Cleopatra stared down at the books before her as if she thought they might open by themselves. Then, tentatively, she laid her hands across the cover of The Wrath of Anubis and drew it slowly towards her. But she could not bring herself to open it, it seemed. Defiance behind this, perhaps.
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"I will not force this on you," Sibyl said, rising to her feet. "But I will linger here in this town for as long as it takes you to test my theory. If you wish me to leave, simply stay silent. And I will take that as my cue to return to America, and I will cherish what moments of our connection you allow me to share."
Sibyl stood.
There was wonder in the expression with which Cleopatra now regarded her. But she didn't ask Sibyl to stay. Knowing full well that it might be the last time they ever laid eyes upon one another, Sibyl collected her satchel and walked from the pub and into the daylight.
It was hope that had brought her this far; it was hope that would keep her for a while. She would take a room at the Royal Hotel, but not before she put in a call to Lucy at Claridge's to assure her she was well.
Then she would wait. For how long exactly, she wasn't yet sure.
For now, she would walk.
Her satchel was considerably lighter now, her books having been delivered, so each step along the harbor reminded her that she had accomplished what she'd come here to do. She'd presented Cleopatra with her theory and her writings.
She came to a gravel shore, dotted with beached rowboats. From here, she had a view across the water to the mountains in the distance, their flanks painted by the shadows of the dark storm clouds moving across the sky. They looked pregnant with rain, these clouds, but the air remained crisp and dry, and the wind drove them so fast it seemed entirely likely they might pass over here, and this town, without spilling a drop.
And then, suddenly, she was gripped by a vision unlike any she had experienced before since this adventure had begun.
The gravel, the water, and the mountains in the distance were replaced by a glimmering canal not unlike the one that had separated her from Cleopatra in their shared dream. But whereas the periphery of that dream had seemed hazy and abstract, now the details were clear.
She stood on the bank of the canal in a vast courtyard fringed by columns topped with the carvings of acanthus leaves. Great shafts of sunlight came down from above, and there were white clouds moving leisurely across the sky. And a young boy ran towards her along the black canal; a young boy with a cherub's face and black curls. And his voice was clear now as he called out to her again and again, "Mitera!"
The sunlight reflected off the rippling canal, sending bright rivulets of light across his laughing face, and then, without warning, he did a cartwheel right before her, and then she scooped him into her arms so as to keep him from falling into the water. And he was laughing. Gazing up and laughing at her as she held him.
She had seen this boy again and again in her dreams. But he had been one of so many faces that visited her in her sleep. Faces without names. She had assumed them all products of her fevered imagination and her love of the ancient world. She had been wrong then. But now, she was right. For this boy. This boy whose features and bearing and delighted laughter she had given to scores of children depicted in her novels had a name.
He was Caesarion.
He was Cleopatra's son.
And the vision Sibyl experienced now was a memory awakened. Awakened by Sibyl's dreams, awakened by Sibyl's words, awakened by Cleopatra's willingness to open one of Sibyl's novels and read a passage she had marked on the train ride here.
The vision receded, leaving her breathless. Sibyl found herself on her knees on the gravel beach, once again gazing out at the black water of the harbor and the mountains in the distance shadowed by fast-moving storm clouds. Only she wasn't alone. She heard a voice, clear and gentle, speaking to her across the connection that had changed the course of her life.
Come back, Cleopatra called. Come back to me, Sibyl Parker.
Epilogue
They'd returned late in the evening, finding the house empty as they'd anticipated, with no meddlesome servants to intrude on this, their last night in London. Henry and Rita and the rest of the staff had been sent on their yearly visits home. And a splendid meal of delicious cold meats, cheeses, and pastries had been purchased at a country inn as they made the drive back.
Now it was just midnight, and Ramses and Julie had made up the fires in the bedroom and in the drawing rooms, as not even in August was London truly what Ramses called warm. They had packed up all the belongings they would take with them on their trip back to Europe. And just where and how they would begin, well, all that might be determined in the morning. It did not really matter now. What mattered now was their being alone together, alone to discuss or reflect upon all they had experienced, all they had learned, and to make their plans at leisure now that order had been restored to their own private world.
Ramses had to admit he found the Mayfair townhouse cozy, what with its dark wood paneling and its many soft glass lamps, and its innumerable lace-curtained windows, and the great cold banquet set out on the oval table in the Egyptian Room, as Julie called it, which was a library of sorts, or a second drawing room, depending upon whom one consulted and when. On that very spot, the spot now occupied by the table, Ramses had awakened from his long slumber, in his painted coffin, to first gaze on these rooms. Well, the sarcophagus had been removed to the British Museum, where officials still railed about the "theft" of a priceless mummy, but were at the same time mollified by the gift of all the Egyptian treasure Lawrence had collected over his many years of amateur Egyptology and discovery, the great passion which had led to his death.
Ah, such a tragedy, Ramses thought, that Lawrence Stratford had been poisoned before he could ever know that the mummy he'd discovered was indeed a slumbering immortal who would soon be restored to full life.
But this was not the time for regrets over such things.
This was the time for them to sit comfortably at the table and begin a meal that only two hungry immortals could fully appreciate for its variety and size. Red wine and white wine. Divine cheeses from France and Italy. Cold roast fowl and lobster, slices of rare beef, and salads, as they called them, of boiled shrimp or savory vegetables. And then the sweets, the sweets that never ceased to amaze him with their flaky crusts and layers of sugar, and the delicious cherries or strawberries that spilled out at the touch of the fork. Ramses had finally become used to forks.
There was a virtue to using these modern tools to spear one's food and lift it securely to one's mouth. It kept the hands from being sticky. And yes, these napkins even delighted him now as he carefully wiped his mouth, as the English did it, before lifting the crystal glass of wine to his lips.
Clean hands, clean lips, clean glasses. It was all about such fastidiousness. Well, he'd become used to it, and used to the smell of the coal burning in the grate, and used to the faint scent of "London" penetrating the walls.
Julie was in her pink peignoir once more, that long lacy garment he adored with all of its tiny pearls that were not really pearls, and its full ruffled sleeves that made her hands all the more lovely, her hair flowing down her back in shimmering waves that he wanted to take in his own hands now and press to his face. Enough. There would be time later for their heated lovemaking, when he would peel off this luxurious satin dressing gown, as they called it, get rid of this stiff linen shirt with its merciless silk tie, and take his naked and trembling beloved in his arms.