Dreamers by Angela Hunt

perception instantly understood. Yosef’s
    heart had not been wounded by lost love, but by the grief of
    separation.
    “Beloved,” Tuya whispered, rising. “Don’t you think we
    all understand what you’re feeling? Every slave has a story
    like yours, for we lost our families when we lost our freedom.
    I have never known a mother or father, but I have grown ac-
    customed to my place. And you, Yosef, remember how our
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    master trusts you! He could not be more proud if you were
    his son. He believes you are blessed by the gods.”
    “Potiphar believes in no one but himself,” Yosef answered,
    folding his arms. “But last night when I considered running
    away, God spoke to my heart…and I know I am to remain in
    Egypt. Perhaps my father could accept my death more easily
    than he could accept me—” Yosef swept his hand over his
    body to indicate the bronze collar at his neck and the linen
    skirt of a slave “—like this.”
    A lump formed in Tuya’s throat at the thought of Yosef
    leaving, but she clutched at the hope that Yosef’s god approved
    of their love.
    “Surely your god is wise,” she answered, leaning close.
    “Surely he can be trusted. You have trusted him thus far—”
    “I have had no choice.” Yosef looked past her toward the
    great blue bowl of sky. “He is the nameless longing, the voice
    who called Avraham out of Ur. He set a dream in my heart,
    and called me away from the bosom of my father. Now he bids
    me trust him.”
    “Trust him, then,” Tuya said, wrapping her arms around his
    narrow waist. Not caring who might see, she placed her cheek
    against the smooth skin of Yosef’s chest and heard the proud
    beating of his heart. “Trust your god, Yosef. As Potiphar trusts
    in your common sense and I trust in the strong arm of Montu,
    trust in your god and all will be well.”
    Chapter Nine
    Potiphar bristled as Narmer entered his bedchamber and
    extended a scroll bearing a seal from the king’s scribe. “Why
    does Pharaoh send a message instead of calling for me?”
    Potiphar asked, sliding his weary legs from beneath a linen
    sheet. “Even at this late hour I have often been summoned to
    the royal presence.”
    The young courtier regarded Potiphar with a look of unut-
    terable boredom, but no amount of studied nonchalance could
    conceal the jealousy in his eyes or the disdain in his posture.
    Yet the man never failed to shine in Pharaoh’s presence.
    Narmer lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “The king thought it
    best to send his wishes with me,” he said, underscoring his
    position in Pharaoh’s confidence. “Perhaps you should not
    keep him waiting.”
    Scowling, Potiphar broke the seal on the scroll and read the
    message penned there:
    In life, prosperity, health, and in favor of Amon-Re,
    king of the gods, and of the Ka of King Amenhotep II.
    Greetings, Potiphar, most trusted guard of Pharaoh. The
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    empire enlarged by my father, Tuthmosis III, may his
    name be ever praised, has experienced turmoil in the
    eastern nomes along the river known as Euphrates. I am
    ready to vent my displeasure on these rebel chieftains,
    and await your presence for this venture. Come at once,
    and do not delay. Narmer waits to bring you to me.
    The scroll had been sealed with Pharaoh’s official scarab,
    and Potiphar knew he could not waste a moment of the king’s
    patience. “I will make ready at once,” he murmured, not
    looking up. “You will wait outside in my reception rooms. I
    will send a girl to wash your feet.”
    Narmer held up a defensive hand. “I would not stop to wash
    my feet while the king waits.”
    “Nevertheless, you shall, for I am not ready,” Potiphar
    answered, standing. With shameless efficiency he propelled
    Narmer toward the doorway. When he saw Tuya walking in
    the corridor, he clapped his hands. “Tuya! Take this messen-
    ger to the central hall and wash his hands and feet.”
    “I am not, Lord Potiphar, a mere messenger,” Narmer