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Elliott always looked better than almost anyone around him. Trim, still handsome at fifty-five, he wore white tie and tails as if they were entirely natural to him.
And it struck her as faintly horrible that they could resume like this, as if nothing had happened. They might as well have been in London; Egypt was a nightmare suddenly; only Julie was not ready to wake up.
"And so here we are in our feathers," she said, "ready to do our ritual dance."
"Remember, until he's apprehended, which he won't be, we have every right to presume he's innocent. And carry on as if he were."
"It's monstrous and you know it."
"It's necessary."
"For Alex, yes. And Alex hasn't seen fit to call us all day. As for myself, it doesn't matter."
"You have to go back to London," he said. "I want you to go back to London."
"I'll always love you," she said. "You're flesh and blood to me, really, you always have been. But what you want doesn't matter anymore." She turned around.
Up close she could see the evidence of the strain in him; he'd aged, the way Randolph had suddenly aged when he'd heard of Lawrence's death. He was as handsome as ever, but now there was a tragic quality to it; a certain philosophical sadness had replaced the old twinkle in his eye.
"I can't go back to London," she said. "But I will get Alex on that train."
Destroy the elixir. He stood before the mirror. He had put on most of the required garments, taken from the trunk of Lawrence Stratford--the shining black trousers, shoes, belt. Naked from the waist up, he stared at his own reflection. The moneybelt girded him as it had since he left London. And the vials gleamed in their canvas pockets.
Destroy the elixir. Never use it again.
He lifted the stiff white shirt and put it on carefully, working the impossible buttons. He saw Elliott Savarell's drawn and weary face. You will persuade Julie to go back to London--until this is over.
Beyond the windows, the city of Cairo seethed quietly with the great noise of modern cities, a sound he had never heard in ancient times.
Where was she, the dark-haired queen with the violent blue eyes? He saw her again, sighing under him, her head thrown back on the pillows, same flesh. "Suckle me!" she'd cried out as she had done so long ago; back arched like a cat. And then the smile on her face; a stranger's smile.
"Yes, Master Alex," Walter said into the telephone, "to suite two-oh-one, I'll bring your clothes right away. But do call your father in Miss Stratford's suite. He's eager to get in touch with you. He's worried that he hasn't seen you all day. So much has happened, Master Alex--" But the connection was already broken. Quickly he rang Miss Stratford. No answer. He had no time. He had to hurry with the clothes.
Cleopatra stood at the window. She had dressed in the gorgeous gown of pure silver which she had taken from the poor woman in the little shop. Ropes of pearls fell down over the swell of her breasts. She had never done her hair properly; in a dark black veil it hung down about her, moist still from the bath, and full of perfume, and she liked it. It made her smile bitterly to think it was like being a girl again.
Running through the palace gardens, her hair her cl
oak.
"I like your world, Lord Alex," she said as she watched the winking lights of Cairo under the paling evening sky. The stars seemed so lost above this dazzling splendour. Even the headlamps moving through the streets had a soothing beauty. "Yes, I like your world. I like everything about it. I want to have money and power in it; and for you to be at my side."
She turned. He was staring at her as if she'd hurt him. She ignored the knock at the door.
"Dearest, those things don't always go hand in hand in my world," he said. "Lands, a title, education--these I have, but money I do not."
"Don't worry," she said, so relieved it was only that. "I shall acquire the wealth, my lord, that's nothing. Not when one is invulnerable. But there are some scores I must settle first. I must hurt someone who has hurt me. I must take from him ... what he took from me."
The knock sounded again. As if waking from a dream, he took his eyes off her and went to the door. A servant. His evening clothes had come.
"Your father's already left, sir. Your tickets will be at the box office under his name."
"Thank you, Walter."
There was barely time for him to dress. As he shut the door, he looked at her again, curiously, with that little touch of sadness.
"Not now," she said, quickly kissing him. "And we may use these tickets, may we not?" She picked up off the dressing table the pair she'd stolen from the poor dead boy in the alleyway, the little papers which said "Admit One."
"But I want you to meet my father, I want you to meet all of them. I want them to meet you."
