficult to get a good agent. But it can be done.

Can you recommend others’ books to your agent? I’d like to help aspiring writers; I’d like to help everyone in this suffering world. But I can’t recommend a manuscript I haven’t read, by a person I don’t know, to my long-suffering and very busy agent. I am very fond of him and want to stay in his good graces.

Where do you get your ideas? I am sorry to say that this question has become something of a bad joke among writers. The only possible answer is: "Everywhere." You don’t get ideas; you see them, recognize them, greet them familiarly when they amble up to you. A few examples from my own experience: Reading Arthurian legends and articles about the Cadbury excavations inspired The Camelot Caper[by Elizabeth Peters]. An oddly shaped bag of trash some lout had tossed onto the shoulder of a country road make me think about bodies in trash bags and led eventually to the skeleton on the road, in Be Buried in the Rain[by Barbara Michaels]. Like all skills, this one can be honed with practice, but if you have to ask the question you probably shouldn’t try to write a novel or short story. And if you ask a writer who has heard that same question dozens of times, she may come back with some snappy answer like, "There’s a drugstore in North Dakota where I order mine."

How long does it take you to write a book? One is tempted to reply, "As long as it takes." The actual writing process is only the final step. You ought to have some idea of what you are going to write about before you put your fingers on the keyboard or clutch the pen, and that part of the process can take weeks or months or even years, as you mull over an elusive idea and try to develop it into a workable plot.

Sometimes I start writing with only a vague outline in mind, and have to go back to insert useful clues, develop characters, or even change the identity of the murderer! Naturally, it takes longer to write this kind of book. On rare and blissful occasions the book just flows along, without the necessity of major revisions. That happened to me with The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog[by Elizabeth Peters]. I wrote it in a little over two months — day and night, weekdays and weekends. However, I had already done most of the research, I had a very clear idea as to what would happen and when it would happen — the sequence, in other words — and I was intimately acquainted with most of the characters.

I know Amelia and Emerson so well by now that all I have to do is set up a situation and describe how they will inevitably react. It takes much longer for me to write a book about people I don’t know. I learn to know them as I write, and they have a nasty habit of developing in ways I didn’t anticipate. That’s when I have to go back and rewrite. I was halfway through Vanish with the Rose[by Barbara Michaels] before I realized that the person I had picked to be the murderer was obdurately refusing to kill anybody.

Are any of the characters in the Amelia Peabody mysteries based on real people? The main characters inspired by real people are Amelia Peabody (based on Victorian amateur Egyptologist Amelia B. Edwards) and Emerson (whose methodology has been attributed to William Flinders Petrie).

Do you have a schedule? No. I am not an organized person. However, when a deadline looms I can work like a demon, eight hours a day, seven days a week. Set schedules work for some people, not for others; but any writer who waits for "inspiration" to strike will never finish a book. Inspiration is all very well, but it will never replace sheer dogged determination.

Egyptian Diary: The Amelia Peabody Expedition

Over the 2000 Christmas holiday, Bill and Nancy Petty, of Museum Tours, led The Amelia Peabody Expedition in Egypt. I had dealt with them in the past, to my great satisfaction. Despite the unrest in the Middle East, which caused a few cautious souls to cancel, fifty people joined the tour — most of them Egypt buffs and fans of Amelia’s. I decided to go out a few weeks early, with a couple of friends, Dennis and Joel, before I joined the Expedition. Here are a few semi-coherent excerpts from the diary I kept as I went.

Dec. 11. It’s wonderful to be back in Cairo; makes the grisly ten-plus hours flight and the hours of waiting worthwhile. We arrived late afternoon Cairo time and were met by Khaled, one of Bill Petty’s super-efficient staff. He drove us straight to the hotel — though "straight" isn’t an accurate description, considering Cairo traffic. An early dinner and straight to bed, and tomorrow morning I’ll be back on schedule with no jet lag. It works.

Dec. 13. Off to Dahshur today, one of my favorite sites. I had hoped to get into the Bent Pyramid. It’s the only one of the major pyramids whose interior I have not visited. The SCA [the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities] had said they were planning to open it, but when we got there the scaffolding was still up and the entrance was closed. I was not inspired to make an illegal entry, though I’m sure Amelia would have. In her day it wasn’t illegal — just dangerous.

The Red Pyramid is open, but I’ve been there, done that. Not many tourists here, though it is a lovely day. The absence of tourist amenities — a rest house and souvenir stands — may deter some people. We ambled around the Red — circling pyramids is a tradition with us now — and then headed for the Black Pyramid. It really is an ominous-looking structure, having slumped into a sort of tower after the stone casing blocks were removed, exposing the dark mud brick core.

Can’t get into it, either! I would love to see the subterranean burial chamber, where Amelia and Emerson were tossed by the Master Criminal, and explore the maze-like passages within. (Twelfth Dynasty pyramids, unlike the earlier ones, have very complicated substructures; the tricks and traps didn’t stop thieves, though.) It would probably be an impossible job to shore up the collapsing walls and roofs, which were in bad shape even in Amelia’s day.

Dec. 14. Ramadan is in its last couple of weeks, which makes social engagements complicated. People have to wait until the official announcement of sundown, around five, before they can pitch into an elaborate meal, their first since before dawn — it’s called iftar, and one "takes iftar." So you don’t invite people to dinner at seven.

We had an engagement this evening with Mohammed Saleh, the charming and talented former director of the Cairo Museum, who took us to a cafe off in the city somewhere (I have no sense of direction) where we had shisha(water pipe) and coffee and plates of sweeties while we discussed a number of things. He offered to show us some of the restorations and behind-the-scenes stuff at the museum on Saturday.

In my usual state of profound confusion I called Khaled and asked him to postpone our trip to Luxor by one day, whereupon he patiently informed me that we weren’t due to leave until Sunday, anyhow. These senior moments are getting embarrassing.

Dec. 15. Dinner with Jocelyn this evening at the Oberoi restaurant in the Khan el Khalili. She had fed her family first; says that Ramadan is like cooking Sunday dinner every day; she starts around one p.m. (Apparently nobody has started a takeout for iftar. This expedient would be frowned on, no doubt. I get the impression that the meal must be home-cooked, elaborate, and of course prepared by the female.) So we had a good gossip and cruised the Khan, where I bought a few little things.

Dec. 17. Off to Luxor and the Old Winter Palace. The W.P. is no longer Luxor’s most elegant hotel — there are several newer, gaudier, five-star hotels. Nor is it the oldest: the Luxor, a favorite haunt of the Emersons, is still in operation. I wouldn’t stay anywhere but the W.P., though. The corridors are twelve feet wide, the ceilings are eighteen feet high, and it doesn’t take much imagination to see the halls and public rooms as much the way they were in the old days. The exterior is exactly the same, and it makes me feel like a Victorian lady archaeologist to walk up the curving stairs and cross the terrace. My suite has a balcony facing the river and I can look straight across toward Deir el Bahri and the Valley of the Kings.

Dec 23. I had contacted my archaeologist friends Debbie and John and made arrangements to go into the Western Desert with them. Their inspector — foreign archaeologists are required to have an Egyptian inspector with them — said it was okay for me to go, too. So on Saturday I hauled myself out of bed and got myself over to the West Bank by 8:30.

The process is somewhat complex. Usually we hire a boat and a car and driver for the West Bank and keep them for the entire stay. So the Mubarakwas waiting for me at twenty past eight, its captain up above on the embankment to make sure no other boatman would steal me away. In order to reach the boat you have to go down a series of ramps and steps, then along a cluttered, rusty sort of pier, stepping over coils of rope and various debris.

Then the captain puts out the gangplank — a piece of wood about eight inches wide, with a few strips of wood nailed across it — at a precarious angle and anchored equally precariously. I do not scruple to grab at any hand offered me. (Every time I come back from Egypt I think, "Well, I’ve done that forty or fifty times, and I haven’t fallen into the Nile yet.") Once in the boat you are standing on the seat, which is about a yard from the floor. I do not descend gracefully.

There were six of us in the Land Rover — John and Debbie and me, their inspector, the driver, and a guard. The guard is de rigueur for those going into remote areas. It’s remote, all right — I never know where I am, anyhow, but this terrain would baffle most people. There are some roads of sorts, but a good deal of the time one bounces over rocks the size of toasters, up and down slopes and into and out of small wadis. John and Debbie are doing some extraordinary work out here; they’ve added whole new chapters to parts of Egyptian history, and I’d suffer worse than a sore bum to see some of their sites. However, I did bring along a pillow from the hotel to sit on! Here’s an entry scribbled at the time:

"I sit high on the gebelat the Place of Horses — a defile at the top of a steep climb. How I got here, I don’t know; with great difficulty is the right answer. Remains of crude workmen’s huts at the base of one cliff, graffiti over a stretch of the rock face. (The barking dog is cute — Arabic words meaning ’woof woof’ come out of its mouth. But its implication isn’t so cute, since it represents a watchdog and was scratched there by modern locals who resent archaeologists messing around in their territory.) There are many spirited, if crude, sketches of horses and a prayer to Amon, Lord of the Silent, who saved the writer from drowning. Some so faint, hardly visible to the naked eye — with modern Arabic and older Coptic scribbles on top."

Dec. 24. Christmas Eve. Had a fancy dinner at the restaurant in the Old W.P., having made our reservations a couple of days before. It was all tarted up with electric candles in holly rings on the tables. Lots of cutlery. (I had a knife left over.) Music by a blonde, French chanteuse with silver sequins down her front, mostly Beatles and Elton John. Then Santa Claus in a tacky red suit, very dark face framed (sort of) in strips of dangling cotton wool. From his red bag he presented each guest with a few chocs wrapped in red cellophane. He was adorable. Stumbled off to bed at eleven, having eaten too much and drunk just enough wine.

Dec. 25. Hard to believe it is Christmas Day, with the shutters wide open and the sun shining on the western cliffs, and palm trees along the corniche. The gardens are bright with flowers — tall poinsettias, roses, coral vine, jasmine, bougainvillea, and other tropical blooms. The Winter Palace has a number of Christmas trees, in front and in the lobbies; nicely decorated ones, too. Everyone wishes us Merry Christmas. Ramadan is almost over; nobody seems quite sure whether it’s tomorrow or the next day. Lesser Eid, a three-day celebration, starts the following day. Happy Ramadan is Ramadan karim. Xmas dinner at Chicago House.

Dec. 26. I leave for Cairo this p.m. on the third of eight flights I will be taking this trip. The Expedition arrives tomorrow, and I want to be there to greet them. I’m sitting on my balcony, eating breakfast. What a way to live. The western cliffs form what appears to be a single massif directly across from Luxor. Paler paths winding up and across the face, clefts like parallel vertical strokes of a gray pencil. (Will I ever be able to describe it accurately?)

What must the Winter Palace have been like in Amelia’s day? No taxis, no paved road, but still directly below the terrace paved with ornamental tiles; to the right, the balcony of the Khedival suite; beyond it, the pillars of Luxor Temple and the minaret of the mosque. The British flag would have been flying instead of the red, white, and black of Egypt. Tour boats certainly, though perhaps not as many, and the office of Thomas Cook at the end of the curved arcade on the first level, where it has been for over a century.

The newspaper that is delivered most mornings is The Egyptian Gazette— gives me a kick to be reading the same paper the Emersons read back in 1914. Admittedly the service is erratic; energetic attendants keep taking things like glasses and laundry lists away, and never bring them back. (In fact most people don’t stay longer than a few days; my two-week stays throw everybody off base. They look astonished every morning to see me still there.)

The plane left an hour and a half late.

Cairo. Arrived at the Mena House Hotel (where Amelia and Emerson and Ramses dined with Howard Carter before the Master Criminal stole Ramses from off the top of the Great Pyramid) at about eight (Giza is a long way from Heliopolis) to find I had been upgraded to the Churchill suite. This place must be seen to be believed. Takes five minutes to walk from the living room to the bedroom, through dining and dressing rooms. The terrace is about the size of my whole downstairs at home, with the Great Pyramid looming. Bougainvillea in pots, including the white one I so admire. Over the living room couch is a huge circular mirror; the head of the bed is an equally immense gilded sunburst that reaches to the ceiling. Anything made of wood is carved; lamps are antique pierced brass; antique oriental rugs are laid over wall-to-wall carpeting. Bowls of red roses and baby’s breath in every room, plus huge arrangements of glads, etc; two plates of sweeties and fancy chocs, fruit bowl. The fittings in the bathrooms (one is really only a powder room) are gilded, swans and stuff. Marble floor and surrounds. I seem to have a personal butler, or so his card describes him. It’s pretty heady stuff for a girl who grew up in a small town in the Midwest.

Dec. 27. It was very foggy this a.m. Strange how guilty one feels about loafing. I swore I’d take it easy today but it has been something of an effort to stretch out on a lounge chair on the terrace and just lie there. (I think I’m getting the hang of it, though.) I can see the Great Pyramid from where I recline. Twelve noon and it is still foggy; the Great Pyramid remains a featureless silhouette, gray blue against a pale sky. A row of tour busses at its base. There is a yellow canopy over me and birds are flitting in and out. Every room on this side has a balcony, dark carved wood and pleasantly asymmetrical. This is the "Palace," the old part, which must look from the outside much as it did in A’s day.

Dec. 28. The Expedition arrived last evening, but I didn’t get a chance to greet them since they didn’t come into the lobby of the Palace and I was, er . . . in the bar with several friends who had dropped by. This a.m. they went to Giza. Reclining on my elegant terrace, I watched the buses roll up the hill, starting before eight. Dozens of them. It was understood that I wouldn’t accompany the group on all their trips; by the time I leave Egypt I will have been away for a solid month, and I am forcing myself to take it slow. I am now sitting on a balustrade outside the hotel waiting for my friends Salima and Nick.

Later. A super day. We went to Kerdasa, a suburb a few miles north, noted for its fine weavers. Many shops have been replaced by more modern establishments selling galabeeyahs and the inevitable t-shirts, but we found one place (after making a few minor purchases elsewhere) that was great. The owner had the jolliest laugh. Listening to Salima and the owner bargain in Arabic was wonderful; at one point she lowered her hand, indicating that the price was too high, whereupon the man instantly squatted. So did Salima. Big whoops of laughter from everybody.

He had nice woven stuff, beautiful rugs and some sensationally gaudy gowns and capes. Lots of gold. I like lots of gold. Bought two genuine black dresses like the ones I had seen proper Egyptian ladies wearing — was told later that they are Nubian, but I saw them in Luxor and elsewhere. They have long sleeves and a yoke, embroidered or trimmed, from which the gown hangs, with a flounce at the bottom. Both fit perfectly, since I am the same shape as many Egyptian ladies — round and short. The dresses are old, charming, and probably very dirty.

When the bargaining was completed the jolly chap wound round me a lovely woven scarf I had rejected — a present. (This is often done.) I thought the overall price was dirt cheap, but I suppose it represented a good day’s take. Foreign tourists don’t come here often. They were intrigued by my interest in the genooine dresses. One middle-aged lady in a similar frock and a close-fitting black headcloth (I haven’t seen a face veil since I got here, but all except "mod" city ladies wear the headcloth) darted out and came back with another — maybe she took it out of her closet, or her mother’s.

Then on to Abu Roash, for a day that combined frivolity (shopping) and Egyptology in exactly the right balance. The site is about five miles north of Giza, the northernmost of the pyramid sites. We bounced off into the desert, along bumpy tracks, back and forth and around and around. If I were only sixty again we could have taken a shorter route, climbing up the escarpment, but my dear buddies didn’t want to send me home in a cast or with terminal shortness of breath, so we finally found ourselves on top, right at the base of the pyramid. I had never been here before. The archaeologists (French-Swiss) weren’t working, so we had the place to ourselves. The pyramid, of which most is gone, belonged to Djedefre, Khufu’s son and successor. Why he moved here nobody knows; theories of dynastic infighting and religious differences are only speculation. Maybe he just liked the view. Or didn’t want to put his little bitty pyramid next to dad’s great monument. It’s very high up and a long way from the river. The causeway, whose line can be seen, but of which nothing remains, must have been very long and steep. Went halfway down the shaft to the burial chamber, which now lies open and exposed, since the greater part of the superstructure has been quarried away. Had I been sixty again I’d have gone all the way down, but it was steep and a bit slippery from there on.

We walked round the structure and then I managed to get to the top, with a lot of help from my friends. We had a picnic lunch atop the "pyramid" and then headed back, since I had to clean up for my first meeting with the Expedition members, drinks and dinner at one of the Mena House’s excellent restaurants. I went round from table to table, trying to say a few words to everyone. It will take me awhile to get to know them all, though there were a few old friends among them.

Dec. 30. I am fading, Egypt, fading. I am back in Luxor, but can’t remember how I got here. I must have arrived yesterday. When I got to the dear old Winter Palace I found Dennis and Joel awaiting me, as well as Bill and Nancy — who were wondering if I’d get there in time to make my second appearance at five that evening. I made it. Bill does things very elegantly; the reception was in the lovely old Victorian "tearoom" of the Winter Palace, where I circulated some more and had nice chats with people. Dinner in the fancy restaurant.

Dec. 31. Dennis and Joel and I were to meet Petty and the group at Deir el Bahri at one. We left the hotel about ten and took the ferry across. I like the ferry — it’s more than a bit grubby and more than a bit crowded, but there are no eight-inch gangplanks!

Stopped by Medinet Habu, where the Epigraphic Survey works. The manager of the restaurant across the street from the temple is an old buddy; we’ve had many a cup of tea and coke and several good meals there. He insisted on giving us a farewell cup of tea. Then we went on to Deir el Medina, where the boys started up the long slope to the path that leads to the Valley of the Kings. It’s steep, but not precipitous — just too long. Steps have been built, but everybody says they are harder on the legs than just climbing. Some day I may make it, but I am saving myself for the Expedition.

Ali, our driver, and I went on to Deir el Bahri after a brief stop at the Bedouin shop near the colossi. It’s owned by Ali’s daddy. Everybody on the West Bank is related to everybody else. After browsing a bit, on to Deir el Bahri, where I visited the restroom (someday I must write an article on Egyptian toilets). It’s in a building that was the old Cook’s rest house; I do hope they will restore it one day, since it’s a historic building and was well known to Amelia and Emerson.

Before long Ali let out a shout and pointed, and there they were, descending after the hike across the hill. The walk takes about an hour. Coming down looks trickier than going up, if not as hard on the lungs. Certain slopes are fairly steep, with only pebbles and debris underfoot.

There are three terraces at Deir el Bahri, Hatshepsut’s lovely temple. The lower two are open to the public, but the third is still being reconstructed. Bill had gotten permission for some of us to swagger past the barrier and go up all the way. They have done a lot since I was there two years ago — more of the Osiride colossi of Hatshepsut in place, some of the paving laid, some of the little shrines nicely cleaned. Much Egyptological gossip, then we went down and found Ali and dropped Bill and Nancy at the taftish(checkpoint) before stopping at the shop, where I bought a few little things.

I was a mess by then, hair all over the place, but managed to tidy up before Dennis and Joel arrived for our last sunset ritual — watching the sun go down from my balcony while sipping various beverages. They went away to dress and I slipped into my extravagant, ostentatious, beaded robe from "Miss Egypt," in which I daresay I looked rather like a Japanese pagoda, but who cares. The boys called for me, elegant in tux and dark suit, and we swept down the grand staircase of the Old Winter Palace in fine style. Cab to Chicago House, drinks, dinner, etc. Almost all of us stuck it out till midnight, when we put on funny hats and blew horns and everybody kissed everybody.

Jan. 1, 2001. Slept in (and did I need it) while the group went to the West Bank (good for them). No, I tell a lie. It was Luxor Museum and a free afternoon. Dennis and Joel left this morning but I did not see them off. Prolonged goodbyes are foolish. Went shopping with a couple of friends from Chicago House; I only bought a camel’s hair shawl, and some amulets for my "book covers" chain: Sobek, Set (so what if he looks like Anubis — I can call him Set if I want), Sekhmet, and Horus. Then kisses and "see you this summer" and I cleaned up a bit and went to Sabri’s lecture.

I’ve known Sabri el-Aziz slightly for years; have spent many boring hours sitting in his office at the taftish. A formal call at the taftish is part of the ritual when one arrives in Luxor. We had made ours a few days earlier, on Sabri’s successor as Director of the West Bank sites. He’d been bumped up since then, to be in charge of all the Upper Egyptian sites.

So I greeted Sabri with an Egyptian kiss (a chaste salut on each cheek), which almost made him faint with surprise. He’d fairly tall and thin, with receding hair and regular features and charming manners. He gave us a slide show "tour" which lasted exactly the proper time, though he had been late because of an appointment with some big shots from the SCA. His English is delightful, larded with favorite words that give it flavor. "Guys," for one. "These guys" who built the tombs and "other guys" who are archaeologists. He was funny, witty, and very informative. Began and ended with a moving statement that the monuments are the heritage of the entire world, not just Egypt. He is in charge of all the monuments of Upper Egypt, and he makes about $7,000 a year.

Jan. 2. One of the reasons why Luxor feels like my hometown is that I keep running into old friends. Yesterday it was Bob B; he was coming into the hotel as I was leaving it, both of us on our way to different places, so he and his wife and I agreed to have dinner this evening.

It’s misty tonight. The western cliffs are almost invisible behind a cloud, and the sun was white before it sank behind said cloudbank, with no pyrotechnical display. Now the lights are coming on along the west bank, including two lonely stars that mark the location of the guard posts high on the hill. Must be a lonely job — and a cursed long climb. What a contrast below, in the twilight. A tourist steamer heads south, lit up like a multi level parking lot (these boats really are awfully homely). Half a dozen feluccas, with their graceful triangular sails, glide by, and the little motorboats chug back and forth. They are gay with bright paint and (rather grubby) cushions and funny insignia.

Tour busses whiz past (well, they go fairly slowly; in fact, the traffic on the corniche includes bicycles, taxis, and carriages); two calechesfilled with Egyptians singing and chanting and beating a drum; the muezzin’s "Allahu Akhbar." I do so love this place. This is the last night in Luxor for this trip.

Later. Had a good time with the B’s this evening; they came to my room at six, with a bottle of wine. Rather than call room service, who had stolen the glasses again, I washed my tooth glasses.

Jan. 3. I seem to have gotten a slight second wind lately, partly because I haven’t done much except sit around, and partly because I am looking forward to spending more time with the Expedition. I will be on the boat with them from Assuan to Luxor, and then we have one more day in Cairo before flying out. (From then on it’s going to be grim — that grisly one-thirty a.m. flight home. All in all I have eight flights on this trip. Have I mentioned that before?)

Had lunch with some of the ladies from the tour and then wandered over to the arcade by Abouti’s to look for a slip. (I lost mine in Cairo — don’t ask how.) No luck of course.

Abouti’s is the best bookstore in Luxor for Egyptological stuff, but its selection of fiction is pretty limited. Have seen my French editions at two places in Luxor, plus one German. None of the English. Transitions are a pain — packing, looking for missing articles, cashing travelers’ checks, paying bills, tipping everybody. The first part of the trip was fine — I even got a smile and a handshake from the grumpy guy at the bank. It isn’t surprising that he is grumpy; some of his customers are rude and unreasonable. He’d been very nice since the time during Ramadan when I walked in to find him reading from the Koran; I immediately stepped back and told him to finish his chapter or whatever, that I could wait. I was rewarded when he asked if I would like him to read aloud. It was beautiful — sung rather than read, in a sonorous baritone. He had studied to be a muezzin.

Later. I’m getting to know Luxor airport (excuse me, International Airport — there are direct flights from Gatwick in England) only too well. The plane was on time, meaning it left only half an hour late. (U.S. lines don’t do any better.) You’re barely up before you come down; flying time is only about twenty minutes. There was an interminable wait for baggage, so Khaled and Bill had been waiting some time and were becoming agitated. I suppose losing mewould be a black mark.

On board. They are very nice to me. The suite isn’t much, a tiny sitting room and bedroom and no whirlpool! — but it’s the best the boat offers. There are some lovely old Turkoman rugs and a TV (can’t get anything on it), and everything is spotlessly clean. Even Amelia would approve. This boat, like many others here, belongs to the Queen Nabila line. We’re right up against the dock, but the boats are lined up side by side as usual, two or three deep, and from my plate glass window I can see — another set of identical windows. For about ten minutes I had a lovely view of the river while one boat pulled away, but another one promptly took its place.

Jan. 4. Most of the gang went to Abu Simbel this morning. They had to get up at four-thirty. Need I say I did not go with them? (Been there.) Shopped the suk with Bill and Nancy instead. Suk is more authentic than Luxor, but I fear the good local handicrafts are fading out, to be replaced by t-shirts and junk. Bought spices and three embroidered pillowcases, not nearly as nice as the ones at Luxor just last year. Work is cruder, colors gaudier.

After lunch (the food is fatteningly good and hard to resist), we took feluccas to Elephantine Island. More damned wobbly eight-inch gangplanks! The old museum, once the home of the engineer who designed the first dam, looks odd with its Victorian trim and wide veranda. We visited it a couple of years ago, poor shabby neglected place, and the curator was pathetically grateful for company. So I didn’t go in. Most of the good stuff has been removed to the new Assuan Museum. Wish I could say something sensible about the excavations, which were closed to visitors last time I was here; they are extensive and fascinating, but it was a maze to me. There’s no guidebook and the only publications are in obscure (to me) German professional journals.

Jan. 5. Went to the Assuan Museum alone; I had never seen it. On entering whom should I see but John and Debbie — I love these serendipitous encounters; they only happen to me in Egypt! But John was all bandaged and battered from an accident: A truck ahead of them turned a corner too fast and dumped a boulder on the front of the Land Rover, shattering the window and more. You see trucks like that on the road all the time, overloaded and without tailgates. It’s a miracle more people aren’t injured. (Maybe they are.)

It’s a splendid museum — beautiful architecture, objects well displayed — and John and Debbie were wonderful guides. We went back to town about eleven and found a place on the corniche — lower level, actually on the water. They had lunch and I kerkedah— a deep red, sweet, ice cold drink made from stewed hibiscus blossoms. Resisted the urge to purchase the blossoms in the suk this year — in Egypt it is delicious, when I make it at home it tastes awful! The boat was to sail at 12:30. I figured I might have some difficulty finding it, since I had been warned it would be moved, preparatory to sailing. I was right, but we did find it eventually. John and Debbie saw me to the gangplank of the innermost boat (docked where ours had been this morning) where we met a couple of other people from the tour, who greeted me and I them with shouts of joy. We had to go through three boats to reach ours; they tie them up so that the lobbies adjoin, and it’s kind of interesting to see what other boats are like.

I’ve gotten to know most of the people by now and have chatted with most, though I will never get everybody’s name straight; I’m hopeless about names. This is a great bunch. Phil and Kathe came back from shopping with a bottle of gin for me. That’s what you get when you expose your vices and complain aloud (there is no gin at the bar of the boat.) It’s Egyptian gin and probably quite vile, but what a sweet thought — n.b., I brought it down to the bar next night and made everybody sample it. Tasted like grappa or anisette! After I had swilled some down someone told me I shouldn’t have because sanitation is questionable; but I figured 90 proof alcohol would kill most everything.

Lunch on the upper deck, then departure. I do like sailing. The weather is perfect, sunny, and not too windy. My window faces east. There’s not much village life, only lots and lots of palms, with the golden brown hills behind. Road and railroad on this bank from Hammadi south; sometimes they run close to the river, so you can see a car or a train.

Jan. 6.We arrived at Edfu last night and tied up, if that is the phrase. Bill had the gang off the boat at seven a.m. to see the temple. I watched them complacently through a slit in my curtains as they got into carriages. It’s a bustling, busy scene. Across the street, shops display the conventional tourist stuff, galabeeyahsand those gaudy sequined shifts, shawls, and scarves. Racks of Baraka bottles, Coke, and soft drinks; a cafe with plastic chairs of red and yellow. The occupants of an apartment building across the street have hung their bedding and clothes out to air, over the edge of the balconies. Two elegant old wrought-iron Victorian style lampposts flank the top of the stairs that lead up to the street from the waterfront. The steps are crumbling and uneven, and sometimes, depending on where the boat docks, you have to pick your way over broken concrete and stones to reach the steps.

It’s all part of the Egyptian experience. . .

Bill has certainly kept the gang busy. When they aren’t rushing around at odd hours seeing sites, they are being entertained. The first night at Aswan it was Nubian dancing — a lot of horseplay (pun: part of it was two guys in a horse suit) — but some was quite splendid and the drums and tambourines were expertly played. For one song a little old gent in a turban strode in and tootled on a pipe along with the drums.

Part of the fun is dragging the tourists up to dance — I’m sure the locals find it very funny — and I finally got dragged up too and made, I am sure, a perfect idiot of myself, but I got lots of applause. I wore my Nubian lady’s black dress with a deep ruffle around the hem. Everybody was supposed to wear Egyptian garb, and some of the outfits were great. These people are really good sports — they’ll try anything.

Next night was Victorian night, in honor of Amelia, and I made an exhibition of myself again trying to waltz with Phil. Stepped all over his feet. The dear person whirled most of the women round the floor to Strauss waltzes. None of the other men danced, poor shy things. Last night was Bill’s mystery, featuring stolen antiquities and a gold dagger and a corpse on the bed in the spare room. Bill was very funny as Lord Carnivore, in plus fours and Holmes hat, stick, and huge calabash pipe. Everybody entered into it with great good spirits, but we didn’t solve the mystery. We were having such a good time we failed to notice the suspects sneaking out of the room at important moments. There are a few other groups on the boat — French and Spanish, I think — who must think we are mad. We take over the saloon every night and carry on outrageously. There is a lot of talent in this bunch. They sing, they dance, they write skits and perform them, all with an engaging lack of inhibition.

Some of these nice people have brought books all the way from the states for me to sign. Others packed voluminous fancy garments — Victorian gowns and Edwardian blouses and extravagant hats — so they could participate in the various entertainments. People get confidential in such surroundings and I’ve heard more than once that a particular book "helped me through a bad time." I’m so pleased if that is true. I just wrote the way I felt, not with any aim in mind except entertainment, but it makes me feel great to hear such comments.

Several of them have done Amelia tributes during our amateur talent hours; one, a Gilbert and Sullivan takeoff, got huge cheers (esp. from me) and I hope I get a copy of it, as I requested. Another time a bunch of them got together and did a "sound and light" performance, with friends in the audience shining flashlights, and deep voices intoning "Emerson! Peabody!" from the shadows. It was marvelous. I laughed till I cried. The gang is divided into three groups for purposes of site-visits, each under the supervision of Bill or a cohort. Leaders of all such groups carry signs or umbrellas or something, as a rallying point; Bill’s people carried signs reading "Ramses," "Amelia," or "Emerson." I love it.

Last day of cruise.I think I’ve managed to chat privately with everybody, including the very shy ones. Also gave two talks — "conversations," rather. The second one had to be postponed, for a rather interesting reason: I was preceded by a talk by the four guides, two handsome, intelligent guys and their pretty, intelligent wives, discussing Islam. The group was immensely responsive, curious, and open-minded, and it was going so well that when Bill interrupted to introduce me, I stood up and said I thought it would be a pity to stop the discussion. I would talk another time, whenever they wanted. So it went on for over an hour, and was continued next morning, on deck. One would like to think, wistfully, that a few lines of sympathy and communication have been opened. My talks were the usual — all about the books.

The locks at Esna are the big sticking point for boats traveling between Aswan and Luxor. Low water levels and congestion make it impossible to schedule arrivals at Luxor. We got through late at night, and were in Luxor next a.m. After some strolling and (guess what) shopping, we left for the airport to catch the ten p.m. flight. Arrived in Cairo about eleven but didn’t get out of the airport for a long time; they are very touchy about security, esp. for large groups on buses. We had to sit while they collected an escort, or swept the surrounding streets, or something. Nice room at the Nile Hilton — my usual — balcony on two sides, overlooking the river.

I was wakened next a.m. at nine-thirty by a call from Salima and made a date to meet her at the Museum after noon. Accompanied by a few chosen souls, I inspected the animal mummies room, which is Salima’s specialty, and then started looking for her office — where I had been a number of times. Could I find the damned place? Of course not. A knowledgeable guard finally set me straight, and we spent a few minutes looking at some fun things, including several of the royal mummies that are awaiting their fancy new cases, and then wandered the museum for a while looking at some of my favorites. The back entrance of the hotel is just across the street from the Museum — very handy.

Later. Salima came by for a final drink and put me together — repacking bags, collecting scattered objects — and then I got on the bus with the gang for dinner and a visit to the Khan el Khalili before we caught the plane at, oh, god, one thirty a.m. I love the Khan el Khalili. It may not look exactly as it did when Amelia went there, but It’s close enough for me. I almost always get lost, but that’s part of the fun; one is never in the slightest danger and there’s always some amiable soul around who will respond to pleas for directions. Elia, Mahmud’s pretty wife, went with me this time. Maybe she was taking no chances on losing me at the last minute! We found a shop. . . Enough about my extravagance.

One of the gals had brought a whole suitcase full of cat food, which she distributed; the Khan is full of cats, all hungry, all lean. There was one touching moment when someone offered food to a kitten curled up on a cushion outside one shop. The owner began chirping — "kitty, kitty" is not how one calls cats in Egypt — and "his" cats came running. We fed them all. He thanked us with enormous grace. "I must feed my children first," he said. Went straight to the heart. Unlike dogs, which are unclean, cats are favored — did not the Prophet allow his cat to sleep on his sleeve? — but they just can’t afford to feed them all, much less neuter them. So far as I know there is no spay-neuter clinic in Cairo; but I wouldn’t be surprised if one got started. Our group was discussing it later and they include some determined folk.

After an excellent dinner at a hotel in the Khan, and a lot of sentimental speeches, we were off to the airport and an interminable wait; plane left on time, though, and I collapsed and dozed till NY. The usual delay getting bags, no problem with customs — and the first sight I saw when I emerged was Kristen’s beaming face, the second Tim’s beaming face. They put me in the car, which they had driven up early that morning, and took me home.

Epilogue. I wish I could describe in detail just how enjoyable this trip was for me. I’ve never met a nicer group of people — unfailingly courteous, thoughtful, intelligent, interested, and full of gusto. I hope to keep in touch with all of them.

— Elizabeth Peters

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