That state of the flesh puzzled Khaemwaset. Its colour suggested tissue that no longer lived. “I think I must take needle and thread and sew this,” he said at last, rising. “It will hurt, Tbubui, but I can give you an infusion of poppy to help quell the pain.”
“Very well,” she said almost indifferently. “It is my own fault, of course. I go barefoot too much.”
Bare heels, Khaemwaset thought again. Nubnofret walking ahead of me in the passage on the night Sheritra had her bad dream. You, Tbubui, barefoot in your white, old-fashioned sheath, taunting… Surely you recognized Amek!
He had brought with him everything he needed. He asked for fire, and when it was brought in a tiny burner he prepared the poppy infusion. Tbubui watched him in silence as he worked in the odd, enveloping stillness of this extraordinary house.
When it was ready he handed it to her and she drank it obediently. He waited for it to take effect, and selected needle and thread.
Harmin had long since gone, and Amek had taken his position by the doorway. Khaemwaset sensed his resentment though he did not move. This was the woman for whom his master had struck him.
Khaemwaset forced himself to concentrate on the task in hand. Carefully and neatly he sewed the gash closed. Tbubui neither flinched nor groaned. Once he looked up from his artistry to find her eyes on him, not dazed from the poppy but alert and full of something he thought he read as humour, but of course it could not be. He continued, in the end wrapping fresh linen about her foot and instructing her to go on applying the poultice. “I will return in a few days to inspect it, and then we will see,” he said. She nodded, quite composed. “I have a great resistance to pain,” she replied, “and also, unfortunately, to the poppy. Now, Prince. Will you take wine with me?” He nodded and she clapped her hands sharply once. A servant glided into the room, and while she was ordering a chair brought forward and jar of wine opened, Khaemwaset for the first time looked about her chamber.
It was small and cool, the walls unadorned. One table supporting a lamp stood by the couch, which in contrast to the rest of the surroundings was high and lavishly gilded. It was piled with pillows and a-tumble with sheets. Khaemwaset looked away, a dozen questions beginning to reel through his head. Is your husband here? What are you doing in Memphis? Did you know that it was I who sent Amek after you? And did you in turn send Harmin after me? Why? The wine and the chair arrived. He sank into it gratefully and picked up his cup, wondering how he might bring up these things, but she forestalled him.
“I have a confession to make to you, Prince,” she said. “I recognized your bodyguard the moment he stepped into the room, and then of course I knew who it was who had sent me such an impudent invitation through his mouth.” Khaemwaset flushed and forced himself to meet her now mocking smile. Impudent. He felt like a chastised child.
“I refused it, naturally,” she went on, sobering, “and although I was momentarily complimented, I thought no more about it. Then I injured myself. You are the best physician in Egypt …” She shrugged as though admitting an embarrassing foolishness. “I remembered the incident only when your man walked into my room. I am sorry for my rudeness.”
Khaemwaset immediately protested. “Your rudeness! It is I who must apologize to you. I have never before done such an impulsive thing but, you see, I had caught glimpses of you in the market, in the temple of Ptah. I set up a search but could not find you. My intentions …”
She raised a hand, palm out. “The intentions of a son of Pharaoh and the mightiest prince of the land are above reproach,” she finished for him. “I have heard that you are not only a student of history, Highness, but an admirer of the ancient moral codes. If the guard had identified you I should have turned aside to greet you. I too am a wistful dweller in Egypt’s past and I would have been delighted to talk with you on certain matters. As it is, I can only thank you for your forbearance today.”
She was gracious, slightly shamed, her undeniable magnetism subdued by a pretty anxiety to be forgiven and understood. Khaemwaset wanted to stroke the hands that had fallen and were clasped in her lap, to soothe and reassure her.
“I would like to make up for my insensitivity,” he said. “I invite you to dine with my family in two weeks’ time. Please say you will come. Bring Harmin, and of course your husband.” Her eyes narrowed in a smile though her mouth remained still.
“I am a widow,” she explained, and Khaemwaset fought an urge to swallow. “My husband died some years ago. Harmin and I live with my brother, Sisenet. He went into the city earlier but should be back by now. Would your Highness care to meet him?” Khaemwaset nodded. Tbubui looked towards the door. “Harmin, find your uncle,” she asked, and Khaemwaset realized that the beautiful young man had at some time noiselessly re-entered the room and was standing just inside, arms folded and feet apart in the stance of a guardian. Khaemwaset wondered a little uncomfortably how long he had been there and what he had heard.