Children of the Storm Read Free Page A

parents, and the welfare of those precious little beings (who were trying to climb the back of the settee in order to get at the Great Cat of Re) would surely restrain their recklessness.
    FROM MANUSCRIPT H
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    “Something rather odd happened today,” Ramses said.
    He and Nefret were dressing for dinner—not in formal evening attire, since his father only permitted that annoyance on rare occasions. However, a change of clothing was usually necessary after an hour with his offspring, since various substances, from chocolate to mud, somehow got transferred from them to any surface they came in contact with.
    Nefret didn’t answer. Her head was tilted, her expression abstracted. She was listening to the shrieks of laughter and meaningless chatter that floated in through their open window from the window of the children’s room farther along the corridor. They were supposed to be asleep, but of course they weren’t. Ramses was used to the sounds, but he forgot what he had been about to say as his eyes moved over the figure of his wife, seated before her dressing table. She hadn’t put on her frock yet; her white arms were raised, her slim fingers coiled the long golden locks into a knot at the back of her neck. He went to her and replaced her hands with his, running his fingers through her hair. It felt like silk.
    She smiled at him, her eyes seeking the reflection of his face in the mirror. “I’m sorry, darling; did you say something?”
    “I can’t remember.”
    “Hurry and dress. I want to look in on the children before we go to dinner.”
    He took his hands away. “All right.”
    THE SOUNDS OF THE CHILDREN’S voices had died into silence by the time they left the house. It was several hundred yards from the main house, hidden from it by the trees and shrubs his mother had forced to defy the sandy soil and lack of rain. Lanterns lit the winding path that led through the greenery, and the scent of roses filled the night with sweetness.
    “I love this place,” Nefret said softly. “I didn’t expect to, you know. I had originally hoped we could be just a wee bit farther removed from the family.”
    “It was just like Mother to have the house built without consulting us, but she’s stuck to her word to respect our privacy. Even Father doesn’t drop in without asking permission first.”
    Nefret chuckled, a sound that always reminded her infatuated husband of flowing, sunlit water. “Not since the time he popped in and caught us in bed at five in the afternoon.”
    “He’s in no position to criticize. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve sat twiddling my thumbs waiting for him while he and Mother were up to the same thing.”
    They weren’t too late after all. Emerson had just entered the parlor, delayed this time not by dalliance but because he had got involved in his notes.
    “Where is your copy of the inscription we found on the wall of that house?” he demanded of his son.
    “You might at least say ‘Good evening’ before you begin badgering him,” his wife remarked.
    “Good evening,” said Emerson. “Ramses, where is—”
    Thanks to the interruption, Ramses had been able to recall the inscription to which his father presumably referred. He hadn’t thought of it for several months. “If you mean the inscription of Amennakhte, it’s in my notes. Didn’t I give them to you? I was under the impression that I had.”
    He knew he had. No doubt Emerson had misplaced it. His desk was always a disorganized, overflowing heap of material. He could usually lay his hand on any given document at any given moment, but if it didn’t turn up immediately he lost his temper and began throwing papers around.
    “Hmph,” said Emerson.
    “Have you lost it?” Nefret asked. “It must be there somewhere, Father. I’ll help you look, if you like.”
    “Bah.” Emerson reached for his pipe. “Thank you, my dear, but that