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Timothy reached over and folded back a tissue of bandage.
From deep under the openings of papyrus, the sewn-shut eyes of the old, old woman could be seen, with a hidden creek of vision between the lids. Dust filtered from her lips.
“Nef, sir,” said the boy. “Mother of Nefertiti.”
The curator wandered back to his chair and reached for a crystal decanter.
“Do you drink wine, boy?”
“Not until today, sir.”
Timothy sat for a long moment, waiting, until Mr. D.W. Alcott handed him a small glass of wine. They drank together and at last Mr. D. W. Alcott said:
“Why have you brought this—it—her here?”
“It’s the only safe place in the world.”
The curator nodded. “True. Are you offering,” he paused. “Nef? For sale?”
“No, sir.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Just that if she stays here, sir, that once a day, you talk to her.” Embarrassed, Timothy looked at his shoes.
“Would you trust me to do that, Timothy?”
Timothy looked up. “Oh, yes, sir. If you promised.”
Then he went on, raising his gaze to fix on the curator.
“More than that, listen to her.”
“She talks, does she?”
“A lot, sir.”
“Is she talking, now?”
“Yes, but you have to bend close. I’m used to it, now. After a while, you will be, too.”
The curator shut his eyes and listened. There was a rustle of ancient paper, somewhere, which wrinkled his face, listening. “What?” he asked. “What is it she, mainly, says?”
“Everything there is to say about death, sir.”
“Everything?”
“Four thousand four hundred years, like I said, sir. And nine hundred million people who had to die so we can live.”
“That’s a lot of dying.”
“Yes, sir. But I’m glad.”
“What a terrible thing to say!”
“No, sir. Because if they were alive, we wouldn’t be able to move. Or breathe.”
“I see what you mean. She knows all that, does she?”
