“He’s a thief,” I agreed. “But you may be sure he doesn’t know any more about Jamil’s tomb than we do. He’d have been looting it before this if he did.”

The weather had turned unusually hot for that time of year. Even the nights were still and warm. We were all affected by it to some extent, except for Emerson, who never feels the heat and who can sleep through an earthquake. Never would I relinquish the comfort of my husband’s presence, but I must say that lying next to him was rather like being in close proximity to an oven. After several restless nights, I had just got to sleep – or so it felt – when he mumbled loudly in my ear. It was the too-familiar refrain: “Hand of the god… what… where?”

I gave him a rather sharp poke. He rolled over, shoving me to the edge of the bed.

Wide awake and somewhat vexed, I abandoned any hope of repose. I went to the window and leaned out. The room was still dark but there was a freshness in the air that betokened the coming of dawn. It cooled my warm cheeks, and my temper. I had been standing there for several minutes when I heard the creak of an opening door. It was the door at the far end of the courtyard. I had been meaning to have Ali oil the hinges.

It was light enough by now for me to see dim shapes. There were two of them in the doorway, huddled close together. A whisper reached my ears; one form vanished, the other moved slyly and quietly toward the house.

I saw no need to wake Emerson; it is a laborious process at best, and I preferred to deal with this myself. I waited until she had almost reached her window before I climbed out of mine. She let out a stifled shriek and turned to flee, but I was too quick for her.

“Where have you been?” I demanded, seizing her in a firm grip.

“I – I -” Invention failed; she gasped, “Oh, Sitt Hakim, you frightened me!”

“Where have you been, Jumana?”

“Only for a walk. It was hot. I could not sleep.”

“You were with a man. Don’t lie, I saw him.”

“I did nothing wrong. Please believe me!”

“So you have said before. What precisely did you do?”

“I – I promised I would not tell. I gave my word!”

Exasperation had caused me to raise my voice, and defiance, as I thought it, had caused her to raise hers. A grumble and a thrashing of bedclothes told me that we had wakened Emerson. These sounds were followed by a shout: “Peabody!” He always shouts when he reaches out and finds I am not beside him.

“Here,” I called.

Emerson stumbled to the window and looked out. “Is that… Oh, good Gad!”

Only the upper half of his body was visible, but Emerson is a modest man; he retreated, cursing, and began looking for his clothes. I knew it would take him a while, so I pushed Jumana toward her window.

“Go in. You are to remain in your room. If you leave the house without my permission, you need never come back.”

She obeyed without resistance, verbal or physical. I thought I heard a little sob. It did not soften my heart.

When I climbed back in my own window, Emerson was still searching for his trousers. “Never mind that, Emerson,” I said. “You may as well bathe and dress properly, it is almost morning. We have a serious problem on our hands. Jumana has been creeping out at night – possibly for several nights – and she was with a man. I am afraid it was Sebastian Albion.”

“Damnation,” Emerson murmured. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, pushing it back from his face. “Are you sure?”

“Who else would it be? Unless,” I added bitterly, “she has a whole string of them. How could I have been so deceived in her character? I am sadly disappointed, Emerson.”

“Now, Peabody, don’t jump to conclusions.” He sat on the side of the bed and pulled me down next to him. “There may be an innocent explanation. Have you given her a chance to explain?”

“She refused to answer my questions. She said she had given her word. Her word! To a vile deceiver like that!”

“Give her another chance.” A horrible idea struck him. In quavering tones he asked, “You don’t want me to question her, do you?”

“No, Emerson, you are hopeless about such matters. I will give her another chance to confess, naturally. I will leave her locked in her room today and speak to her again this evening, after she has had time to repent.”

“And you have had time to cool off,” said Emerson, putting an arm round my shoulders. “My dear, I don’t blame you for being hurt and disappointed, but – er – you aren’t going to starve her, I hope?”

“Certainly not. I will take her breakfast to her myself. Later.”

I felt calmer after a nice long bath, but I was not ready to face Jumana. I would be the first to admit that my maternal instincts are not well developed – they had been stunted, I believe, by the raising of Ramses – but I had become rather attached to Jumana. I had had such high hopes for her. To find that she was a sneak and a liar and – and worse, perhaps – had left me not only disappointed, but hurt. Yes, Emerson was right about that. I had believed she had become equally attached to us.

When I went to breakfast, the Great Cat of Re was sitting on my chair, its chin on the table, its large green eyes fixed on the platter of bacon. “This is beginning to be like the house of the Three Bears,” I said. “It sits on our chairs, it sleeps on our beds, and now it is about to eat my porridge.”

Sennia found this very witty, but nobody else did, including the cat. Ramses’s keen black eyes detected the perturbation behind my attempt at normalcy; brow furrowing, he started to speak, glanced at Sennia, and remained silent. It was Sennia who asked about Jumana. I explained that she was not feeling well and would spend the day in bed. “You are not to go in her room,” I added. “She needs to rest. Do you understand?”

“Shall I take her a tray?” Fatima asked.

“I will see to that,” I replied. “Later. Thank you, Fatima. Where is Gargery? It is time Sennia left for her lessons.”

Gargery entered at that moment to announce we had guests. “Mr. Bertie and Mr. Cyrus. You didn’t tell us they were expected for breakfast, madam.”

“Stop trying to put me in the wrong, Gargery,” I said somewhat snappishly. “They were not expected.”

“But we are always glad to see them,” Fatima said, adding plates and cups and silverware to the table, and bustling out for more food.

“Sorry to disturb you folks,” Cyrus said. He did not look at all sorry. Bliss – delight – happiness… The words are too weak for the emotion that transformed his face. The only other time I had seen that glow was on the day he and Katherine were wed.

“What is it, Cyrus?” I cried, jumping to my feet.

“It’s for Bertie to make the announcement,” Cyrus replied. He was puffed with pride.

Bertie looked round the table. “Where’s Jumana? She should be here.”

“Oh my goodness,” I gasped. “You aren’t… you two aren’t engaged?”

Bertie’s boyish laugh rang out. “Better than that, Mrs. Emerson. We’ve found it, Jumana and I. Jamil’s tomb.”

Pandemonium ensued. Even Gargery, who had only the vaguest notion of what Bertie meant, clapped his hands and joined in the cries of excitement and congratulation. As the others gathered round Bertie, all talking at once, I slipped out of the room.

Jumana was sitting on her bed, her hands folded and her face smeared with dried tears. Now that I got a good look at her, I realized she was not dressed for a romantic rendezvous. Her shirt and trousers were torn and dusty, her boots were scuffed, and her hair straggled over her face.

“Bertie is here,” I said.

She jumped up. “Then it’s all right? He told you? I promised I would not, it was to be a surprise, his surprise. May I go now?” She let out a peal of laughter. “I am very hungry!”

Ah, the resilience of youth! From despair to delight in the twinkling of an eye! I could have let her go without further delay; I was tempted to do so, but justice compelled me to make what amends I could.