Daughter of the God-King(79)

She turned the subject to something more productive than the dashing of all her dreams. “I examined the disk, and I have an idea—if you can find me a stick I can show you.”

They sat on a stone bench and she bent down to draw in the dirt. “I think the disk does indeed contain a clue—we were distracted by the cipher on the one side, but I think the true meaning is in the figure of Hathor.” She duplicated the stick-like figure of the engraving.

“Her arms and legs,” he agreed. “I see.”

She continued to scratch in the dirt. “A compass, perhaps? And there are three stars on her crown; it is the only adornment in the engraving so it must mean something.”

“Yes. Do you recall this motif anywhere in the chamber?”

“I wasn’t paying much attention,” she confessed. “But Mr. Hafez was referencing the ceiling as the Book of Heavens, so perhaps there are stars on the ceiling.”

“Very good—you should be in my business,” he said with approval.

She dropped the stick and sat back with a shake of her head. “No thank you—there are too many hazards for my taste, and no one says what they mean.”

“It brought me to you,” he pointed out. Taking her hands in his, he looked into her face; the brown eyes—usually so shuttered—alight with tenderness. “I knew you belonged to me the moment I saw you.”

But she could only chuckle. “That is an out-and-out falsehood, my friend; you were horrified that you were attracted to me.”

“No—you mistake. I was boulversé, not horrified. I am not one to allow my desires to lead me, and it took me some time to be reconciled.”

She lifted his hand to kiss it. “I was bouleversé, myself.”

“So I understood.”

She laughed, and felt much better. He had tested her, that first night, by calling her the god-king’s daughter, to see if she knew—but how could she? She had been sequestered in the wilds of Cornwall and cut off from civilization—apparently by design. There is that, she acknowledged—I inspired my real father to place me with famous parents, ones that he believed would grant me an exceptional life—so at least the attempt was made. I imagine the largesse I have received over the years came from a different source altogether—it is such a shame that he is a bloodthirsty tyrant, and if I ever met him I would feel obligated to shoot him through the heart. “We should probably return,” she noted, relieved that her sense of perspective continued intact. “I have kept you from your listening duties.”

“I have already heard enough,” he admitted.

She eyed him as they hailed a transportation cart but he offered nothing more. “If it is possible,” he suggested as he handed her in, “see to it that Mademoiselle Bing does not accompany Monsieur Hafez in his travels tomorrow.”

This seemed significant, and Hattie paused in alarm. “Is she in danger?”

“No—but I imagine he will seek to disappear and it will aid him in this endeavor if he is unattached.”

“It is he who is in danger,” Hattie concluded, remembering the deaths of his two allies, and his uneasiness this day, after the visit from the loathsome Monsieur Chauvelin.

“I should not be surprised,” was the only answer she was given, which was answer enough.

Back on board the Priapus, Hattie separated from Berry so it would not be as obvious that they had been alone together, and made her way to the cabin. The French visitors were not in evidence, and neither was Robbie. It was rather quiet, as the other passengers were presumably preparing for dinner.

Bing was sitting on her berth, ramrod straight and hiding her agitation with only moderate success. Hattie took the woman’s hands in hers and said immediately, “I am so sorry, Bing. What must you think of me?”

Bing’s sharp eyes searched her face. “Is he married, Hathor?”

“No. He is an honorable man.” Hattie struggled with an explanation for her behavior, but nothing came readily.

“Is it your parents?”

Hattie gave up the attempt, and said only, “I am afraid I cannot speak of it, Bing.”

Bing nodded. “We shall say no more, then. If I am needed to perform a service, Hathor, you have only to ask.”

“You are beyond marvelous, Bing.” Hattie’s voice quavered with emotion; truly, it had been a tumultuous, miserable day.

Her companion responded to this accolade by indicating Hattie should sit while she took up a brush. “Your hair should be redone before dinner, I believe.”

It was exactly what was needed; Bing rhythmically drew the hairbrush through Hattie’s long, black locks while she closed her eyes and thought of nothing at all. Eventually, she opened her eyes and noted, “Monsieur Berry has the impression that Mr. Smithson is smitten.”