Page 76 of Tomb of the Sun King

Ellie fought back a frustrated sigh. The patio table soundedmuchmore enticing than her room upstairs and the rest of Leviticus, but it would be deeply unfair of her to push Adam’s limits—not now that she understood what that might cost him far better than she had an hour before.

“Yes.” She mustered the willpower to take a deliberate step back from him. “I’ll do that.”

She lingered another moment, achingly conscious of the delicate breeze, the distant lap of the river—and the lean, powerful form of the man who stood before her, his midnight gaze like an electric current that cut through the darkness that divided them.

“Goodnight, Princess,” Adam said, his voice rich with heat, respect, and affection.

“Goodnight,myAdam Bates,” Ellie replied forcefully—and then slipped away.

??

Seventeen

Ellie woke todaylight streaming through the open window and a pillow thumping her in the face.

“Get up, you slug!” Constance called out cheerfully. “We have a temple to raid!”

Constance tossed the pillow aside and popped back over to the vanity to check on her hair, which was twisted into a perfectly tousled Gibson, every strand gleaming.

Ellie forced herself upright. Every movement took effort. It had taken her hours to fall back asleep after she’d returned to her room in the middle of the night, tossed between worry about Adam and thoughts of what use they might have made of that shadowed patio table.

She winced against the glare of the sun and forced herself to remember why she had come to Luxor in the first place.

That the true story be known… seek behind the sun disk in the Holy of Holies of Maat-ka-re Khnemet Amun Hatshepsut.

Ellie was wildly intrigued by the mention of Neferneferuaten in the inscription in Mutnedjmet’s jewelry box. That mysterious figure had captured her imagination ever since Neil had started rattling on to her about it years before. But how did the identity of Akhenaten’s obscure successor connect to the story of the Exodus—if at all? And did the inscription’s reference of a was-scepter—a staff the Ancient Egyptians believed imbued with magical power—have any connection to the Staff of Moses?

As she readied herself, Ellie wondered how many of those questions might be answered by today’s endeavor.

A maid had dropped off their laundered clothes earlier. Constance was already in her lawn dress, which had survived its ordeal at Saqqara with aplomb. She leaned toward the mirror as she set a new hat in place. It was significantly less ostentatious than the last one, but Constance set it at just the right angle to make it look eminently fashionable.

Ellie had been furnished with another perfectly serviceable straw boater. She pinned it on after Constance had vacated the mirror, only to find herself staring at the dark circles that shadowed her eyes.

Constance popped into the frame of the glass beside her. “You need cucumbers,” she declared authoritatively. “But we haven’t any time for them now. Come on!”

She hurried Ellie out of the room. As they headed for the stairs to the lobby, Ellie’s brain finally stuttered back to life.

“We’ll need a ferry to cross the river. Animals for transportation to the ruins,” she recited. “Some sort of hamper for lunch.”

“Yes, yes,” Constance said dismissively. “I told you. The hotel has taken care of all of that. Deir al-Bahari is one of their regular excursions.”

“Excursions?” The word set off a low note of alarm in Ellie’s mind.

Constance tugged Ellie into the lobby, and the nightmare of her situation became instantly clear.

The space in front of the welcome desk was packed with practically every other guest who was staying at the hotel. A morose Welsh painter juggled a bundle of canvases and an easel. A pair of German brothers were picking through a wicker case stuffed with provisions.

“But there ought to be at least two types of pickles!” the first complained.

“Wo ist die Wurst?” exclaimed the other.

“I can’t eat wurst in this climate,” complained an American woman with pearls as she fanned herself. “I need cold chicken. Can’t somebody bring an icebox? Dick, tell Chester to stop stabbing the florals.”

The boy in question—Chester—was still in short pants. With a flat, blank look at his parents, he drew back the fountain pen he had been using to poke holes in the potted tropical shrubbery.

Ellie stared aghast at the scene. “This is a disaster.”

“What—you mean the sausages?” Constance asked.

---