Sheritra started along the paved path that seemed as wide as a city street. Tamed shrubs and weedless beds of exotic blooms passed slowly by on either side. Among them three gardeners laboured, bare backs to the sky. The multicoloured pillars of the front entrance came into view, each sheltering a watchful soldier, and beyond them the customary herald, steward and scribe sat just outside the double doors in the event of visitors. Sheritra nodded to their obeisance as she passed on her way to the rear.
Now the sound of the fountain assaulted her ears, and the cultivated laughter of female body servants. Was it always like this? she wondered dazedly. Like a miniature palace, always murmurous, always so opulent? Was I always treated with so much distant respect, and simply took it for granted?
But she did not have the time to exploit her bewilderment, for Ib was coming, almost running, his face solemn. She stopped and waited and he slowed, bowed from the waist with arms outstretched, his whole body registering apprehension.
“Ib,” she said.
He straightened. Why, he is not so very old after all, Sheritra thought in amazement, staring into his square, beautifully painted face framed by the short black wig. And he has a good body, compact, muscular. He is an attractive man. “Highness, it is remarkable that you should choose to return home today,” he replied. “Your father the Prince was just issuing instructions for your presence.”
“Why?” she said sharply. “What is it?”
“I think he had better tell you himself,” the steward said apologetically. “He is with your mother. I will escort you.”
At his brusque command her retinue fell away and she, Bakmut and the parasol-bearer went on, through the capacious garden, past the fountain and the blue fish-pond, between the clustering sycamores, to the rear entrance. From there, it was a short distance to Nubnofret’s quarters, and Sheritra, her anxiety rising, fought against the sense of foreignness that threatened to bring her to a faltering halt.
Ib waved Bakmut to one of the stools in the passage and pushed through the doors. Sheritra heard his voice announcing her, then went past him. The doors were firmly closed behind her. Khaemwaset held out a hand and she took it. Her mother was sitting on the couch. She barely acknowledged Sheritra’s entrance and the girl turned to her father. He gave her a perfunctory kiss.
“What is going on?” she asked, aware of the slight echo of her voice in the high, dusky ceiling, the gleam of the blueand-white tiles stretching away beneath her feet, the cluster of Nubnofret’s female attendants far away in one corner. Why, this room is huge, she thought. We are dwarves in it.
“Ramses’ Chief Herald arrived early this morning,” Khaemwaset was saying. “Your grandmother died five days ago.” He did not mention the other letters, angry letters, that Ramses’ herald had brought. “We are now in mourning, Little Sun.”
Don’t call me that! she thought indignantly. But her second thought filled her with panic. Mourning. Seventy days imprisoned here, away from Harmin, away from Tbubui, no desert sunsets feeding honeyed dates to the yellow dog, no board games played lazily under the palms, no Harmin in my bed. A return to Mother’s nagging, to the constant feeling of inadequacy that used to pursue me.
Then she had the grace to feel ashamed. Grandmother is dead. She was always patient and kindly towards me and my first reaction on hearing of her death is annoyance. I am selfish.
“Oh Father, how terrible,” she said, “but a good thing also. Astnofert was suffering so much, for so long, was she not? Now she is with the gods and at peace. Will we go to Thebes for the funeral?”
“Of course.” The matter-of-fact voice was Nubnofret’s. “And I must confess, Sheritra, that the prospect of a trip anywhere, for any reason, fills me with delight. Are you enjoying your stay with Tbubui?”
Her mother’s remarks were so brittle that Sheritra turned to her, alarmed. “Yes, more than I can say,” she answered, and Nubnofret lifted a blank face.
“Good,” she said indifferently. “I will go and order your rooms prepared for you.” She got up and glided out. Once more the doors thudded shut.
“Is Mother ill?” Sheritra enquired, and at that Khaemwaset’s shoulders slumped. He sighed.
“I do not think so, but she is deeply outraged. The truth is, Sheritra …” He hesitated. “I have decided to take a second wife, and your mother is not pleased, although of course it is within my rights. I have signed a contract with Tbubui.” He searched her eyes anxiously. “I had not meant to tell you so abruptly. I am sorry. Are you surprised?”