He laughed sharply “I hate Pi-Ramses,” he said flatly “You know that.”
She came close to him, picking her way delicately among the discarded clothes. “Something is seriously wrong, my husband,” she said in a low voice, looking directly into his face, “and do not insult me by denying it. Please tell me what it is. I only want to help and support you.”
Khaemwaset fought back an absurd desire to cry. He wanted to lower himself to her couch and pour it all into her understanding ears like a child. But he recognized the urge for what it was, a reverting to the state of an infant, and besides, there were the servants, and Nubnofret’s task only just begun.
“You are right,” he said at last, “and I will indeed tell you about it, but not now. Enjoy yourself this afternoon, Nubnofret.”
She shrugged, dropped her gaze and turned back into the room, but as he reached the doorway she called, “I cannot find Penbuy. Send him to me later, Khaemwaset. The amount of linen must be measured exactly and paid for.” Her own scribe could have done such a small task and they both knew it. She is either asserting her authority or letting me know she suspects that I have sent Penbuy away, Khaemwaset thought as he paced the passage, absently receiving the salute of his guards. Could it be that Nubnofret, my calm, firm Nubnofret, is losing command of herself? The idea of a wild scene between himself and his wife plunged him into gloom and he ordered out the staff of the barge with a sinking heart.
The bright, hot day and his pleasant errand soon restored his spirits and he disembarked, waited for his canopy to be unfolded and strode along the path to Tbubui’s house with deep contentment The call of iridescent birds echoed in the palms and his feet sank satisfyingly into the light sand. He remembered the last time he had walked here, the dreamlike quality of the night and his encounter with Tbubui, and was tempted to burst into song. As he rounded the last, now dearly familiar corner he saw Sheritra standing in the shade cast by the front wall of the house, her arms full of white water-lilies that were dripping moisture down the front of her glistening sheath. She recognized him and took one step, but then she stood and waited, her face solemn. Odd, he thought. She usually runs to greet me. Then he realized with a pang that it had been some time since she had flung herself at him with abandon. He smiled as he came and embraced her. The damp lilies were cold against his belly. His servants bowed to her and withdrew under the trees, and she pulled away.
“Father, how lovely to see you!” she said, and there was no mistaking the pleasure in her voice, though Khaemwaset, glancing into her eyes, thought them strangely guarded. “How is everyone at home?”
“Much the same,” he replied. “I took Hori’s stitches out, and today your mother is reorganizing her tiring boxes or she would have come with me.”
“Hmm,” was her response. “Come into the house. Tbubui is beyond, in the kitchen compound, trying to teach a dish to her cook, and Sisenet is closeted in his own rooms as usual. Harmin is out on the desert, practising with his spear.” They linked arms and moved towards the door. “I feel as though I have been away forever,” she went on, and Khaemwaset squeezed her slim forearm.
“It seems that way to me, too,” he said simply. We are awkward with each other, he thought dismally. In three days we have grown even farther apart. Bakmut was doing him homage from just inside the entrance hall, her coarse linen fluttering in the draught, and Khaemwaset saw with approval that one of his soldiers stood stiffly against the far wall where the rear passage ran.
“Sit down if you like,” Sheritra offered, and clapping her hands she said brusquely to the black servant of the house who had appeared, “Bring wine and buttered bread. Tell your mistress that the Prince Khaemwaset is here.”
“Are you happy here?” Khaemwaset asked cautiously. She grinned, but beneath the humour there was a faint strain.
“I am just beginning to get used to it,” she replied. “So very, very quiet, and no guests so far, and hardly any music at dinner. But I am not shy here, Father. Only Sisenet still makes me a little uncomfortable and that is because I see him so much less than the others.” She blushed and, relieved, Khaemwaset saw in the creeping flush and the momentarily working hands the Sheritra he knew. “Harmin and I spend the afternoons together, after the sleep. Tbubui goes into her chamber. Harmin, Bakmut, a guard and I take over the garden and stroll under the palms. I have twice been poled on the river but none of them will join me. In the evening we talk or Sisenet reads to us.”
“And the mornings?” Khaemwaset asked as the rich red wine was placed to his hand together with a silver platter containing bread, butter, garlic and honey. The servant had been uncannily quiet. Khaemwaset had not even heard the rustle of starched linen.