He took my offered hand and shook it solemnly. “And luck to you also.”
At dusk I lit the kerosene lamps. As I worked my way down the corridor from the entry hall and through the parlor, women rustled downstairs in cheap finery that, like stage costumes, owed its elegance to the concealing magic of artful lighting. They talked in hushed, excited tones like ingenues before the performance. In the parlor the dark, flocked wallpaper and the heavy, ornate furniture took on richer tones in the lamplight, and the aspidistras formed an impenetrable jungle between the overstuffed sofas. As the women took pains to arrange themselves around the room, someone tugged on the doorbell pull.
“Showtime,” Lillie trilled, and giggled as she left to answer the ring.
This was a different show than I knew. Part of me wanted to see it, but the stronger part hastened me away. I felt dead on my feet, and I knew Apollo must be too, but I needn’t have worried about putting him to bed; he lay curled up on his cot, fast asleep already, in his clothes. I undressed him, covered him up, and then retired myself to a strange bed in a room more larder than bedchamber, where the ghost of bacon lingered in the air. The sheets were rough and reeked of disinfectant, and the straw mattress crunched as I tossed and turned my aching bones despite fatigue, while unfamiliar voices burbled in the distance.
What if someone tried to kidnap Apollo like someone had stolen Mr. Northstar’s son? I had to earn him train fare home. This should be simple, but nothing had gone right lately, and I had already led him to employment in a house of ill repute. What else could happen?
I was creeping from a stone room, a roll of paper under my arm, when around the corner she came, and my heart nearly leaped from my mouth in panic. She was supposed to be at the market.
I tried to act as if all was perfectly normal and greeted her courteously. “I came for a scroll your husband kindly offered to lend me,” I said.
There was not a shred of belief on her face, but plenty of interest.
“He must trust you, indeed, to loan you a scroll that bears the royal seal of secrets,” she said. I think she enjoyed the panic in my eyes. She peered into her husband’s study. “And how kind of you to seal the jar the scroll came from as if it had never been opened. How tidy and considerate.”
“I can see you are not a fool,” I answered. I sank to my knees and offered up a hand of supplication. “Chantress of Hathor, be my ally,” I begged. “I know you care not for your husband. Please don’t betray me to him.”
“Why should I not?” she asked. I think she was furious that I had seen the misery of her marriage.
“Because you of all people would want to see the gods restored to their rightful order, a true king on the throne, and the two kingdoms united once more,” I replied.
“Pick that up and follow me,” she told me, and led me to a secluded bower in the garden. “Explain yourself,” she said.
That was where I told her who I really was. “If you are a true daughter of Kemet, you will protect me,” I said.
For a second I thought I was lost, but then I saw the change on her face. Disdain fled and her features softened, her eyes sparkled and her breath quickened. I was distracted by the rise and fall of her breast.
“I will return the scrolls once you have copied them,” she said, and opened her arms as if to embrace me.
I edged away; she moved forward.
She slid her arms around my neck and gently touched my lips with hers, and I trembled.
She released me abruptly and hurriedly stepped back, a blush on her cheeks, shame and fear in her eyes. But I had waited too long for her lips, and I pulled her roughly to me, wrapped her in my arms, and took her mouth completely and thoroughly with mine. She surrendered to my exploring, urgent caresses, and I think we both stopped breathing and our flesh became one fire as we sank to the ground.
“You remember,” she said, and her eyes glowed with the fire within.
12
I AWOKE TO THE GRAY OF DAWN piss-proud and stared wryly at the tent in my sheets. Was this the influence of my new lodgings? I groped under the bed for the chamber pot.
Why was Lady Adventure haunting my dreams? I wondered as I pulled on my trousers. I was already having my adventure, wasn’t I? She was still in the guise of an exotic foreign lady, too, but who was I supposed to be? I couldn’t recall what I had said in the dream. At least there was no skeleton man, like Miss Dibble predicted, I thought, and laughed.
My knee had stiffened overnight, and I hobbled to the bowl and pitcher. I rinsed my face in chilly water and went to shake Apollo awake. It was time to earn his train fare home. Apollo had already abandoned his bed, however. He sat in the kitchen, mopping up the remains of an egg with a thick crust of bread. “I found the eggs,” he announced proudly. “Cook showed me where to look.”
Cook glanced over from the big iron cooking range, a broad smile on her face. “He’s a clever boy,” she said. “Reminds me of a Skye terrier I once had.”
Cook was in charge of the household staff—two kitchen girls and three upstairs maids who did the housework and looked after the ladies. She gave me my marching orders after she had filled me with a hot breakfast.
I left Apollo cleaning the silver at the kitchen table and went to split logs before the sun grew hot. I was pleased to note that my back and elbow gave me less trouble this day. Next I trimmed the wicks in the downstairs lamps and ran a brush around the insides of the glass chimneys to clean them of smoke, then I scrubbed out the tobacco spit from the cuspidors in the parlor, a chore I had never had to do at home, thank the Lord.
When I went back to the kitchen for my midday meal, Apollo was grinding coffee beans. “All I seem to do is crank handles,” he grumbled. “Today I have turned the washing machine paddles to swirl the laundry, turned the clothes wringer wheel to squeeze out the wash water, ground peppercorns until I sneezed my brains out, and turned the handle on the coffee bean roaster on the stovetop. Now this. I shall have arms the size of a dockworker’s by the time I leave here.”
“Ah, he’s a dear boy,” said Cook, patting his head. “Put the ice card in the window, would you, Abel? Twenty-five up. I don’t want the iceman to miss us.”
After I ate, I went out to throw the slops over the wall to the pig, before I fed the chickens. Apollo’s tasks kept him indoors. I suppose the mistress of the house didn’t want to risk the attention of the occasional passerby. I couldn’t blame her. Her domicile wouldn’t pass close inspection.