He had reacted irrationally, he told himself as his equilibrium partially returned. He had allowed his long dream to become entangled with superstition as opposed to forthright, workable magic, and it was time to let the shadowless light of a noon reality into the darkness that had been gathering in his mind.
But first there was the matter of Tbubui’s quarters. With relief he turned to the planning and construction of a new wing on the house. He and his architect drew up a pleasing suite with large, airy rooms, a private passage giving access to the rest of the house so that the woman who prized silence and privacy so much could have both, and a small terrace leading directly onto a fountained garden. Part of the existing grounds to the north of the house would have to be dug up, the flower beds turned under, the pond moved, but Khaemwaset thought it could be done with a minimum of distress to the rest of the family. Once he had approved the addition, it was simply a matter of issuing an order, and gangs of fellahin appeared and began to demolish the northern grounds.
Through it all, Nubnofret remained frigidly correct. Twice Khaemwaset went to her apartment at night to hold and reassure her, even to make love to her if she had melted just a little, but she rebuffed him with icy good manners and he was forced to retreat.
No more harsh words were said, but the tension between them grew and invaded the whole house. Cheerful servants became subdued and the routine, previously imbued with heart and life, became increasingly a matter of soulless form. Khaemwaset was aware of it but did not care. Every day the plans for Tbubui’s domain grew and took coherent shape. Before long she would be there.
A report arrived from Penbuy at Koptos. He had been in the town for two days when he wrote the letter and was about to begin his investigations, but he was being hampered by a sudden illness that was slowing him down. After a few disparaging remarks to do with the sickeningly constant heat, the multitudes of giant flies and the warm, muddy water he was forced to bathe in, he finished by assuring Khaemwaset that the task would be completed soon and he was his master’s honourable and most trustworthy servant. So you are, dear Penbuy, Khaemwaset thought, standing with the scroll clasped in both hands as he gazed out over the ruin of the edge of the north garden that he could see from his office. So you are. Penbuy’s face swam before him, closed, intent, intelligent, sometimes a little prim, and a wave of strange homesickness swept over him. He wanted Penbuy at his elbow, exuding the faint odour of lotus water that seemed to float with him everywhere. He wanted the garden back. He wanted Sheritra back, now so poised and distant. He wanted it all back.
13
When the messenger of death comes to take thee away,
let him find thee prepared.
Alas! thou wilt have no opportunity for speech,
for verily his terror will be before thee.
ONCE SHERITRA HAD ADJUSTED to the strange ways of the house, she forgot her earlier misgiv ings. She was happy, perhaps happier than she had ever been. Bakmut remained uneasy, and served her mistress with an increased vigilance Sheritra found touching, but the Princess herself grew in confidence.
She became accustomed to waking, not to the bustle of a large estate, but to the quiet Sisenet and Tbubui demanded. She would eat her breakfast on her couch in a state of tousled disorder, her thoughts slow and mellow. Away from the constant tension of her mother’s nagging judgments, her body relaxed, and her mind found new and freer avenues to explore under Tbubui’s tutelage.
The woman would come to her while she was standing on the bathing block, greet her affably and accompany her back to her room. At first Sheritra was self-conscious. It was one thing to have the eyes of servants on one’s naked body, for servants were more like household appendages than people. It was quite another to stand, inwardly cringing, while Tbubui’s knowing glance travelled her tiny breasts, stick-thin legs and bony hips. Sheritra knew she could have requested privacy, but in a perverse way she regarded Tbubui’s scrutiny as the last test of their friendship. Fiercely, she watched for the slightest indication of contempt, distaste or pity in the woman’s eyes or attitude, and mercifully found none.
After a couple of days Sheritra welcomed the moment when Tbubui would appear, fresh and smiling, to kiss her on the cheek and chatter while the perfumed water cascaded over Sheritra’s skin. “Rub the Princess down with that oil,” Tbubui would say, indicating one of the alabaster jars that lined the stone lip of the small bath house. “It has balsam in it, Sheritra, and will soften you and make you more supple. The sun is so bad for the skin.” Or she would arrive holding a tiny pot of some balm or other to protect the lips. Several times she waved the servant who was washing Sheritra away, and her own hands rubbed the girl, moving briskly over her back and buttocks and sliding more gently along her inner thighs. “Forgive me, Highness, but I know several good exercises for the development of the legs and the strengthening of the spine. Let me teach them to you,” she offered. “Also, if I might be permitted, I would like to change your diet. You need some weight.” Sheritra was not in the least offended. Intrigued she submitted to the oil that gleamingly caressed her skin and then sank without a trace, leaving her to run her fingers over herself and feel velvet.