“You know, Sheritra, I am not sure that I like all the changes in you,” he said quietly. “You have become selfish and headstrong, and rude as well.” He expected her to falter, to blush and drop her gaze, but she continued to stare up at him out of that exquisitely painted, unusual face.
“None of us like the changes that have taken place in you either, Father. You have not cared about my welfare in the least for a very long time, so I suppose I ought not to be surprised that you show no sympathy or understanding now. I want a betrothal to Harmin. When will you approach Sisenet on the subject?”
“It is not an appropriate time,” Khaemwaset replied stiffly. “Come to me next week, when these festivities are over and Tbubui’s period of adjustment is progressing well. I do not want to throw this at her yet.”
Sheritra’s lip curled. “No, I daresay you do not,” she retorted, then she spun on her heel and stalked to where the young man was waiting in the shade of the house. Together they turned towards the south garden, their servants hurrying after.
She has simply gone from one extreme to the other, Khaemwaset told himself as he started forward. Tbubui has performed a miracle on her, and her love for the son has confirmed it. She is feeling the power of her transformation, and it is at present being translated as rudeness and arrogance. I understand, but I miss the old Sheritra.
“Will you sleep, Highness, before you change your linen for dinner?” Kasa was asking politely, and Khaemwaset followed him into the rear corridor with an inward sigh. All his relatives had been invited to the feast that was being prepared for Tbubui tonight. His father had sent a short, congratulatory excuse, and Merenptah likewise had wished his brother every happiness, in his scribe’s hand but in his own florid words. But the rest of the family was coming together with certain Memphis dignitaries and a host of musicians, dancers and other entertainers. An air of electric excitement lay over the house. The cloying fragrance of the thousands of blooms carted in that morning made him think of Tbubui—exotic, enigmatic, even now exploring her small domain and perhaps day-dreaming of him, of the coming night. He did not think that he would be able to rest.
“No, Kasa,” he told his body-servant. “I shall escape into the office and read for a while. Send for me when the guests begin to arrive.” But once in his office, safely immured behind the closed doors, the noise muted and Ptah-Seankh industriously copying a manuscript while he waited for Khaemwaset’s summons, he found that he was still restless. The heavy odour of the flowers had drifted after him. It was in his clothes, in his hair, and suddenly it reminded him of the two funerals he had just endured. His stomach heaved. He sat down behind the desk, let his head fall into his hands, and, closing his eyes, he waited.
The feast that night was the most sumptuous Memphis had seen in some time. Richly clothed guests choked Khaemwaset’s large reception hall and spilled over into the gardens, where torches flared and tables had been set out, groaning with delicacies of every kind. Troops of naked dancers, black acrobats from Nubia and Egyptian beauties of both sexes, swayed and leaped between the revellers to the music of lyre, harp and drums. Nubnofret had selected the customary gifts for everyone with care—the bead necklaces were malachite and jasper instead of painted clay, the trinket boxes Lebanon cedar, the fans tiny red ostrich feathers gathered into electrum handles. The wine had come from the Delta, resurrected dusty and grimed from the straw beds where the jars had been laid ten years before. The servants would eat for the whole of the following weeks the leftover food.
Tbubui sat in the place of honour on Khaemwaset’s right hand, raised above the crowd on a small dais, smiling graciously on those who came up to offer their good wishes. All the ingredients for a successful night were present, yet Khaemwaset could not shake off a sense of melancholy. Sheritra was laughing with Harmin. They had been inseparable all evening. Hori was eating with Antef, a wintry, rare smile coming and going on his face for the first time in many weeks as his friend talked of something that, over the general mêlée, Khaemwaset could not catch. Nubnofret and Sisenet were likewise deep in conversation, and he himself, Khaemwaset, had only to turn his head a fraction, move his hand almost imperceptibly, to make contact with the woman he adored above all else.
Yet the hall seemed a dismal place under all the gaiety. Something was missing. Or perhaps, he thought sadly, as Ib bent yet again to fill his cup, and a chorus of roars and whistles broke out as one of the Nubian dancers curved backwards until her face rested between the legs of Memphis’s mayor, perhaps I have been through so much to obtain this prize that now, having it, possessing it, I am empty of purpose for a while.