Money had no concern for me except that now and then I wished I had not inherited a fortune. Then I could have been assured that I had been married for myself.

The aunts were right. Now I was a very rich woman.

She seemed more concerned about your having that money than her daughter's death. I marvel that you were able to stay with her so long. She is not a very agreeable woman. It was very brave of you, dear. Oh, how I wish you would write and say you were coming home.

How their letters brought back the peace of the countryside, the cottage in the quiet cul-de-sac a stone's throw from the old rectory.

Tybalt had said that we must behave as though the tragedy had not taken place. It was the best way to quell the rumors. When we went out though, people looked at us furtively. They thought we were mad to brave the Curse of the Pharaohs. How much warning did we want? How many more deaths must there be?

Tabitha said to me: "You don't go into the souk much now."

"I don't want to. Theodosia and I went so often together."

"They will probably notice that you don't go."

"Does it matter?"

"I think you should behave as normally as possible."

"I don't care to go alone."

"I'll come with you sometime."

The next day she suggested we go.

As we walked we spoke, as we always seemed to, of Theodosia.

"Don't brood, Judith," said Tabitha. "I have to stop myself doing that. Remember, I was the one who suggested the tour. If I hadn't . . . she would be here today."

"Someone else would have died. The bridge was ready to collapse. And how were you to know?"

She shook her head dismally. "All the same I can't forget it was my idea."

"Why should the bridge have broken!" I cried. "You don't think someone . . ."

"Oh no, Judith!"

"Who could possibly have done such a thing?"

"It was an accident. How could it have been anything else?"

A silence fell between us. I thought: Suppose it were not an accident. Suppose someone wanted to kill Theodosia. Who would gain from her death? I was the one who had become twice as rich.

I said: "She was my half sister. I loved her. I bullied her, I know, but I loved her just the same. And now . . ."

Tabitha pressed my arm. "Don't, Judith. There's nothing to be done. It's over. We must do our best to put it behind us."

We were in the open market square. There was noise and color everywhere. The flame swallower was about to perform and a crowd of excited children hopped round him; the snake charmer was sitting half asleep, his snakes in their baskets. A juggler was trying to attract a crowd. We went across the square and into that now familiar maze of streets, past the leather shop where Yasmin sat no more, past the meat on sticks and the cauldron of hot sauce . . . and there was the soothsayer.

He eyed us slyly.

"Allah be with you."

I wanted to move on but Tabitha hesitated. He knew, of course, of Theodosia's death.

"The little lady," he said, "she heed not my warning."

Tears pricked my lids. I could imagine Theodosia so clearly sitting on the mat beside him, her eyes wide with terror.

"I see it," he said. "It hovered. It hovers still." His eyes were fixed on me.

"I do not wish to hear," I said almost petulantly.

He turned from me to Tabitha.

"A burden has dropped from you," he said. "There is happiness now. The obstacle will go and there is the reward if you are wise enough to take it."

I was about to put money into his bowl but he shook his head.

"No. Not this day. I do not want baksheesh. I take only payment for service. I say, Lady, take care."

We walked away. I was shivering.

"He was right . . . about Theodosia."

"He is bound to be right sometimes."

"He is warning me now."

"But he always warned you."

"You are the lucky one. You, it seems, are going to get your reward when you have removed the obstacle. Or is it already removed?"

"They talk," said Tabitha. "It's a kind of patter. But we must not let them see that we are disturbed. That would be the very way to increase the rumors."

But I was disturbed . . . deeply disturbed.

How I missed Theodosia! I suffered a certain remorse because when she had been alive I had never let her know how much it meant to me to have been her sister. I would sit and brood on the terrace where we had often sat together and remember our conversations. Tabitha was no substitute for her; I was unsure of Tabitha.

I was constantly aware of that friendship between her and Tybalt. Once when Tybalt had come back from the site, I was on the terrace and he joined me there. He began to talk earnestly about the work and I listened avidly. But Tabitha joined us. She remembered so much from the previous expedition and she and Tybalt discussed this at length, so that I was shut out. I became apprehensive and resentful.

I was being unfair. Previously I would have believed nothing but good of Tybalt. He meant everything to me, but I was unsure of him. I had begun to see Tybalt as a man who could be utterly ruthless in the interests of his work. And would that ruthlessness be only for his work?

Tybalt was becoming a stranger to me.

As I sat on the terrace one day Leopold Harding joined me. He had almost become a member of the party. His enormous interest appealed to Tybalt who was always ready to help amateurs. He now even dined occasionally at the palace and he would come to the site and watch the men at work.

He sat down beside me and heaved a sigh.

"What a sight," he said. "There's always so much to see on the river. Imagine what it must have been like three thousand years ago!"

"The royal barges," I said. "All those wonderful decorations of people doing strange things . . . like carrying stones to build the Pyramids or offering libations to the gods."

"Why are the figures always in profile?"

"Because they had such handsome ones, I suppose."

"Is your husband happy with his progress?"

"Each morning he is full of hope. 'This will be the day' he feels sure. But so far it has not been, of course."

"It was so sad about Mrs. Callum."

I nodded.

"So young, just beginning life you might say and then that terrible accident. The people at the hotel talk of it constantly."

"I know they do. They talk of it everywhere."

"They believe it is the Curse of the Kings."

"That's absurd." I was talking as Tybalt would have talked. He was so anxious that these rumors should not be encouraged. "If it were a curse—which is absurd anyway— why let it descend on Theodosia, who was the most inoffensive member of the party."

"She was a member of the party though."

"Hardly that. She was the wife of one of them, that's all."

"But there is a lot of talk. The general opinion seems to be that this expedition, like the previous one, is unlucky . . . and it's unlucky because the gods or the old Pharaohs are angry."

"Well, of course, there will be this talk."

"I had a letter from England. Theodosia's death was given some prominence in the newspapers. 'Another death,' it said, and the Curse was mentioned."

"Another! I see they are referring to Sir Edward's death. People love this sort of mystery. They believe it because they want to."

"I daresay you are right," he said. "I have to go soon. I have sent most of my purchases to England now and very little remains to be done. But it has all been so fascinating. Do you think your husband objects to my prowling round the site?"

"He would say so if he did. He is pleased when people show interest. As long as they don't get in the way."

"I shall be very careful to avoid doing that. I realize how very knowledgeable you are."

"When one is with professionals one realizes how little one really does know. Before I married I read a great deal and Evan Callum was at one time our tutor . . . that was for Hadrian, Theodosia, and me. You know the relationship, of course."

"Well, I did hear. You and Mrs. Callum were half sisters, I believe."

"Yes, and Hadrian a cousin."

"All childhood friends. You must feel Mrs. Callum's loss sorely."

"I do. And I know Hadrian does."

"I gather he is very fond of you both ... in particular you."

"Oh Hadrian and I were always good friends."

"So you studied archaeology in your youth."

"It was all very amateurish, but I was always particularly interested in the tombs."

"A fascinating subject."

"The idea of embalming the bodies is so macabre and clever. No people do it as they did. They perfected the art. I remember reading about it in my rectory bedroom—I was brought up in the rectory—and sitting up in bed shivering."

"Imagining yourself incarcerated in a tomb?"

"Of course. They didn't do much after the year 500 a.d. I wonder why? A gruesome process, removing the organs and filling the shell of the body with cassia, myrrh, and other sweet-smelling herbs. Then they used to soak it in some sort of soda for about three months before wrapping it in fine linen and smearing it with a sticky substance."

"It was certainly thrilling to see the inside of a tomb on that fatal night . . . until the accident. What do you think happened about the bridge?"

"It must have been faulty."

"Do you think someone tampered with it?"

"Who should . . . and for what purpose?"

"To kill someone?"

"Theodosia! Why? What had she done?"