“That’s how her memory seems to operate.”

“It’s worth a try, I suppose. We might even be able to talk Father out of breaking into the Albions’ suite.”

“You’re joking. No, damn it, you aren’t!”

He had told her of his conversation with Emerson. She had scoffed at the time, but now…

“That’s why he agreed to go to their party!” she groaned. “What are we going to do?”

“Make sure they don’t catch him in the act. He’s dead set on this, Nefret. I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t believe it will do any harm.”

She relaxed against him and let out a breath of laughter. “Well, maybe not. Even if the worst happened – if someone found him in their rooms – he’d talk his way out of it.”

“Shout, not talk,” Ramses corrected. “What could they do to him, after all? There isn’t a man in Luxor who would dare interfere with him.”

All the same, he was a little on edge the night of the party. His father had readily admitted he meant to search the Albions’ rooms; he had raised the subject himself, overruling Ramses’s half-hearted protests and requesting his assistance.

“I will signal you when I’m ready to act. Keep an eye on the Albions. If one of them starts to leave the ballroom – well, you will know what to do.”

“Start a fight with Sebastian, for example? All right, Father, I’ll think of something. I hope. You will be in disguise, I suppose.”

His father grinned happily. “Just the usual, my boy, just the usual. Er – might I borrow a beard? Your mother must have done something with mine, I can’t find it. Oh, and if she asks where I am, put her off somehow.”

It wouldn’t be easy, keeping tabs on three people and fending his mother off, but Ramses thought he could manage it with Nefret’s assistance. He only hoped his mother didn’t have ideas of her own. She looked very handsome that evening, in a gown of her favorite crimson, the diamonds in her ears sparkling. Nefret was radiant in amber satin, and Jumana looked like any young girl on her way to a dance – eyes shining, cheeks flushed.

The Albions had hired the entire hotel, or at least the public rooms, including the dining saloon. That presented no problem to the management, since the convalescent officers who occupied part of the hotel had all been invited. Everyone in Luxor seemed to be there, including the Vandergelts. Mr. Albion’s money and his wife’s good taste made it quite a splendid affair; the wine flowed freely and the food was excellent. After dinner, when the dancing was about to begin, Ramses edged up to his father.

“Is there any way I can persuade you not to do this?”

“Now, now, my boy, it will be all right, you’ll see.” Emerson plucked irritably at his tie. It looked wilted. “I am going to dance with your mother and Katherine, and then give our hostess a whirl, and after that I will quietly steal away.”

“Have you asked Mrs. Albion? The ladies have dance cards. You’re supposed to put your name down for a particular dance.”

“Absurd. Dancing should be spontaneous. Joie de vivre and that sort of thing.”

He strolled away, his hands in his pockets.

Ramses also approved of joie de vivre, but he had been lectured by his mother and his wife about proper procedure. He’d never been able to see the point of the little cards – appointment slips, one might call them – unless it was to give popular ladies a sense of power, and make unpopular ladies squirm when they saw all the blank spaces.

Jumana was loving every moment of it – the flowers, the fancy dresses, the little booklet and pencil attached to her slim wrist by a golden cord. When Ramses asked for a dance she presented the booklet with an air of great importance and an irrepressible giggle. He needn’t have worried about her being neglected; Bertie and Cyrus had signed on, and so had both the Albions. There were several other names Ramses didn’t know. She had attracted quite a lot of attention, with her exotic looks and exquisite little figure.

He had allowed himself the pleasure of engaging his wife for the second dance; as they circled the floor, he warned her of his father’s intentions. Emerson was waltzing with Katherine, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“How are we supposed to watch three people at once?” Nefret grumbled. “With everything else that’s going on? I promised Mother I’d make sure Jumana is enjoying herself.”

“Obviously she is.” White skirts flaring, Jumana was light as thistledown in the respectful grasp of a tall American Ramses remembered having met at Cyrus’s soiree.

“Mr. Lubancic,” Nefret said, following his gaze. “He’s very nice. I’ve got Mr. Albion for the third dance and you for the fourth; suppose I corner Sebastian for that one instead, and you ask Mrs. Albion.”

“I suppose I can’t very well dance with Mr. Albion. We’ll just have to be prepared for emergency action. Be ready to faint or pretend you’ve seen a mouse if I give a distress signal.”

She laughed and nestled closer.

The third dance ended only too soon. As he had promised, Emerson had got hold of his hostess, whose frozen features kept cracking in pain as he spun her vigorously round in waltz time. (The tune was a fox-trot.) When the music ended he led her, limping, to a chair and then turned to give Ramses an exaggerated wink and nod.

Mrs. Albion declined Ramses’s invitation to dance. She looked as if she did not intend to move for some time. Nefret had worked her wiles on Sebastian, so Ramses went in search of Albion senior.

He found him in one of the alcoves talking to Jumana. “Don’t ask her to dance, this one is mine,” Albion said, with one of his jolly laughs. “I can’t prance around with the young folks, but we’re having a nice time talking Egyptology. She’s a clever girl.”

“She is,” Ramses agreed, glancing at the glass she held. “That isn’t champagne, is it?”

“Soda water,” Albion said. “You don’t think I’d ply a young lady with alcohol, do you?”

The answer to that was a resounding “Yes, if you hoped to gain something by it.” Since courtesy forbade honesty, Ramses said, “I’ll join you, if I may. What were you talking about?”

“Those sites your pa told me about” was the prompt reply. “We’ve just about decided not to do any more digging. The young lady agrees with me that it’s a waste of time.”

“The western wadis are too far away and too dangerous,” Jumana explained. “And there is nothing in that part of the Valley of the Queens.”

“Father will be glad to hear that,” Ramses said.

The music ended. Jumana looked at her dance card. “The next one is Bertie,” she announced importantly. “Will you excuse me, sir?”

“Why, sure. You go right ahead.”

Trying to watch all three Albions and fulfill his social obligations kept Ramses fully occupied for a while. Mr. Albion wouldn’t stay put; he wandered around the room, talking to his wife and to various other people. Seeing Mrs. Albion head purposefully for the door of the ballroom, Ramses caught Nefret’s eye, gestured, and trod on Katherine’s toe. Nefret went in pursuit, abandoning her partner.

“I beg your pardon, Katherine,” Ramses said.

“Quite all right, my dear. Is your injury bothering you? Perhaps we should sit down.”

“What? Oh, that. Well, yes, a little. Not much. It’s all right.”

He’d lost sight of Sebastian too. What was taking his father so long?

Mrs. Albion came back, followed by Nefret. Her nod and smile reassured him; they must have gone to the ladies’ parlor.

He was still scanning the room, trying to locate Sebastian, when he caught sight of his father. He let his breath out in a sigh that ruffled Katherine’s hair.

“Let’s do sit down, Ramses,” she said.

“Did I tread on your foot again?”

“No, dear, but the music has stopped.”

Her husband claimed her for the next dance, and Ramses headed straight for his father. Emerson’s appearance would have roused his wife’s direst suspicions. His hair was standing on end, his tie had come undone, and his smile was reminiscent of that of the Great Cat of Re after a tasty meal. Ramses drew him aside.