TWENTY-FOUR

I dream of Iset. The dreams always involve scorpions.

The first time it happens, I think it’s real.

Iset’s mother’s bracelet, which I wear constantly, springs to life and strangles me. I wake screaming. Poor Benerib was scared out of her wits.

A week later, I wake to find Iset sitting on my bed. I drink her in with my eyes, my heart bursting with joy. A scorpion tattoo covers her neck. I gasp when I see it and she laughs, then takes my hand in hers.

“I’ve come to thank you,” she whispers.

I sit up, pulling her to me and holding her close, my tears mingling with her braids. I realize as I release her that her amulets are now golden scorpions, squirming with life.

“I failed you,” I sob, dropping my head onto her lap.

“You’re my truest friend.” She puts her hands on my head. “And you’re going to do what I can no longer do.”

I sit back up, and we’re in front of my polished bronze mirror. She stands behind me, braiding my hair, a happy smile on her face as she hums softly to herself. “You have some now too,” she giggles. I look closer and realize she’s fastening wriggling golden scorpions in my braids. I toss my hair and the living amulets screech.

My eyes fly open, and I shoot up, sweat pouring down my body, now swollen beyond familiarity. I rub my round stomach, wondering if the child feels it too.

A few nights later, I dream of her again. This time, she stands by my bed. The venomous creature on her neck squirms in concert with the amulets in her hair as if their moves are choreographed.

“I miss you.” The words escape before I can grant them permission.

She smiles, then lifts a hand to her braid, plucks out a scorpion, and places it on my forehead. She whispers a prayer I can’t understand, and I feel the creature slink under my skin. It fills my body like the god has on rare occasions, animating me and bending me to its will until I’m more scorpion than woman.

I scream.

We’re in front of my mirror before my cry dies. But when I look into the bronze, Senenmut’s face stares back at me, a scorpion tattoo stained on his head just where Iset’s pet entered me.

As my time draws close, Hesi-Ra caves to my request and orders me to keep to my bed and limit my visitors. I spend my hours sitting and waiting and studying.

Aside from Benerib, I see mostly Hathor. She visits when the moon is high and the palace is quiet. Some nights, Hathor and I talk for hours, debating a wide range of topics until the sun threatens to rise. Her visits leave me exhausted, physically and mentally. She seems old during these nights spent alone, her age on display when the privacy of the night surrounds us. And still, she challenges my mind much as the words of our wise men once did, although her wisdom is as different from that of the wise men as her power is from Mother’s. In some ways, she reminds me of Thuiu. But Hathor is more irreverent and much more dismissive of traditional education and didactic literature than Thuiu ever was, although Hathor is nearly as learned. The wisewoman taught herself to read and write, if her claims are true. I can’t imagine how one would accomplish such a feat. But I’m convinced it’s true when she forces me to memorize more names and personal details and data about Kemet than Senenmut ever did. I’m happy to have a project to take my mind off the fears that plague me.

Senenmut’s letters appear in the desk leg every few weeks. The latest letter brings a smile to my face, which is rare nowadays.

From the doctor, Khui, to the god’s wife, king’s eldest daughter, and my cherished dear one, Neferura, in life, prosperity, and health and in favor of Amun, king of gods. Your latest letter made this old man very happy. I’m pleased to report that the little one thrives. She’s like a flower blooming in the sun. She fills my heart like a balm, and I’m reminded of the remarkable power little girls carry within—a strength I’ve been privileged to experience once before. Indeed, the child reminds me of that other young girl I’ve loved truly. I can tell already that little Neferu will be bright and curious and creative just like you. Once again, I vow to be the best caretaker I can be.

My only complaint is that my disloyal beast, Khufu, has forgotten I exist. He dedicates himself to the baby. He seems to believe it’s his job to guard her. He watches her sleep. He sniffs the poor wet nurse again and again each day, confirming she’s safe. The child seems to love him right back. She coos up at him, smiling. He responds by snuggling close and licking her. They adore each other.

My friendship, on the other hand, grows strained. My friend the priest grows cross with me. I can’t focus on senet, and he finds the child an unwelcome distraction. In truth, it wouldn’t matter if I could focus, for the man is a master game player and he’s too rarely defeated. Thank the gods I’m well stocked with good wine—my bold reds keep him coming back in spite of the dog and the little girl and the bad game play.

I pray daily for you, wishing only to know that you heal like little Neferu does. I hope news of her improvement brings you some relief. I’ll continue to report on her—or perhaps I should write “their”—adventures just as I’ll continue to pray for you. I intend to keep sending missives to you, whether you reciprocate or not, for as long as I have the child at my side.

I have done it again! I dropped my pen, and my finger flew to my own head, tapping three times, after I wrote those words, as if to alert you that someone was dissembling. Me! For that is not true. I intend to keep working away at earning your forgiveness until the day I take my dying breath, child or no child.

Mother insists on joining me in my quarters for dinner once a week. Week after week, it’s the most tedious hour. She’s convinced herself the chill between us is due to the child growing inside me and that it’ll magically dissipate once the babe is born.

I long for release. I want to be away from her, by any means necessary.

It’s our third dinner together since the doctor sent me to bed, and finally, some strong emotion stirs me. It isn’t Mother who triggers it though. It’s our unexpected guest, Hathor.

She drifts in like mist and stands still, in all her glory, at the foot of my bed.

Mother leaps to her feet, sending her chair toppling over. “How did you get here?” she yelps.

Hathor smiles and rubs her arms as if my room is cold. “The same way I get anywhere. I came.”

I smirk at her nonsensical utterance. I’m used to her appearing at my bedside unannounced. Mother, on the other hand, is not amused. Her head whips around, searching for a guard or a handmaid.

“We’re alone,” Hathor says, waving an inked hand around.

“Why?” Mother shrieks.

“Because no one else is with us.”

I don’t bother to hide the smile her sarcasm elicits.

Hathor smooths her face and sighs. “I come to inform you that the doctor, Khui, has died,” she says softly. “He was found dead in the oasis. I learned of it only yesterday. I thought you’d want to know.”

I suck in a ragged breath. My eyes are glued to Hathor. Time slows as she raises her right forefinger to her forehead and taps three times.

Senenmut’s signal!

She’s lying.

“I’m sorry,” she utters.

Mother howls and I turn to her, wrapping my arms instinctively around her. To my surprise, she holds me too. In spite of my anger, it hurts to witness her pain. And it doesn’t escape my notice that I’m doing to Mother exactly what she once did to me: allowing her to believe the man we’ve both loved is dead even though I know it isn’t true. I’m surprised how easily I stomach it. Does that make me an awful person? Will my heart be made heavier? Or will the gods see justice in me giving Mother back exactly what she once gave to me? After all, how long am I expected to care for the emotions of those who’ve never shown a care for mine?

I don’t bother to turn back to Hathor. I know she’s gone.

I worry over my pending delivery, now mere weeks away. The fear is made more real when I invite my priestesses for a bedside visit. I may not get time alone with Satiah, but seeing the new queen should give me some sense of how she fares.

Turns out she’s not faring so well. I can tell the women are shaken the moment they trail in, Satiah in the lead, and sit in the chairs Benerib has arranged by my bed.

“What’s wrong?”

They exchange glances, uncharacteristically shy.

“Satiah?” She’s a queen now. Her status outranks the others, so her responsibility does too.

“We’ve had bad news this morning,” she begins. She takes a moment to gather herself, holding back tears. “It’s Meri.” She licks her lips, scared of telling me the bad news.

Her fear tells the story.

“She died in childbirth?”

Satiah nods, and poor Tasherit bursts into tears. Nebtah pats her leg, hushing her.

“And the child?” I ask.

“A boy,” Satiah reports. “Alive but motherless.”

My chest tightens at the news, the weight heavy as I rub my hand over my swollen stomach. Another child left behind by the mother who would have loved him. I think of poor Meri, of what she wanted for her son. I think of little Neferu and the dreams Iset had for her. I think of Satiah, who was abandoned as a babe, left to fend for herself far too soon. So many motherless children. The idea of my child ending up as one more babe raised without its mother sears me. I push the thought away. Fear will not serve me well now.

“Her heart will be light,” Hui wails, red eyes on me. “Won’t it, Adoratrice? You don’t think Ammit will…will?”

“The Devourer will not take Meri’s heart,” I promise. “Meri had her struggles, to be sure. Perhaps in Aaru, she’ll finally find the peace that always eluded her here.”

The women share stories about Meri and, eventually, some of her more colorful priestess friends. Benerib offers honey cakes and spiced wine, luring my troupe leaders away from the bed long enough to buy me a moment alone with Satiah and Nebtah.

“You’re all right?” I ask them.

Nebtah grunts and Satiah nods. “I’ve wanted to visit. I couldn’t find an excuse, and the situation has not yet turned desperate enough to force it.”

“Do you have anything to report?”

She shakes her head. “Only that Thutmose has been in a good mood. I’ve never heard a single whisper about Iset or her child. Or poor Maia. I’m afraid my usefulness has—”

“We’ve discussed this, Satiah. You are useful to me and, more importantly, to Kemet. That will last. Have faith.”

She frowns, but Nebtah leans closer. “We are here for you, Adoratrice. Our loyalty is unshaken. We’re heartbroken over Iset, but we will not be cowed. Our spines are as stiff as a djed pillar.”

“I’ve never doubted you,” I say just as the others return.

There are more tears, additional updates, and soft consoling words. Finally, Benerib sees them out and turns to me, face tight with worry.

“Is it Meri?” I ask, wondering what’s bothering her.

She sinks into the chair Satiah occupied moments ago. “Yes and no,” she says cryptically. She scoots the chair closer, eyes narrowed in thought. “I’m sorry to hear about Meri. Childbirth is…” Her eyes fly to mine, and she shakes her head. “You’ll be fine, Adoratrice. You’re strong. I survived the ordeal three times.” She grins but there’s sadness in it—of Benerib’s children, only one still lives. “But I was thinking about Hathor. Why didn’t she come to inform you? She could have at least sent word.”

I consider her words. She’s right. Hathor has been diligent about keeping me informed of Meri’s health. I would have expected her to update me immediately. Still, the wisewoman’s ways are mysterious even now. “Perhaps she was too tired? Or had some other calling that kept her from coming?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m being paranoid,” she sighs. “Your time draws close. I can’t help but worry. I’m a silly old goose.”

I grab her hand and pull her closer. “You’re no goose. And you’re rarely silly,” I say with a smile. “Thuiu was right to send you, Benerib. She knew what I needed even when I did not. You’ve been an unexpected blessing, a true friend when I needed one. I will miss—”

“Stop.” Tears spring to her eyes. She examines my face, then pulls me close.

The bitter taste of fear stings my throat as I squeeze her tight.

The morning after I learn Meri died in childbirth, pain floors me. It’s like a lightning bolt going off inside my body. Thank the goddess Benerib is here, cooing in my ear, telling me she too felt this pain, hours before giving birth.

“The baby is coming,” I grunt. Terror ripples through me. “It’s early.” I lean so heavily on Benerib I nearly topple the poor old woman.

“Hathor is close. I’ll summon Hesi-Ra too.” She helps me waddle to my newly constructed birthing pavilion, situated next to my pool. Vines crawl across the roof for shade, and the plaster walls depict images of nursing mothers and the traditional hair-dressing scene. The images of successful delivery are designed to help me bring the child into the world safely. Just last week, Hathor drew a protective circle with her curved ivory wand, promising I’ll be protected.

The pain recedes and I breathe in the scents of mint and eucalyptus, another concoction Hathor delivered. Benerib rushes out, promising to send word to the wisewoman. Hathor will be here soon. She’ll drape my body in amulets—frogs, locusts, monkeys, and cowrie shells—as she chants to Hathor, Mut, Isis, and Taweret. I cling to the knowledge that she’s coming and that she understands my wishes.

Before the pain strikes again, Benerib is back. She sits by my side, voice soft and encouraging. She tells me about the birth of her first child, the fear followed by joy. I hear my door fly open, footsteps on the floor, then Hesi-Ra rushes out from my open wall.

“Let me see you.”

I toss the blanket aside, prepared for inspection. I meet his eyes just as the crippling pain returns. It’s so intense I’m certain I’m about to breathe my last breath.

“Don’t worry, Adoratrice.” He runs his hands over my bulging stomach. He can’t hide the fear in his eyes. I’m not sure if he’s scared of losing me or the future heir, but his hands, usually so steady, tremble against my thighs.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. My body contracts with pain, surging through me to the tips of my fingers and toes.

“Just breathe,” the doctor says.

I try to suck in a breath, but it’s as if my lungs have stopped working. Blood is everywhere, the smell and taste of it surrounding me.

“You must breathe, Neferura.” He sounds desperate now.

I manage short, shallow breaths, but I can’t escape the pain. I look down and watch the blood flowing from my birthing bed onto the deck. And suddenly, I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything at all. It’s as if I’m in a dream, watching my own body from above.

The pain recedes.

The space grows dim.

Hesi-Ra’s voice fades away.

And as the world grows hazy, I know, as surely as I know the maxims of my favorite wise men, that the god’s wife of Amun, great royal wife, king’s eldest daughter, lady of Upper and Lower Kemet, mistress of the Two Lands, will not survive the night.