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him, Ramses.”
    The man knelt beside the boy and lifted him gently to his feet, the tenderness of his manner in striking contrast to his former ferocity. “We will go home now,” he murmured. “Come, young master. Come with François.”
    “Yes.” The boy nodded. “But first I must know the names of these new friends, and I must tell them mine. I am Justin Fitzroyce. And you, beautiful lady?”
    The sad truth had dawned on Nefret, as it had on me. She spoke to him as she would have spoken to a child, and like a well-trained child he gave each of us his hand as Nefret pronounced our names. “I will see you again, I hope,” he said sweetly. “You will come to visit me?”
    “Thank you,” I said. “Where do you live?”
    François, his arm supporting the slim frame of his “young master,” nodded toward the river. “The dahabeeyah Isis. You may speak to my mistress if you still doubt me.” The face that had been so benevolent when he spoke to the boy darkened again, and he turned blazing eyes on Ramses.
    “There is no need,” I said.
    “No! You must come. My honor has been questioned. She will tell you.”
    “I am sorry,” my son began.
    “There is no need to apologize,” I said firmly. “François surely understands that a stranger might have misinterpreted his behavior and acted in what he believed to be the boy’s defense.”
    A curt nod was the only response from François, but the boy continued to smile and wave as his servant led him away.
    “What a sad state of affairs,” said my dear, soft-hearted Emerson. “The lad must be subject to fits. It was necessary for his manservant to subdue him lest he harm himself.”
    “Possibly,” Nefret said. “Persons in a state of mania can have extraordinary strength. Frenzy is not typical of epilepsy, however.”
    “No,” I agreed. “And one would have supposed that if François was aware of his master’s condition he would have learned how to deal with it less forcibly. Goodness gracious, he is twice the boy’s size.”
    “And built like a prizefighter,” Ramses said, absently rubbing his wrist. “He knows a few dirty moves too.”
    “It is not our affair,” Emerson declared. “You heard me, Peabody; you are not to call on his family and pry into their affairs and lecture them about medical treatment. You always—”
    “No, Emerson, I do not ‘always,’ and I have no intention of interfering in this case. We have other matters to attend to.”
    “Too true,” said Cyrus, sighing.
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    They stopped by the Castle in the forlorn hope that the missing Italian had turned up after all. He had not. Emerson persuaded Cyrus and Bertie to go to Deir el Medina with him, and Katherine emphatically seconded the suggestion. They could not expect to hear from Russell until late that night and, as Katherine candidly admitted, “To be honest, my dear, if you search that room one more time, I shall scream.”
    Ramses helped Nefret collect his vociferous offspring and their paraphernalia. His mother marched off to Emerson’s study, with a glint in her eyes that made Ramses wonder what she was up to now. He decided it was more than likely that Emerson would stroll in that evening to find she had finished the article for him. Then there would be a row. About time, he thought. They hadn’t had a first-class argument in days.
    They rode the horses, since the distance was too great for short legs. Ramses took his daughter up with him on Risha and Nefret held Davy, who was a fraction less wriggly than his sister. They loved riding with their parents and Charla told Ramses so at length. He assumed from her chuckles and gestures that was what she was talking about; he didn’t understand a word.
    They were eagerly awaited, especially by Selim’s four youngest children, who ranged in age from a staggering one-year-old to the big sister of six. Daoud and his wife