Children of the Storm by Elizabeth Peters Page B

Ramses’s eyebrows tilted up in amused inquiry. “Are you asking for our advice, Mother? A penny for our thoughts?”
    “I’ll give you mine for nothing,” Nefret declared. “We can trust Cyrus completely, and I for one am tired of secrets. I move we tell him everything.”
    “Quickly, before Father comes back,” Ramses added.
    Since I was of the same mind, I did so. Cyrus was only too familiar with Sethos’s former criminal activities, since he had been involved in several of our encounters with our old adversary. He had not heard of Sethos’s courageous and dangerous exploits as a British secret agent, but—he claimed—it came as no surprise to him. I explained that I could not go into detail, since Sethos’s activities, and those of Ramses, were covered by the Official Secrets Act.
    “That’s all right,” Cyrus said. “I don’t need to know the details, I saw some of the results. Back in 1915, when Ramses ended up in bed for a week, just after the first Turkish attack on the Canal had failed, I began to wonder how he got those particular injuries. Not from falling off a cliff, not him! David was hurt even worse; he was in on it too, wasn’t he? I kept my mouth shut, since it wasn’t any of my business. Then there was that interesting episode the following year, when Sethos suddenly turned up out of nowhere and helped catch a German spy. But even if he and Ramses were in cahoots in that job, it doesn’t explain why you are so intimate with the fellow now.”
    “No,” I admitted.
    “There’s Father,” said Ramses, who had been watching for him. “Get it out, Mother.”
    I didn’t want Emerson sputtering and arguing either, so I said in a rush, “Sethos is Emerson’s half-brother. Illegitimate, I regret to say, but no less kin and in recent years no less kind. Hmmm. That doesn’t sound quite right . . .”
    “I get the idea,” Cyrus said in a strangled voice. “Holy Jehoshaphat, Amelia! I won’t say I didn’t suspect there was some relationship, but—”
    “I will of course inform Emerson that you have been made aware of the situation,” I said hastily, for Emerson was mounting the stairs two at a time. “But he is easier to deal with if he is presented with a fait accompli. Otherwise he wastes time arguing and going into long-winded—”
    “Mother!” Ramses said loudly.
    “Quite. Not a word to anyone else, Cyrus. Except to Katherine, of course. I trust her discretion as I trust yours.”
    “Never,” Cyrus assured me.
    Bertie had said very little. He seldom got a chance to say anything, for he was too well-bred to interrupt and too modest to differ with the admittedly dogmatic statements to which the rest of us are somewhat prone. His ingenuous countenance was a study in astonishment, but he found voice enough to express his sentiments.
    “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your confidence, ma’am.”
    “You have earned it, Bertie,” I said warmly. “And I know I can depend on you to keep the information strictly to yourself.”
    “Of course. You have my word.”
    “Word about what?” Emerson demanded, looming over me.
    “Never mind, my dear,” I replied. “Do you want coffee?”
    “No. We had better be getting back. There is nothing more we can do until we receive answers to our messages. I have work to do.”
    “Your article? Quite right, Emerson.”
    Emerson rubbed the attractive dimple (or cleft, as he prefers to call it) in his chin. “Oh. That article. There’s no hurry, Peabody. I thought I might go to the site this afternoon for a few minutes. Nefret, the light will be perfect for photographs.”
    “I’m sorry, Father.” Nefret’s smile was warm, but she spoke firmly. “I promised the twins I would take them to visit Selim this afternoon, to play with his children. I can’t disappoint them.”
    “Oh. No, you mustn’t disappoint them. Ramses—”
    “Emerson, you know their visit to Selim is a Friday-afternoon custom,” I said. “Ramses looks