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"Of course you do, and I shall, soon enough. But let us be alone somewhere lost in the crowd so that we can be together. We shall see them when it suits us. Please?"
He wanted to protest, but she was kissing him, stroking his hair again. "Let me have a chance to see your lost love Julie Stratford from a distance."
"Oh, but none of that matters now," he said.
NOTHER MODERN palace--the Opera House, swarming with bejeweled women in gowns the colours of the rainbow, and the men beside them, elegant in white and black. How curious it was, all colours belonging to the females. The males wore uniforms, it seemed, each perfectly identical with the other. She blurred her eyes, to see the reds and blues dancing independently of all detail.
She watched the great surge up the grand staircase. She felt admiring glances on her; the soft glaze of admiration like a light on her skin.
Lord Summerfield beamed at her with pride and affection. "You are the Queen here," he whispered, cheeks flushed again for an instant. He turned to one of the merchants peddling strange little instruments the purpose of which she couldn't guess.
"Opera glasses," he said as he handed them to her. "And the program, yes, please."
"But what are they?" she asked.
He gave a startled little laugh. "You did fall from heaven, didn't you?" His lips touched her neck and then her cheek. "Put them to your eyes, adjust them until they come into focus. Yes, that's it. You see?"
She was shocked. She jumped back as the people on the upper gallery appeared to loom over her.
"What a curious thing. What makes it happen?"
"Magnification," he said. "Pieces of glass." How delighted he seemed that she'd never heard of it. She wondered how Ramses had mastered all these little secrets; Ramses, whose "mysterious tomb" had been discovered only a month ago by "poor Lawrence," who was now dead. Ramses, who told "in the scrolls" of his love for Cleopatra. Was it really possible that Alex didn't know that the mummy and his nemesis Ramsey were the same?
But how could he grasp it? With only the inane story of the disreputable cousin to link the two? Had she believed when the old priest had led her into the cave?
Chimes sounded. "The opera's going to begin."
They moved up the stairs together. It seemed to her a brilliant light surrounded both of them, separated them from others, and others could see this light, and cast their glances carefully, perceiving that it was love. Love. She did love him; it was not a full-blooded love such as she'd known for Antony; that hurtling through darkness and destruction because one cannot resist another, one cannot live with him or without him, and one goes on, knowing full well that one is being destroyed.
No, this was a newborn love, fresh and gentle as Alex was, but it was love. Julie Stratford had been a fool not to love him; but then Ramses could seduce the goddess Isis. Had there not been Antony, she would never have loved anyone but Ramses. That he had always understood.
Ramses the father, the judge, the teacher; Antony the bad boy with whom she'd run away. Playing in the royal bedchamber like children; drunk; mad; answerable to no one; until Ramses had appeared after all those years.
This is what you've done with your freedom? Your life?
The question was, what would she do with her freedom now? Why did the pain not cripple her? Because this newborn world was too magnificent. Because she had what she had dreamed of in those last few months, when the Roman armies swarmed over Egypt, when Antony was desperate and full of delusions: another chance. Another chance, without the weight of a love that was dragging her down into those dark waves forever; another chance without a hatred for Ramses, who wouldn't save her doomed lover; who wouldn't forgive her for being doomed herself.
"Your Highness, I'm losing you again," he said intimately.
"No, you're not," she said. The lights swam around her. "I'm with you, Lord Alex." The high crystal light fixture above was full of tiny sparkling rainbows; she could hear the faint tinkle of glass as it moved in the breeze from the open doors.
"Oh, but look, there they are!" Alex said suddenly, pointing up to where the banister curved and ran away from the top of the stairs.
The noise died around her; the lights; the crowds, the soft communal excitement. Ramses stood there!
Ramses in modern raiment, and beside him the woman, of considerable beauty, young and fragile as Alex was fragile, her auburn hair brushed exquisitely back from her face. A flash of dark eyes as she looked at them and did not see them. And Lord Rutherford, dear Lord Rutherford, struggling on his silver cane. Did Ramses really fool the mortals around him? This giant of a man, his face glistening with immortal vigour, hair a tousled mane. And the woman--she had not been given it. She was mortal still. Desperately, fearfully, she clung to Ramses' arm.
"Darling, not now," she begged.
Onward the party moved, the crowd swallowing them.
"But dearest, just to tell them that we're here. Why, this is splendid, it means Ramsey's been cleared. Everything's back to normal. Pitfield worked the miracle."
"Give me this time, Alex, I beg you!" Had her tone become imperious?
"All right, Your Highness," he said with a forgiving smile.
Away from them! She felt desperate, as if she were suffocating. Reaching the top of the stairs, she glanced back. They had gone into a far doorway draped with velvet. And Alex was taking her in another direction. Thank the gods for this.
