Reflections in the Nile (30 page)

Chloe waited until the sound of Cheftu's rapidly departing footsteps had faded. Then she went to the trunk left her by Thut. Life was spinning out of control, and though she had resolved to make this century work for her for now, marriage to a prince, though he wasn't as bad as she had originally thought, had not been in the bargain. There had to be some solution. Despite her best efforts, she could think of no feasible alternatives. She sat silently, staring, until the knock on the door.

Two servants entered an unwieldy object balanced between them. Chloe dismissed them and began to unwrap the linen. The box was two cubits square. She pried off the top and the sides fell away, revealing a Thutmosid creation.

It was graceful and very, very large. Chloe looked at the detailed painting and felt blood pound into her cheeks. “He said he would get me and he has,” she whispered. Was this a sample of what he expected on their wedding night?

The art was two-dimensional, but it only made the pictures that much more graphic. Couples gamboled around the vase, and Chloe looked over her shoulder, almost expecting to see Mimi and her mother. She threw the linen over it, shaking and flushed. The
Kama Sutra
in plastercraft.

Another knock.

Meneptah entered eyes downcast, a vial in his hand. “His High Lord Cheftu said to mix half of this with wine and you should be rested by afternoon, my lady.” He backed toward the door, intent on exiting. “One more thing, my lady,” he said. “D'vorah went to her village and will return shortly to attend you.”

“Please thank her, and tell her there is no need. I am to be wed tonight.”

Meneptah looked stunned. “My … my … lord has not mentioned such a thing,” he stuttered.

“Haii!
Well, it seems Thutmosis only today received a reply from the Great House.”

Meneptah frowned “Thutmosis?”

“Aye. He had Hatshepsut, living forever! void my engagement to Lord Nesbek.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, his voice calm again. “I wish you happy, my lady. What a great honor.”

She walked to him and lifted his chin with one long finger. “There is no honor in marrying someone I neither know nor love. I had no say in this matter.” She turned away, whispering, “Holy Osiris!”

“Pharaoh's power is absolute, my lady.”

Chloe's voice was taut and strained. “Go from me now, Israelite. Pray to God for me, for I need his aid.”

He left, and Chloe wondered at her words. She believed in God enough to think of him with capital letters but had never believed he intervened in people's lives on a personal level. That was up to the individual. In this case, herself.

The garden beckoned her. It was a lovely Egyptian day, one she would remember for a long time to come, it seemed. Mentally she shrugged away the acceptance of the situation that seemed to be threatening her on every side. She'd somehow get out of this.

She knelt beside the trunk and looked through the clothing and jewelry left there. There remained enough to be suitably dressed for her wedding tonight. She questioned the “other,” for there was a ritual dress in which a priestess married. Maybe if the clothes were not here, she could barter for a few more days? It would give her more time to make escape plans. To her dismay, she found the pectoral of her office and the matching horn-and-disk headdress. She could marry legally.

It was just noon. Chloe paced her room, wondering how to pass the day. What she wouldn't give for a book, anything to take her away from these next few hours.

The Egyptian half of her mind knew what a boon was being bestowed upon her. Once Thutmosis got her pregnant, her life would be hers to order as she saw fit—demanding separate living quarters or spending her days sketching in relative luxury. She could even hire a slave to take care of the child when it came. If she could get pregnant. She clenched her hands into fists. To have to know Thutmosis intimately … Oh, God, please,
couldn't
it be someone else!

The sibilant whisper of RaEm's mind urged her to take this easiest path, told her it would not be as bad as she anticipated. The prince would treat her differently once she was his.

Her twentieth-century mind bristled at the thought belonging to any man with no say in the matter, despite his rank.

She had never wanted to marry, but then she doubted she had ever been in love. All her life people had told her that one day she would meet Mr. Right and then she would want a permanent relationship. Or would it be His High Lord Right? Chloe kicked
that
thought in the groin. Cheftu had made it abundantly clear she should marry Thutmosis.

She crossed the room and picked up the vial, warm from the sun.

I'm not supposed to be here. My interference in this time could change all of history, she thought. Although Chloe didn't think
she,
individually, was that important, every show or book she could remember about time travel emphasized that history should not be changed. If each person was like a stone thrown into a pool … the ripples could rock a boat, if far enough away. What kind of ripple could my presence cause? I can't go through with this—no matter what the cost. Any chance to get away, I've got to take it.

CHAPTER 10

B
y sundown Chloe was dressed. Another serving girl had come; Chloe hadn't even bothered asking her name. She stared at her Egyptian reflection, ready to wed Horus-in-the-Nest, soon to be the Mighty Bull of Ma'at. The slave had left, leaving Chloe a few minutes to herself before the chariot arrived to bear her away.

They were to be married at a small temple on the bank of the Nile. There would be no honeymoon except for tonight. Thutmosis didn't want to leave the Israelite situation. She would be moved to the harem except for the nights.

She drank from the vial Meneptah had brought, instantly feeling it course through her veins. Cheftu had suggested only half, yet she'd taken the whole thing. She hoped it wouldn't be fatal. It was now a lot easier to step away and observe herself; she felt almost ethereal. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the scent of flowers from outside the door. The silver-and-white image in the mirror opened her eyes anew. Chloe smiled, and the priestess RaEmhetepet smiled back.

There was a knock on the door, and Chloe turned to it. When Cheftu entered she felt the familiar jolt of attraction shoot through her. He was dressed in white and blue, the long cloak of his office falling from his shoulders to his leather-shod feet. His stare blazed from beneath lapis-painted lids, and the lapis stones hanging from his ears reflected the torchlight.

He stood close to her, so close she could feel his warm breath on her face. Languidly RaEm raised her eyes to his and saw his withdrawn expression. “His high and mighty Lord Cheftu,” she drawled. “Did not your mother tell you that frowning all the time will give you lines on your face?” She saw the angled muscle in his jaw clench as he held his tongue.

RaEm reached up a hennaed hand and stroked his smooth cheek. “Do you know that I can count on one hand the times I have seen you smile? I can count with a closed fist the times you have smiled at me. I want to see you smile, mighty lord.” She resolved in her drug-fuzzed mind to change his dour expression. With a wicked lift of her silver-painted eyebrows, RaEm grabbed Cheftu between the legs. His expression
did
change— from surprise, to shock, to anger, and, as she continued to hold him through his kilt, feeling him lengthen and harden, to resentful desire.

She threw back her head and laughed, and Cheftu's face darkened with fury. “I am not your toy, RaEm,” he said through gritted teeth. With a hard hand he grabbed her wrist, putting pressure on the bones until she was forced to release her prize. Still holding her wrist, he looked into her eyes.

“So, even now you would take another man? Go to your husband with my seed still sticky on your thighs?” His smile was humorless. “I would be careful, priestess; I might have been young, and Nesbek jaded, but you are going to marry a man who will, eventually, be pharaoh. He will kill you if you are unfaithful.
That
would be justice.”

He stood silent, his chest rising and falling as he tried to regain a measure of self-control. “I have come to escort you to the temple, as it is unseemly for Thutmosis to do so. I do not know why he does not just bed you, as most of Egypt has.” His gaze was dark with disgust. “It is sad to see a man with such potential overcome with lust for such a slattern. However, he is only a man. I, for certain, am no Feather of Truth concerning you!”

His voice filled with a bitterness that raked across the priestess. The sharp pang of loss stunned Chloe beyond the effects of the drug. Within herself, she cringed. What was perfectly natural for RaEm was unthinkable to her. Unfortunately she had done it, had succumbed to the impulse to get his attention. Bloody hell, she'd gotten it.

The Egyptian mind within her was stunned. Lord Cheftu had spoken blasphemy! Each pharaoh was the god incarnate, so much more than a man. Cheftu's words could get him killed.

Chloe felt a deep stain of humiliation cover her face and chest, most of which was exposed. She recoiled from the revulsion in Cheftu's face; she could feel his flesh shrink from hers. She was an abomination in his sight; he would be pleased to be rid of her.

With a painful realization Chloe admitted she would miss him. Each day without seeing him was dark, and each time she did see him, a little more of the intimidating mask he wore would slip, revealing a man she greatly admired … and liked.

She turned on her heel; she had to try. “I am so sorry, Cheftu! I know not what pain I have caused you. I wish—oh, how I wish things could be different!
Haii-aii!
For the love of Isis, help me!” Humiliated and shocked at her outburst, Chloe walked away, back stiff, praying the floor would open beneath her.

Cheftu stared at RaEm's nearly bare back. Her skin glowed like warm amber in the torchlight. The simple white sheath molded to her rounded hips and fastened around her newly trim waist with a silver cloth. She wore a formal braided wig, the tip of each braid banded in silver. The silver horns of her office rose a cubit in the air, making her whole appearance seem even longer and leaner than reality.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. She no longer wore a heavy fragrance; now it was light and fresh, reminding him of green gardens filled with laughter and joy … a garden they had known only once. He ground his teeth. By the gods, this was not helping. Underneath his blue-and-white headcloth he could feel a headache beginning. Acid bubbled in his stomach like
rekkit
soup. This night from hell was not even under way; a headache was not a good omen. Once again he directed his thoughts to the silver statue across the room.

Nothing made sense. RaEm was driving him to madness! He could never predict her behavior. On the one hand she was brazen, crude, and available to any male, not attributes to recommend her to Cheftu. On the other … ? RaEm turned to face him, expressionless, and Cheftu looked, really looked at her for the first time.

It had been years since he had seen RaEm after… well, after. Many Inundations of travel and experience. He had grown and matured during that time, was no longer the disjointed, gangling youth he'd been. Surely in that time RaEm would have changed, too? How much change could be from maturation? He would almost swear on the sacred bull of Apis that her face had changed—not just filled out, but that the bone structure was actually different. A pity ancient Egyptians didn't keep portraits, Cheftu thought. Hapuseneb had said she looked different, but Cheftu had ignored his words, at the time more engrossed in Alemelek's revelations and death.

The light touched her features, her long, straight nose, her slanting cheekbones, the tiny cleft in her chin. Cheftu blinked, trying to look through a haze of time and prejudice. Her lips were fuller, her forehead not so broad, her features not so flat. He felt as though he were straining forward, trying to see an image through a veil.

RaEm seemed to come back to herself, and Cheftu jerked when he realized the standard-bearers were beating on the door. RaEm walked to him, and Cheftu realized that she was taller than before. She had always been taller than most women—indeed, even than some men. She used to come up to Cheftu's chin, yet now they could see almost eye to eye.
Much taller
. How much of this was the difference between an inexperienced, innocent child barely into puberty and the jaded older woman before him?

Excitement mounted within him, and he dared to wonder. Was it possible? Could his fondest hope that he was not unique, not alone, be true? Quickly he reviewed his recent association with her. More and more seemed to be clear. It would explain so much: from the eye color change to her obvious confusion regarding their past association, the time he thought she was dancing with Basha when she got her voice back, the physical ease she had now that had never been there before, not to mention her newfound talents. How could he be certain? It was the only logical—or illogical, depending on one's perspective—explanation.

She was
not
RaEmhetepet.

You are only wishing for the moon, he told himself. You've never really gotten over her, and now you would delude yourself into thinking the most impossible thoughts. It's not utterly impossible, another part of his mind said. He tried to remember where she had been found when she'd become his patient. Was it in HatHor's Silver Chamber? Was it possible? What had Hapuseneb said?

They walked through the hallways, mounting the prince's new three-person chariot. Cheftu stole a glance at her, standing beside him. Now that he looked at her, he wondered how he had ever believed she was RaEm. I thought she was RaEm because that was who I expected her to be. Just like everyone else. We see only what we expect, and she has kept up the charade, doing whatever necessary to make us believe it.

Were her hungry kisses part of the charade?

Cursing himself for a blind fool, he wondered how to get her away. They must talk. Anything beyond talk was too remote to wish for. She could not marry Thutmosis, that was certain.