Her mother had often suggested such treatments but Sheritra, in rebellion, had always refused them. With Tbubui it was different, it was close companionship, it was fun, and there was no hint of superiority on the one hand or inadequacy on the other. “It is not right that she should touch a princess’s flesh,” Bakmut had objected a trifle sourly, but Sheritra had ignored her body servant. Tbubui had treatments for everything—a fragrant, thick wrap of herbs to thicken the hair and make it shine, a sticky mixture to strengthen the nails, a mask to preserve the face from aging.
If it were simply a matter of retreating into the indolence of physical indulgence, Sheritra might have become bored, but after the bath, Tbubui—in between advice on dress and cosmetics while she combed Sheritra’s increasingly luxurious tresses or bent close to flick her eyelids with colour—would talk on any subject that came to mind. Freely the arguments would flow back and forth, but Sheritra most loved Tbubui’s stories about Egypt’s past, her ancient heroes, the tenor and pace of lives lived hentis ago. The mornings flew by. Very occasionally Tbubui did not come to the bath house with her knowing, expert hands, and on those occasions Sheritra, unconsciously, felt deprived of the contact.
Tbubui vanished during most afternoons and Sheritra— washed and perfumed, her hair imprisoned in gold-andenamel flower clips or waving loose under a circlet of silver, her face, scarcely recognizable to herself, exquisitely painted, her increasingly nubile body displayed in white or scarlet or yellow sheaths—would hurry to where Harmin waited for her in the garden, or in the coolness of the reception hall. Then they would talk, tease each other, play board games and exchange glances while the wine jug emptied and the breathless, stultifying hours went gliding into copper sunsets and the lengthening shadows of warm twilights.
Evenings were taken up with quiet family dinners. The harpist would play softly and the little tables would be piled with perfumed flowers from the garden, whose petals would lie in pastel drifts over the tiled floor. The lamps would be lit, and they would sit in the slight breeze coming in through the open door from the night beyond while Sisenet read to them from his library of scrolls. His voice was deep and even, the stories somehow both vivid and lulling to Sheritra. They were like the anecdotes Tbubui would tell her in the mornings, but at night they had a hypnotic quality to them, so that her mind filled with bright images. When he had finished they would drink some more of his marvellous wine and gossip a little. She would tell them of her family, of Pharaoh, of her opinions and dreams, and they would listen and ask questions, smile and nod. Only later did she realize that in spite of the many evenings spent in this way she had learned almost nothing about them. Finally Bakmut and a soldier would escort her to her room to be undressed and washed, and she would lie on her couch, watching the friendly shadows her night lamp cast on the ceiling, and pass effortlessly into unconsciousness. She did not think that she would ever want to go home.
Her father came to visit her twice in the three weeks that followed, but Sheritra observed and listened to him as though from a far distance. He was clearly pleased with her contentment, her flowering body, and always embraced her with his usual affection, but something about the feel of his arms now made her cringe.
On his second visit, as he was leaving, she saw Tbubui hand him a scroll and supposed it was something from Sisenet’s collection. His fingers closed around Tbubui’s, giving Sheritra a flash of her old anxiety. But events outside Sisenet’s house seemed less significant now and, with a shrug, Sheritra retreated into fatalism. Her father’s infatuation would doubtless burn itself out and was, in any case, none of her business. She had thought that he looked haggard and pale. “Is there any news?” Tbubui asked him, and he had shaken his head. “Not yet,” he had replied, and they had both turned after a second and smiled at Sheritra as though in apology.
Nubnofret had sent several cheerful notes but had not visited herself. Sheritra was glad. Her mother’s presence would have struck a jarring note in the peaceful harmony of Sisenet’s household. Sheritra did not miss her.
But one jarring note came from within. On the night of Khaemwaset’s second visit, Sheritra decided to take a short walk before bed. The air was still hot and she was unaccountably restless. She wandered with a compliant Bakmut and one of her ever-present guards under the shrouded palms for a while, then made her way to the river. It was very low, the water flowing almost imperceptibly, torn to silver under the new moon’s light. She sat for some time on the watersteps, allowing the calm darkness to soothe her, then made her way back to the house.