Once Bektaten saw herself through Bastet's eyes, Bektaten reached for her handkerchief. It was like groping in the dark, but she had practiced this movement several times earlier that night. She wiped her face clean of pollen. Gradually, the connection began to weaken.
For another minute or two she experienced the car's movement as Bastet did, and then feeling returned to her own legs, and she felt once again the kiss of her dress shirt against her skin and the weight of her silk wrap against her shoulders and arms.
Once she found herself staring forward at the backs of the two men in the car's front seat, Bektaten said, "It seems we have a party to attend."
21
The Rutherford Estate
Alex Savarell followed his mother out onto the stone steps leading to the Rutherford Estate's broad western lawn.
Edith Savarell, the Countess of Rutherford, was almost as tall as her son, her silver hair as lovely to him as her blonde hair had been years ago. Elegantly dressed in a soft belted jacket and narrow skirt, and with her hair exquisitely coiffed, she seemed to Alex a timeless beauty reborn.
Julie and Ramsey's coming betrothal party was already the talk of London, twice mentioned in the society columns. A famous American author was scheduled to attend along with a string of other literary and artistic luminaries. In just a few days' time, some of the wealthiest families in Britain would dot this very expanse.
In preparation, the estate, which had formed a terrible burden on their family for so long now, had been beautifully restored--what with Elliott's steady stream of bank deposits from abroad, and Edith's renewed enthusiasm. It had been brought back to life, and so had Edith, who strode ahead of him now, making broad sweeping gestures at the lawn before them as she described where the tents, tables, and chairs would go.
Over the past few weeks, the gardeners had managed to trim the walls of box hedges that ran the lawn's length. They'd cleared away the vines that had threaded themselves through the surrounding trees over the past few years. Inside, the wood floors had been waxed and polished, the tapestries cleaned and the expansive windows shined to spotlessness, crystallizing every available view of the rolling green countryside. The dreary old Victorian wallpaper in the drawing room had been replaced by a new William Morris print, which made it appear as if the greenery surrounding the house had wandered inside and been somehow trimmed and tamed by all the elegant furnishings.
Edith was a handsome, strong-willed woman, an American heiress who had always been the perfect match for Alex's father, a man prone to long trips and "fits of reclusiveness," as she'd once described them. She had never complained of the family's financial situation, which had consumed her own inheritance years ago, managing the household as best she could, and making the requisite excuses for Elliott's often eccentric behavior.
A woman of greater emotional needs would have been unable to endure all this, Alex thought. And it delighted him to see his mother so irrepressibly happy. Though Alex knew nothing of women's clothing or ornament, he knew this new jacket and skirt were expensive, fashionable--indeed her closets were bursting with such new clothing--and that the pearls she wore had been restored to her after years in a bank vault as security for debts now paid. This was good for his mother. She deserved this. She deserved to be proud and filled with social plans, of which the engagement party would certainly be only the beginning.
Was his father suffering from his usual rebellion now--his endless refusal to acknowledge the social demands placed on him? Did that explain Elliott's travels all over Europe? It certainly didn't explain the great sums of money he'd been sending home. He had mentioned casinos in his letter, yes. And there'd been a bit of gossip from old family friends who had spotted him in Baden-Baden.
There had been talk at the bank of an inadvisable land purchase in Africa. But with the money streaming in, no one had complained. Certainly Edith had not complained. She had continued to invest half of each surprising new deposit wisely for a time when perhaps her gambling husband would not have such luck. And she had managed all this, this magnificent restoration, on top of it.
"It's somewhat odd Julie wants to have the party outside," Edith said, turning to face her son. "It's not quite the season yet, and won't be for another few weeks."
Alex had a reasonable guess, but he didn't think it was his mother's business. Julie was still strangely shy about the remarkable thing that had happened to her eyes. Out of doors, she'd have every excuse to wear those eccentric little sunglasses.
"But the weather seems well suited for it for now," Alex said.
"For now, perhaps. But the temperature could plunge. And then what? Sweaters and blankets for all?"
"We'd simply move the party indoors, which looks just as impressive, thanks to all your hard work."
"You give me too much credit," said Edith. "With the right amount of funds, one can do anything. And besides, you've been quite a bit of help yourself, you know."
"What you've undertaken here, it's nothing short of a miracle, Mother. And a beautiful one at that."
He looked back towards the house. The stone frames around its bay windows had been cleaned. They stood out like bare bone against brick walls that were now as bright a shade of red as they'd been in his youth. The Rutherford Estate had been restored to its original subtle Jacobean elegance.
"Perhaps," his mother said. "But you know who all this work is really for, don't you?"
"For Father? To lure him home, perhaps?"
Edith waved at the air in front of her as if to swat at a fly. "Nothing of the kind. I'm long past trying to rein in your father. And please. Don't take that as a condemnation of the man. I love him, truly. But we are drawn by different tides, he and I. Who knows? Perhaps we live under different moons. At any rate, we seem to thrive as we are, so I've never questioned it and I won't start now."
Edith mounted the steps. He felt suddenly bashful and red-faced under the full force of his mother's undivided attention.
"Besides, he's doing his best to see to us. All this money he's sent home. He claims it's a sudden run of luck at the tables. But it must be a new business venture of some sort."
"I can't imagine."
"Neither can I. But for now, let us just be grateful. And let us trust the wind to carry him as it always does. But let us also be clear about one thing. When it comes to this party, there's only one person I'm doing it for, and that's you, dear boy. Because you asked me to."
"Indeed."
"And I assumed you asked me to because it was important to you. Because something about the whole affair will allow you to let Julie go once and for all."
"Maybe so, Mother. Maybe so."
"Oh, and if you stay the night, there's a gift for you. Enrico Caruso's last recording of 'Celeste Aida,' which I've been told is rather marvelous. It's inside for you, next to the gramophone."
Astonishing how these soft, loving words struck him like a blow to the gut. "Celeste Aida." The opera. Cairo. The feel of her hand in his, turning, seeing her sliding into the box next to him, a magnificent jeweled creature, radiant with an energy that seemed almost otherworldly. And then burned. Devoured by fire.
"Alex? It's the right one, isn't it? Aida. Isn't that the opera you all saw in Cairo? The one you're so fond of?"
Urgency in his mother's voice now. She clutched him by one shoulder, turned him to her. Tears in his eyes. How ghastly. He had never cried in front of his mother in this way, not since he was a small boy.
"Alex. What is it? It's Julie, isn't it? You haven't truly--"
"No, Mother. That's just it. I've already let Julie go entirely. That's part of what ails me now."
"So there is another?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Alex, I'm your mother. Let the only manner of speaking with which we address each other be the one that's most truthful."
"There is someone. Was someone, I should say. But it appears she's slipped from my grasp as well."
"Oh, dear. Someone you met on
this Egyptian adventure about which you've said so little?"
"Yes."
"I see."
"Do you?"
He was so startled by the catch in his voice, he pulled away from her.
His vision blurred. It had been so long since tears had come to his eyes he was astonished by the physical consequences.
He stepped away from her quickly. Her arm lifted into the air behind him as if she thought she could draw him back merely with a gesture. She was still reaching out to him when he shot a shameful glance in her direction.
"It truly is a fearsome thing, isn't it?" Alex asked. "To unguard one's heart. One can't know the terror of it until one fully does it, I imagine. They tell me she was a madwoman, you see. Some old friend of Mr. Ramsey's. But she was...Well, I'd never met anyone like her, and I doubt I ever will again."
"But what's become of her, Alex?" Edith laid a hand gently on his shoulder.
"She was in a terrible accident. We had all gone to the opera and it had been an enchanting evening until then. Just enchanting. I had told her everything about me. Everything. That I had a title but none of the money to go with it." Edith winced and bowed her head, as if the family's financial troubles were a terrible personal failing of her own. "But these things, they didn't matter to her, Mother. Not in the slightest. What she had for me, it was a kind of adoration. And it was instant. And powerful. So very powerful."
"And you had such feelings for her," Edith replied.
It was not a question, and there was pity in her voice.
"And then she simply drove off into the night, and I could do nothing to stop her," he continued. "The car, it became stuck on train tracks, and she wouldn't get out. I kept begging her to get out. Pulling on her, even. But it was as if she had undergone some terrible transformation. She seemed so confused. So confused, by so many things. But what she felt for me. She was sure of that, Mother. She seemed absolutely sure of that."
"Oh, Alex. Why didn't you tell me any of this before now?"
"Because to do so would be to do...this."
Surely he could maintain some gentlemanly pose while he wiped tears from his eyes.
His mother, ever the American, ran her hand up and down the back of his jacket until he relented and leaned into her half embrace again.
"I blame myself for this," Edith finally said.
"Oh, but that's absurd, Mother."
"It may seem so, yes. But it's not. What your father and I have, what we've always had, it's a fine friendship, but it isn't much else. To describe anything that's ever happened between us as passion or a great romance? It would be misleading at best, a fallacy at worst. It was an arrangement of convenience and finance, much as your marriage to Julie was to be. And when you consider those things, it's turned out rather well, I feel. But nothing we've ever had, nothing we've ever done, has prepared you, our son, for feelings of this magnitude. And so yes, even though it may sound absurd, I blame myself."
"Well, you mustn't," he replied. "Besides, what could you have done to prepare me for the passion of a madwoman?"
"If she truly was mad," Edith answered.
He was stricken by her tone, which sounded both distracted and calculating. She gazed off into the distance.
"You believe she was something else?" Alex asked.
"I wasn't there." She met his stare and then averted her eyes quickly. Did she regret her words? "But it seems that if she were truly mad, some signs would have presented themselves before the accident."
"But there were signs. Don't you see?"
"I'm afraid I don't, darling. I haven't met her."
"Her desire, the speed of it. The passion. It was all out of sorts."
"You consider those who experience an instant attraction to you insane? My dear Alex. Tell me we raised you to have a higher self-regard than that."
"Be serious, Mother."
"I'm being quite so."
"Well, it doesn't matter, really. None of it. Nothing will reverse the accident and all those terrible flames."
"This is true. What matters is that you get beyond this, Alex."
"I am trying. I promise you. I am trying with all I have."
"Listen to the recording," his mother said suddenly. "I encourage you to find your strength and listen to it. Don't let all your memories of that night be poisoned by its tragic end. Savor of it what you can. Cherish those things about it that were precious to you. Maybe not now, or right away. But soon, Alex." She embraced him now. "Soon, promise me."
"I promise you, Mother. I will try. Very soon."
22
Yorkshire
"You mustn't go," Teddy cried for the third time since she'd started to dress. "You're in no condition!"
Unbearable, the thought of spending another minute in this cramped, dusty room.
Quaint, that was the curious word Teddy had used to describe this place, this inn, as they called it. To her, it seemed a sharp, menacing word; and the forced smile with which he'd said the word over and over again had become a kind of taunt.
From the moment they'd reached England, his attentions had gone from nurturing to infuriating. The idea that he would try to stop her now, when they were so close to their destination, when this party for Ramses had started not a half hour ago--it was insane, these things he was saying!
He had already helped her into a corset, but now that she was pulling up the shoulders of the dress he'd bought for her in Cairo, he seemed to be coming apart. She studied herself in the full-length mirror as he paced behind her. "We have traveled all this way. You cannot expect me to--"
"I will go," said Teddy. "I will explain everything to Ramses. He seeks to live under an alias now. If I threaten to expose him, he will agree to meet with you at once. He will tell you everything you need to know, and he will most certainly give you more of this elixir. I'm sure of it!"
"And that is the problem, dear Teddy," she said. She removed her hat from its box, along with its long, sharp pin. "You are too sure of it. You are too sure of everything you say in this moment."
"Don't you see? This condition of yours, it's worsened since we arrived. You must stay put until we--"
If only he hadn't grabbed her by both shoulders. If only he hadn't shaken her. There was something about the feel of his hands gripping her in that way that triggered an anger she could not control.
She shoved him.
His back slammed into the wall behind him with such force the full-length mirror next to him tilted to one side, sending her reflection askew.
"Enough!" she said. But the fear in his eyes filled her with remorse. So much fear in him now; fear of her great strength, fear of her condition, as he called it.
And he was right.
It had worsened since they'd reached this vast, green island. The powerful visions had been replaced by strange bits of fugue. She now felt the urge to sleep, but could not. The result was a kind of daze in which her limbs went numb and she could barely form words and found herself staring off into space for minutes at a time.
More, she thought, I just need more. And then I will never have to see this frightened look in Teddy's eyes again. In anyone's eyes again. Whoever this Sibyl Parker is, she is a witch, a priestess, and she has used sorcery to exploit my weakened condition. A long drink of Ramses' precious elixir will make me strong against her.
But the look in Teddy's eyes. The misery and the fear. Not since Ramses had fled from her resurrected corpse in the Cairo Museum had anyone gazed upon her with this abject, wide-eyed terror. She could not bear this. She simply could not bear it.
"It is you who is coming apart," she said. "And it is you who will remain here while I attend this gathering. I have asked for your care alone. I will not become your slave."
"My queen," he whispered, the tears flowing now. "Please...my queen..."
Impossible not to pity him now. When she reached for his face, she expected him to flinch or turn away. And she saw the flicker of such an urge. But it died quickly, and
when she caressed the side of his cheek, his eyes fluttered closed.
"Trust in me, Teddy. Trust in that which you cannot fully understand."
False, these words. At least the confidence with which she'd spoken them was false, even if the words themselves were true. For she understood the condition that gripped her about as well as he did.
He turned his lips to her fingers and kissed them gently.
Did he believe her to be dying? Or, worse, a creature whose mind would collapse even as her body endured?
How else to interpret his misery?
There was no time for this.
The hat they'd bought in Cairo had a broad black brim and a band of ostrich feathers that arced over it like plumes of spray from a fountain. She had already pinned up her hair so that the hat could fit almost snugly over the top. But she'd forgotten to insert the hatpin itself. Terrified that her resolve would crumble under the force of another terrible wail from Teddy, she left the room quickly, driving the hatpin into place as she strode down the narrow hall.
When the sharp tip met her scalp, she cried out.
A careless mistake, and a teasing reminder of how out of sorts she'd grown.
She had already called for a taxi. It was waiting for her when she stepped outside.
Once she'd settled into the backseat and informed the driver of her destination, she dabbed at the area of her head where she'd poked herself. A few droplets of blood came away on her fingers. She licked them up. God forbid she stain her dress.
*
The train had just pulled into the station when pain knifed through Sibyl Parker's scalp. Crippled, she hit the carpeted aisle knees first.
Passengers on all sides extended helping hands. In seconds, she was back on her feet, apologizing profusely for her carelessness. Trying her best to give no indication of the searing pain that continued to strobe across the roof of her skull.
Thank God she had convinced Lucy to remain in their suite at Claridge's.
If her lady's maid and companion had seen this display, she would have insisted they turn around that instant. Whatever Sibyl's affliction, it had worsened considerably over the past day. Impossible not to believe that the closer she drew to this Mr. Ramsey, the more severe her condition became.