He Shall Thunder in the Sky by Elizabeth Peters Page A

might have supposed that with a war going on, people would have better things to do than engage in idle gossip, but within a few days the news of Ramses’s latest escapade was all over Cairo. I was informed of the impertinent interest of others in our affairs by Madame Villiers, whose expressions of concern served as an excuse for her real motive (malicious curiosity) in ringing me up. As the mother of a plain, unmarried daughter, Madame could not afford to alienate the mother of an eligible unmarried son, though I could have told her Celestine’s chances were on the order of a million to one. I did not tell her, nor did I correct her version of the story, which was wildly inaccurate.
         Not quite as inaccurate as I had first supposed, however. One of the things she told me roused my curiosity to such an extent that I decided I must question Ramses about it.
         We were all together on our roof terrace, taking tea and occupied in various ways: Emerson muttering over his notebook, Nefret reading the Egyptian Gazette , and Ramses doing nothing at all except stroking the cat that lay beside him on the settee. He was his usual self, uncommunicative and outwardly composed, though for a while his face had presented an unattractive piebald appearance — one cheek smooth and brown, the other greasily green and bristly. Like love and a cold, the use of Kadija’s miraculous ointment could not be concealed. From her Nubian foremothers she had inherited the recipe to whose efficacy we had all become converts, though not even Nefret had been able to determine what the effective ingredients might be. It had had its usual effect; the swelling and bruising were gone, and only a thin red line marked his lean cheek.
         “Is it true that Percy was present when you were attacked the other evening at the Club?” I inquired.
         Nefret lowered the newspaper, Emerson looked up, and Seshat let out a hiss of protest.
         “I beg your pardon,” said Ramses, addressing the cat. “May I ask, Mother, who told you that?”
         “Madame Villiers. She usually gets her facts wrong, but there would seem to be no reason for her to repeat such a story unless there was a germ of truth in it.”
         “He was present,” Ramses said, and said no more.
         “Good Gad, Ramses, must we use thumbscrews?” his father demanded hotly. “Why didn’t you tell us? By heaven, he’s gone too far this time; I will —”
         “No, sir, you won’t. Percy was not one of my antagonists. In fact, it was he who brought Lord Edward Cecil onto the scene in time to — er — rescue me.”
         “Hmph,” said Emerson. “What do you suppose he’s up to now?”
         “Trying to worm his way back into our good graces, I suppose,” I said with a sniff. “Madame said that on several occasions he has spoken up in Ramses’s defense when someone accused him of cowardice. She said Percy said that his cousin was one of the bravest men he had ever known.”
         Ramses became very still. After a moment he said, “I wonder what put that extraordinary notion into his head.”
         “What is extraordinary is the source,” Emerson said gruffly. “The statement itself is true. Sometimes it requires more courage to take an unpopular stand than to engage in heroics.”
         Ramses blinked. This, together with a slight nod at his father, was the only sign of emotion he allowed himself. “Never mind Percy, I cannot imagine why any of us should care what he thinks of me or says about me. Is there anything of interest in the Gazette , Nefret?”
         She had been staring at her clasped hands, frowning as if she had discovered a blemish or a broken fingernail. “What? Oh, the newspaper. I was looking for a report about Mr. Russell’s failed raid, but there is only a brief paragraph saying that Wardani is still at large and offering a reward for information leading to his