“Your husband?” Sita asked. “Do I know him?”
The woman laughed, a low, wet chuckle. “Oh, everyone knows him! Or rather, he knows everyone. He’s a potter—always at the wheel. He told me a story, a long, long time ago, about you and three others. Such an exciting story too! But he only told me the beginning, not the end.
“Isn’t that awful? I scolded him, because I hate being teased. He said I should stop being so impatient.” She snorted. “He doesn’t understand. But you love stories, don’t you, Sitamun? I bet you understand. I bet you want to know what happens next. Well, I have good news for you.”
At that, she leaned in confidentially and said, “You get to decide how it ends.”
How did she know I love stories?Sita wondered dimly. The woman spoke in riddles, yet there was an odd sort of sense in her words. Perhaps her husband was a seer of some kind?
You don’t have time for this!an urgent voice reminded her.
“I’m very sorry,” she said to the woman after she’d finishedgetting dressed, “But I really must go. My father is quite ill, and as I said before, I’ve been summoned to his bedside.”
“Ah, yes, your father,” the old woman said, nodding. “For his sake, I hope that he leaves this world with a light heart, as we all should.” She smiled up at Sita meaningfully, as if she knew much more than she was letting on.
“One thing before I go,” she added. “Do not forget, Sitamun, that you are She Who Knows All the Names. Your words have power. When the time comes, remember that the word is the deed.”
A chill settled over Sita at the ugly woman’s portents. She backed toward the door, trying to remain cordial. “Yes, I’ll do that. I’m, ah, sure Nebet would love to see you… She’s probably still at the swimming pool, if you’re interested.”
The old woman clapped her hands in delight. “Ah! I love a good swim.”
“Good,” Sita said, gesturing toward the door. “I can show you the way if you’d—” She started to lead the old midwife out of her chambers, but when she turned to hold back the doorway drapery, the woman was nowhere to be seen.
She must have slipped out the other door while my back was turned, Sita guessed.Though I’m surprised she could move that fast.Hopefully she wouldn’t wander into trouble with the guards, but they had better things to do than worry about a harmless old woman roaming the halls.
And so did she.
***
By the time Sita made it to her father’s bedchambers, both Mery and Kenna were standing by his door. They stood a distance apart—Mery bedecked in his finest scarlet schenti and blouse, cinched at the waist with an obsidian-encrusted leather belt; and Kenna, unadorned, clothed in a simple white tunic. They werelike the sun and the moon, her brothers, rarely seen together, yet unable to escape each other’s orbit.
“Sister,” Mery murmured in greeting, his eyes shining.
“Sitamun,” Kenna said curtly.
Sita stepped into the space between them. “So this is what it takes to bring the three of us together?”
“Who better to share my sorrow with than with my beloved siblings?” Mery said, in tone so artless Sita almost believed him.
Kenna crossed his arms, but said nothing.
A moment later, Queen Bintanath emerged from the king’s chambers. “Good, you’re all here. He doesn’t have much time.” She scrutinized each of them in turn—first Mery, then Sita, then Kenna—her favor dimming as she went.
“For gods’ sake, Kenna, is this the best you’ve got to wear? We’ll have to commission something decent for the coronation.”
“The king has moments to live, Mother,” Kenna said mildly. “Forgive me if fashion wasn’t my primary concern.”
The queen looked annoyed at this rebuke, but also a little pleased.
She adjusted a pleat on Kenna’s tunic. “Perhaps there’s some fire in you after all, Bakenamun.” Then she beckoned them all forward. “Hurry now. Your father is waiting.”
Mery went first and Sita followed, pushing through the heavy curtain with Kenna trailing behind her. The air in the chamber was thick with incense, and sunlight streaked in through blousy curtains, striking the clouds of smoke and giving the room a blurry, dreamlike quality. Everything that Sita remembered cluttering the room—jars of carob tree extract and propolis resin from the palace beehives, used but not useful; plates of food, untouched and swarming with fruit flies; foul-smelling bowls strategically placed by the bedside—had been removed. All the messy remnants of life had been cleared away to make room for death.
Sita felt a great weight on her chest as she approached the bed where her father lay, gray and fleshless. They’d dressed him in the same river-blue robes he’d worn at his coronation, the ones embroidered with golden fish with malachite eyes. The robes had been made to fit his once robust frame, but now he was drowning in its folds. His thin, berry-black hair had been hidden once again beneath a striped headdress. His eyes were closed, and for an instant, Sita thought he might already be dead. But he stirred at the sound of their approach, his unfocused gaze lost before it found them.
“Well,” he said hoarsely. “Whoever said the wicked live longer was grossly mistaken.”
Sita put one hand over her mouth to catch the sob rising in her throat. He was a neglectful parent, a feckless king, and a lech of the highest order, but…
