“In the morning Tbubui and I keep each other company and talk of purely vain and silly feminine things.” Sheritra laughed. “Can you imagine that, Father? Me, talking of vain and silly things?”
She is speaking too quickly, Khaemwaset thought as he raised his cup to his mouth. This also comes between us, her excitement or anxiety, I cannot tell which, and she will not tell me honestly what she is feeling. “I am sure it is doing you good,” he replied. “There is nothing wrong with frivolity, my dear, particularly for you. You have always been too serious.”
“Speak for yourself!” she laughed back. “Oh. Here comes Tbubui.”
As royalty, Khaemwaset did not need to rise, but he did, reaching for Tbubui’s hand as she swept towards him and bending to kiss her on the cheek. Immediately he realized that his gesture had been too familiar in front of Sheritra and he drew back and resumed his seat. Tbubui, cool and glittering in a semi-transparent white sheath fringed in silver tassels, sank in one practised motion to a large cushion opposite him. “I decided to come and see if my Little Sun was homesick yet,” he began, “and also to have a word with your brother, Tbubui. But Sheritra is not in the least homesick; in fact she looks in the rudest of health. I am grateful.”
He felt everything in him, the tight muscles of his belly, the tense attitude of his shoulders, the lineaments of his face, relax as he looked at her. Oh Tbubui, he said silently to the wide forehead across which a thin band of silver held back her thick hair, the black, kohled eyes fixed on him warmly, the graceful indolence of the arms resting languidly against her knees. The rise and fall of her barely glimpsed breasts was light and fast. She feels it also, he thought happily. I know she does.
“I am the one to be grateful,” she answered, smiling. She had painted her lips with red henna and her mouth reminded Khaemwaset of the vast statue of the goddess Hathor that stood in the temple in the south district of Memphis. Hathor’s faint, sensuous smite was also red, a glistening moist red … “Sheritra is delightful company. She makes me feel like a girl again. I hope, however, that we do not bore her.” She turned with affection towards the girl and Sheritra smiled back. Why, they behave like sisters, Khaemwaset thought, the tide of well-being coursing through him. They will not be enemies when Tbubui moves in.
“Bore me?” Sheritra expostulated. “Certainly not!”
“So you do not want to come home?” Khaemwaset teased her. “You are not pining for your mother’s discipline?”
A shadow crossed Sheritra’s flushed face, and Khaemwaset was aware of the disloyalty in his words. Is there something in this wine? he wondered. “Another excellent vintage,” he commented hastily, holding up his cup, and Tbubui inclined her head.
“Thank you, Prince. We do not care for gaudy clothes or constant entertainment but we are fussy about our wine.”
Khaemwaset had the uncomfortable impression that his daughter was included in the “we,” and for a fleeting second it seemed as though she was not his at all but Tbubui’s, as though by some unknown alchemy she had always been Tbubui’s. He was saved from further comment by Harmin. The young man entered, handing his spear to the nearest servant and advancing into the hall. He was drenched in sweat and his hair, nostrils and calves were filthy with sand. Smiling affably he bowed to Khaemwaset, but his eyes were all for Sheritra. Better and better, Khaemwaset thought. “Greetings, Harmin,” he said. “I hope the improving of your aim made the heat and dirt worthwhile.”
Harmin raised his eyebrows and ran a hand through his sticky hair. “I think I am throwing straighter and farther,” he said, “but certainly not today. If you will excuse me, Prince, I will bathe. Sheritra, bring Bakmut and come with me. You can have a canopy erected in the garden while I am being washed. If you do not mind, Prince. If you have concluded your visit with the Princess.”
Khaemwaset was taken aback, both at the arrogant familiarity with which Harmin had addressed Sheritra and the presumption that the visit was less important than his own wishes. Neither had he missed the swift glance that had passed between mother and son while Harmin had been speaking, and he wondered what it might mean. Sheritra was rising. “Are you going to stay long, Father?” she inquired. “Because if not I want to sit and talk with you.”
“But you would rather do something else at the moment,” he finished for her. “I am not offended, Little Sun, and I will be here all afternoon.” Harmin was already disappearing into the greyness of the passage, and with an apologetic smile to her father Sheritra followed.