The Serpent on the Crown by Elizabeth Peters Page A

loved me as I had learned to love him; but that act of supreme sacrifice had also been his way of taking his fate into his own hands, defying the god who threatened him with the failing strength of old age.
    “Not lately,” I said.
    Nefret smiled affectionately. “At least he won’t complain that we have a new corpse on our hands. Remember what he used to say? ‘Every year, another dead body!’”
     
    E very year, another dead body!” said Abdullah. He came striding along his usual path, the one from the Valley of the Kings. My route had led me up the steep slope of the cliffs behind Deir el Bahri, and as the sun rose behind me, my shadow rushed forth as if to greet him.
    “What do you mean?” I demanded. “We haven’t had any dead bodies this year. You might say ‘hello’ before you start complaining,” I added.
    He never did, though. I suppose that to him, in this place where there was no time, it was as if we had spoken together only moments before. He smiled sardonically and stroked his beard. It had been pure white the day he died in my arms. In these dreams it was black, and his face was that of a young, hearty man.
    “Not yet, Sitt,” he said.
    “Who?” I demanded. “Not Emerson? Not Ramses? Not—”
    “I cannot tell you the future. It is yet to be determined. But is there not always a dead body? Always you look for danger, Sitt.”
    “If you are referring to Mrs. Petherick and her statue, she came to us, not we to her. And what danger can there be? She is a silly woman who invents foolish stories.”
    “The statue is not invented.”
    “Where did it come from, Abdullah?”
    He rolled his eyes and smiled. “From the last place you would expect, Sitt.”
    “I might have known you wouldn’t give me a direct answer! Not Amarna, not Tomb 55?”
    His teasing smile vanished. He came a step closer and put out his hand, as if to touch my cheek. “Sitt, heed my words. Stop seeking trouble, rest in the shade and be at peace. As it was for me, so it is for you. Do not the days grow shorter, the paths longer, the loads heavier?”
    The words fell like stones onto my heart and the sky seemed to darken; but I shook my head and spoke resolutely. “All the more reason to make the most of the shorter days and brace one’s strength to bear the heavier loads. I never expected to hear such talk from you, you whose strength and courage never failed.”
    “Ah,” said Abdullah. “I knew you would say that.”
    A ray of sunlight brightened his smiling face and I said in exasperation, “What I want from you is practical advice—not that I ever get it! If you won’t tell me where the statue was found, at least give me a hint.”
    “I have,” said Abdullah, stroking his beard. “And now I will give you another. Once before, not long ago, you asked me a similar question and I answered it. Remember that question and that answer, Sitt.”
    He turned and walked away. I stamped my foot with annoyance. Over the years I had asked many questions; the answers I had got were, to say the least, enigmatic. I had not the least idea which of those questions he meant.
     
    I f I had entertained any expectation of going out next day, I abandoned it as soon as I went to the veranda after breakfast and saw the people who were gathered round the temporary guardhouse. Our new guard, Daoud’s son Hassan, stood foursquare in the center of the road, Wasim’s antiquated rifle in his hands; and I believe the sight of the weapon (which I devoutly hoped was not loaded) was the only thing that prevented some of the curiosity seekers from skirting the guardhouse and coming at us from one side or the other.
    To be honest—which I always endeavor to be—I became increasingly restless as the morning wore on. I was itching to know what was happening in Luxor: whether Mrs. Petherick had turned up, whether any new information had been learned, and what her children thought of it all. After surveying the scene with a particularly stony