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She gave him her hand, then saw the bony fingers and drew it back with a hiss.
"No, trust in me," he said in Latin. He helped her to her feet.
He led her through the little house and into the bedroom. She studied objects around her. With her foot, she examined the soft Persian carpet. She stared at the little gramophone. What did the black disk look like to her?
He tried to steer her towards the bed, but she would not move. She had seen the newspaper lying on the dressing table; and now she snatched it up and stared at the advertisement for the opera--at the quaintly Egyptian woman and her warrior lover, and the sketch of the three pyramids behind them and the fanlike Egyptian palms.
She gave a little agitated moan as she studied this. Then her finger moved over the columns of English, and she looked up at Elliott, her eyes large and glossy and slightly mad.
"My language," he said to her in Latin. "English. This advertises a drama with music. It is called an opera."
"Speak in English," she said to him in Latin. Her voice was sharp yet lovely. "I tell you, speak."
There was a sound at the door. He took her arm and moved her to one side, out of sight. "Strangers," he said in English and then immediately in Latin. He went on in this vein, alternating languages, translating for her. "Lie down and rest, and I shall bring you food."
She cocked her head, listening to the noises from the other room. Then her body moved with a violent spasm and she put her hand to the wound in her chest. Yes, they hurt her, these awful oozing ulcers, for that's what they looked like. But there was something else wrong with her, accounting for her sudden jerky movements, and the way every sound startled her.
Quickly he led her to the bed, and, shoving back the netting, he urged her to lie back on the lace pillows. A great look of relief came over her as she did so. She shivered violently again, fingers dancing now over her eyes, as she turned instinctively towards the sun. Surely he should cover her; only a few rags now clung to her, thin as paper, but then she needed the sun.
He opened the blinds opposite, letting the full heat come in.
Then he hurried to close the door to the sitting room, and he peered out the window that opened onto the yard.
Malenka was just opening the garden gate. Two men had come in with a rolled-up carpet. They unrolled it on the pavement, lifted the body of Henry, dumped it down on the carpet and rolled it up again.
The sight of the heavy flopping limbs sickened Elliott. He swallowed, and waited out the sudden increased pressure in his chest.
Then he heard a soft weeping coming from the bed. He went back to the woman and looked down at her. He could not tell if the healing was continuing. And then he thought of the vial in his coat.
For a moment he hesitated. Who would not? But there were only a few droplets. And he could not bear the sight of her pain.
The deaths she'd caused; they had been almost blunders. And how impossible to measure her confusion and torments.
She looked up at him, squinting as though the brightness hurt her. And softly in Latin, she asked his name.
For a moment he couldn't respond. Her simple tone had evinced a natural intelligence. And it was intelligence now that he beheld in her eyes.
That is, she seemed no longer mad or disoriented. Only a woman suffering.
"Forgive me," he said in Latin. "Elliott, Lord Rutherford. In my land, I am a lord."
Shrewdly she studied him. She sat up, and reaching for the folded comforter at the foot of the bed, she brought it up to cover her to the waist. The sunlight sparkled on her black hair, and once again he saw the tendrils dancing about her face.
Her black eyebrows were beautifully drawn, high and just wide enough apart. Her hazel eyes were magnificent.
"May I ask your name?" he said in Latin.
A bitter smile came over her. "Cleopatra," she said. "In my land, I am a Queen."
The silence shimmered. A soft heat washed through him, utterly unlike the pain of other shocks. He stared into her eyes, unable to answer. And then a great exhilaration seized him, obliterating every fear and regret of his soul.
"Cleopatra," he whispered, awestruck, respectful.
In Latin she said, "Speak to me in English, Lord Rutherford. Speak the tongue you spoke to the slave girl. Speak the tongue written there in the book. Bring me food and drink, for I am ravenous."
"Yes," he said in English, nodding to her. He repeated the assent in Latin. "Food and drink."
"And you must tell me--" she started, but then stopped. The pain in her side hurt her, and then frantically she touched the wound on her head. "Tell me--" she tried again, then looked at him in pure confusion. She was obviously struggling to remember; then panic seized her, and clamping her hands to her head, she closed her eyes and started to weep.
