After a while Khaemwaset heard someone approaching and sat up, every nerve instantly alert, but it was only Sheritra. She flung herself down beside him, her skin beaded with water, her long hair darkly roped over her shoulders. Bakmut had followed her and was standing some distance away. “Mother gave me as many chores as she could think of this morning,” Sheritra said, her hands busy squeezing the water out of her hair, “but in the end she had to let me go, so I went for a swim. Spring is definitely over, isn’t it, Father? The days are beginning to be uncomfortable and the crops everywhere are above the ground. What are you doing out here?”
Khaemwaset propped himself on one elbow and watched the water drain in clear rivulets past her neck and into her tiny cleavage. He had not intended to, but he said, “I saw the woman again. In the temple of Ptah.”
Sheritra did not need to ask which woman. Her deft fingers went on sliding down the slick coils of hair. “Did you speak to her?”
“No.” Khaemwaset began to pluck idly at the grass. “She was leaving the outer court when I noticed her. I had Amek and Ib with me but none of us could catch up to her. I have sent them to search, and I am waiting for word.”
Sheritra called and Bakmut came forward, offering a comb. The girl took it, Bakmut retired just out of earshot, and Sheritra began to pull it through the thick tresses. Already wisps had dried and were curling and blowing about her face. Keeping her eyes fixed on the bathing birds, she said, “Why are you so determined to find her?”
Khaemwaset thought he felt a soft movement against the back of his hand, and looked down. There was nothing, but, unbidden, the memory of the little dancer with the skin complaint came back to him, the sudden shock of her mouth against his skin in gratitude. “I do not know,” he confessed, “and that is the truth, Sheritra. I only know that I must look into her eyes and hear her voice before I can be at peace again.”
Sheritra nodded sagely and fell to scooping up the rapidly drying droplets of water along her leg. “I hope you are disappointed,” she said unexpectedly. Khaemwaset saw a blush bloom up her neck and give a reddish hue to her brown cheeks. “Why?” he enquired, though he knew, and marvelled at her perception. “Because if you are not disappointed, if she is anything at all like your image of her, your interest in her will grow.” Khaemwaset was puzzled by the urgency in her tone.
“But even if it did,” he objected, “what would be the harm? Many men have concubines and very happy families. What threat do you see, Little Sun?”
She did not respond in a girlish way to his attempt to cajole her with the meaning of her name, or his deliberate teasing emphasis. All at once she swung to face him directly and, though the blush was now fiery, she met his eyes. “You are not an emotional man, dear Father,” she said. “You are always calm, always fair, always kind. I cannot imagine you in love with anyone other than Mother, though I can see you adding to your concubines on rare occasions.” Now she dropped her gaze. “But only for a little variety, you understand, not to be disloyal in your heart to Mother. This woman …” She swallowed and forced herself to continue. “This woman already fills your thoughts. I can tell. I do not like it.”
He was tempted to laugh at her description of him, her assessment of the situation. All girls saw their fathers as benevolent gods around whom their households revolved in the rightness of Ma’at, as beings of purity and awesome wisdom. There was a little of that attitude in Sheritra’s view of him. But her fear was of something else, something a mature woman might sense, the threat of an overwhelming sandstorm that might scour away the fairness, the kindness, and release the lurking abandon she suspected lay beneath. Well, is there such a recklessness hidden within me, he wondered while he smiled at her gently, unknown even to myself? He had no answer, and did not know what “being in love” was like.
“She is a mystery, that’s all,” he replied after a moment. “Like scrolls in tombs or inscriptions waiting to be deciphered. When I have deciphered her and found her to be a disappointment, as so many of the ancient inscriptions are, I will be at peace. So you see, Sheritra, there is nothing to fret about.”
She grinned at him, her solemn mood gone. “I had not looked at it in that way before,” she said. “Good. In that case, have your adventure, Father, and tell me how it progresses. I must confess to being just a little intrigued myself.” Picking up the comb, she gathered her towel around her and rose. “A new snake has taken to slithering in the back door,” she went on, “and I am trying to make it welcome. Our usual resident is coiled up in a cool corner of the reception hall but I must lure the other from whatever garden rock he is sheltering under. A lot of house snakes bring good luck, don’t they?”