FOUR

“Are you ready to see the surprise?” Senenmut asks as he leads me through the palace hallway, Iset on our heels.

“I am.”

It makes Senenmut happy to plan surprises, and his revelations rarely disappoint. Sometimes my favorite treats sit waiting for me when I return from temple early in the morning. He’s surprised me with amulets that hide small bits of papyrus inside them. Their sacred signs spell out my favorite maxims, or the tiny, beautifully decorated scrolls explain a dream I had or offer a well-timed blessing. He once sent me on a treasure hunt using clues from a story I adore, the battle of Horus and Set. At the end, I found a golden collar I treasure to this day. The nefer symbol, the heart and trachea, the root of my name, which means good or beautiful, repeats itself again and again in thick rows. It fits my neck perfectly. I wear it on days when I need an extra dose of confidence.

But today I asked Senenmut to meet me so I can question him about Grandmother’s old wisewoman. He showed up at my quarters happy and anxious, chattering about his latest surprise. At least it’s just the three of us so I can mine him for information. I assume.

“Mother isn’t joining us, is she?”

“Pharaoh is meeting with the high priest. There’s an uproar regarding an errant priest and some missing gold.”

“Sounds dramatic. Has she seen the surprise?”

Senenmut turns to me, eyebrows jiggling humorously. “Pharaoh sees all, dear one.” His smile widens. “We’re here.” He pushes open a cedar door, ushering me and Iset into a small room off the forecourt. The door shuts with a clunk behind us.

The sight that greets me triggers a smile that seeps into my heart. It’s a new statue of me as a child on Senenmut’s lap, head poking up through his cloak so that the top of my royal headdress rests comfortably under his chin. It’s endearing but hardly unexpected. Senenmut has loads of statues depicting him as my protector. They’re housed in temples throughout Kemet so that we’re constantly dedicating ourselves to the gods. He even had a stele of the two of us erected as far off as the mining camp at Biau, where it sits in the temple erected to honor the goddess Hathor.

My tutor is famous for many things, but his innovative statuary tops the list. Breaking with tradition, placing statues in forms never before seen along temple processional ways, comes as naturally to Senenmut as breath to the living. He must have more statues of himself carved and strategically placed throughout the country than any man before him.

His statues of the two of us are my favorites. Some whisper that I should be offended. They say he uses me because my position boosts his. There’s no denying the truth of that. No man is above ambition, certainly not my tutor, who clawed himself from humble beginnings to the top of elite society. Why should that mean they’re not also a genuine reflection of our close relationship?

Of course, displays like the one before me, carved in smooth, gray stone, do nothing to stop the gossip that I’m the child of Senenmut’s body. I’ve never given the whispers much thought. But now, staring at the sculpture’s smooth curves, a thought comes unbidden. What if Mother isn’t the woman I’ve always believed her to be? What if she’s the evil ruler of Thutmose’s imaginings? Could she have done the unthinkable to pull herself onto the throne? If so, could Senenmut be…

No. I shake away the doubts Thutmose’s vile accusation has planted in my heart. I can’t validate the chatter of idiots. Mother didn’t murder Father or cheat on him, I tell myself as I wind my way around the statue, admiring it from every angle.

“You look tired.” Senenmut examines me as if I’m a statue on display.

“Do I?” It’s hardly a surprise—I barely slept last night. “I had a long night,” I admit.

He leans closer and drops his voice. “You’re not still worrying about Thutmose, are you? I told you. The nobles will not be swayed. And your mother is making plans for him.”

My ears perk at this, dread pooling somewhere deep inside, the question again vibrating through me: what is Mother capable of? “What plans?” I ask quietly.

He ignores the question and rests his hand against my cheek. “Everything will be fine, dear one. But you need your sleep. Your headrest is inscribed with the proper spells, yes?”

“Of course,” I promise. My headrest is carved of acacia. It’s covered in protection symbols, and an inscription ensuring my dreams are peaceful runs its length. It works fine. Usually.

“Are you dreaming?” He wears the same look he has when considering a troublesome passage in some text we’re worrying over. “Have you been bitten by a dog or seen yourself in a mirror in your dreams?”

I grin at that. Senenmut and I studied the dream scrolls diligently when I was younger. The topic fascinates me. I love the straightforward explanations they offer. Like if a man sees himself looking into a well, it’s bad and means he’ll go to prison. Or if a man sees himself in mourning, it’s good and means his possessions will increase. But the answers I seek aren’t found in a scroll.

I shake my head. “None of my dreams are worth sharing.”

“Well,” he says as he crosses his arms, “I’ll send chamomile to be taken this evening with honey. If that doesn’t do the trick, the doctor will know incantations that might help. If you dream of anything odd, you must tell me. You understand?”

I promise to do as bid and steer us toward the subject I really want to discuss. “The subject of dreams reminds me—I’ve been meaning to ask you about Grandmother’s old wisewoman.”

Senenmut’s eyebrows inch up. “You’ve heard tale of your grandmother’s tattooed wisewoman, have you?”

“Tattooed?” Visions of a woman covered in tattoos, dark ink swirling around her arms and legs, covering her from head to toe, erupt before my eyes. Schooling my face, I shake my head. “I had not heard of her tattoos, no. Only that Grandmother employed a powerful wisewoman. Can you tell me about her?”

He closes his eyes like he’s summoning up the memory of her face. “The wisewoman and your grandmother, Ahmose, were close. The wisewoman was lowborn, perhaps even more lowborn than me. But she was also—aside from your mother and grandmother—the most powerful person I’ve ever known. She was living proof that one’s knowledge can trump one’s sex and birth.” A hint of reverence thrums in his voice, perhaps appreciation for another who pulled herself up from humble beginnings like he did.

“What was so powerful about her?” I edge closer to him, eager for more. Imagining another woman with the grit and potency of Mother and Grandmother feels sacrilegious. Knowing she was born a peasant makes me wonder again if there are powers in the world I’ve ignored, so focused have I been on gods and royals.

Senenmut taps his chest, just above the heart. “Knowledge. Education. Secrets. She always knew more than everyone else in a room. And she knew how to use the knowledge she hoarded to advance her agenda.”

“What was her agenda?”

He grimaces. “That’s a very good question. I wish I was sure of the answer. What I do know is that the wisewoman could turn the tides in whatever direction she wanted. If she was on your side, good things tended to happen. If not…” He trails off.

“Was she…bad?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t answer. I search Senenmut’s face, wondering if he’s heard darker tales of this woman. Perhaps even that she poisoned my father, at Mother’s behest no less. I wait for him to say more, but when he doesn’t go on, I give up on the wisewoman’s motivations and ask what exactly she knew so much about.

“Medicine. The gods. Spells. Above all, she understood people. She was, unofficially, the court doctor and magician. Incidentally, you may not want to mention tattoos to Inhapi unless you want to cause the poor doctor discomfort.” Senenmut smirks. “The tattooed woman was more capable than our good doctor—she lived in his quarters during your grandmother’s years, actually. And beyond her considerable skills, she had access to something mysterious that amplified her power.”

“What was that?” I twine my fingers together, hoping to mask my impatience.

“I’m not sure. A tool of some sort. She called it her scorpions.”

“Scorpions?” My skin prickles. It’s as if the god is trying to tell me something—something that has to do with scorpions. The treacherous little creatures are suddenly everywhere. “What does that mean?”

“No idea.” Senenmut pushes himself away from the pillar, then trails his hand over the statue of us. “Whatever it was, it helped her solidify her power and expanded her knowledge. Hathor knew more about what happened at court than anyone else here, so the rumors say.”

“Hathor.” The wisewoman has a name. I wait a moment, the information arranging itself in my head, before asking, “What happened to her?”

Senenmut sighs. “She vanished,” he says after a beat. “Why are you interested in her?”

I shrug, but my insides squirm. I’m not accustomed to lying to my tutor. “Just curious.”

“Well, be careful with your curiosity,” he warns. “It can be dangerous. Now is not the time for risk-taking, especially with Thutmose at court. You are steering clear of him?”

“He’s a snake,” I hiss.

Senenmut shrugs. “Snakes bite, dear one, especially if they believe they’re cornered.”

Hoping to lead us back to safe territory, I turn back to the statue. “You should pay the artists a little extra.”

“For what?” His smile creeps into to his eyes.

“For capturing our bond so faithfully.” I cringe as I say it, embarrassed by the sentiment, but Senenmut just laughs and agrees to increase the artist’s fee, his hand reassuring on my shoulder.

The hum of Iset’s feet brushing against the stone floors thunders in my ears. This is the third time in my life I’ve crept through the palace like a thief, the second time this week alone.

The first time was with Thutmose. Once, when we were children, he insisted on sneaking into the kitchen to steal sweets. It was ridiculous—they were his for the asking. But I was desperate back then to keep him happy, believing we’d one day serve side by side. The adventure ended fine—he got his treats and we got away clean—until I learned later that a servant girl was blamed for our crime. I felt awful. I begged him to confess and save the girl. He refused. Thutmose was always careless about other people. And I was too worried about crossing him to confess without his agreement. I never did learn who she was, but I know she was whipped. She’s probably wearing scars still today. I’ve lived with the guilt of not stepping forward ever since. And here I am now, adding more sins to my heart, rendering it even heavier. I can practically hear the Devourer gnashing her teeth, and a shiver runs up my spine.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper to Iset, even though visiting the doctor’s quarters, where the old wisewoman once lived, was my idea. Now, in the tightness of the plain corridors, I’m second-guessing myself.

“Of course we should,” Iset argues. “More information is good, right? It’s like those texts you read. You don’t know what you’re going to learn until you roll the scroll open and read it. But sometimes to learn more, you have to put down the scrolls and actually do things.”

“I do things,” I argue.

“Rituals don’t count.”

I grunt, annoyed, mostly because I suspect she’s right. Perhaps a life confined to my small zones in the palace and temple has limited me in ways I haven’t quite understood. I’m considering the implications when we reach a hall running perpendicular to the one we’re in. I spot a cedar door on the left, distinguished from the other doors by the large lock appended to it. According to the old kitchen maid Iset questioned this morning, the doctor’s door is the only one with a lock. I put my hands on the carved wood, envisioning a woman covered in tattoos coming and going from this room.

“Knock,” Iset prompts.

Bang, bang, bang. I act without hesitation. If I hesitate, I might change my mind and make a more responsible decision.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when we’re met by silence.

“Try again,” Iset says. “Mistress,” she adds, as if the honorary, a shortened form of one of my more prestigious titles, mistress of the Two Lands, will somehow render our behavior appropriate.

When a second effort brings no response, I consider turning back. I’m not sure what I hope to find in the rooms the old wisewoman abandoned more than a decade ago anyway. I doubt she left a confession inside. And Senenmut said the doctor is cagey about the wisewoman. It’s unlikely Inhapi will help us. Still, this is the lead we’ve got. And I have to do something.

“Now what?” Iset glances back down the hall we just tread.

I ignore the question, unsure of the answer. But we’ve come this far. If I’m going to unravel this mystery, I can’t give up at the first sign of resistance.

I fiddle with the enormous lock. I’ve seen every type of lock imaginable. My tutor has a passion for mechanisms—a passion he’s shared by bringing me boxes with hidden compartments and containers that spring open when you trigger a secret latch. Even the seal ring he wears has a secret interior. The variety of tricks and traps enjoyed by Senenmut is endless.

“Can you open it?” Iset whispers.

“Not without the key,” I say and pout, staring at the rectangular, wooden lock. I tug the pinlock’s latch and gasp in surprise when the door opens with a click.

“You did it,” Iset squeals.

My stomach squirms. Dropping by the doctor’s quarters unexpected is one thing. Breaking into his rooms is something else. “We can’t just walk in uninvited,” I whisper even as I push the door open.

“Great holy goddess.” Iset’s face is lit by the alabaster lamp she holds high.

We stand side by side, staring up at the vast shelves that cover the entire wall, from floor to ceiling, stretching the length of the room. There must be hundreds of small nooks and crannies bursting with thick glass jars, alabaster vases, and ointment jars shaped like amphorae and pitchers, some with handles—one or two—and others without. There are pottery vases shaped like women and monkeys and fish and scribes. Dried plants hang from hooks dangling from cubby holes and the ceiling.

I step into the room—I need to get closer—and feel Iset just behind me. I flinch when the door shuts with a faint thud.

“These must be Hathor’s ingredients,” I mutter.

“How do you know they’re not Inhapi’s?” she whispers back.

I shake my head. Inhapi is conventional and common. This collection is anything but. The room reeks of forgotten spells and guarded secrets. Literally. I smells herbs and… I sniff, trying to place the competing scents, both familiar and unfamiliar to my nose. I’m momentarily overwhelmed, taking in the mix of herb and smoke, flower and brine. The dim lighting from Iset’s lantern casts an eerie light on the shelves. The jars and containers squirm like they’re full of living things, wriggling to be free.

“It’s a good place to keep poison.” Iset tiptoes across the room to pluck a small glass jar from a tall, thin compartment. She pulls off the top and sticks it to her nose.

“Stop,” I warn. “You may be sniffing poison right now for all we know.”

She wrenches the jar away from her face and stares at it like spiders are crawling beneath the lid before placing it back in its spot.

I move closer to examine vessel after vessel, my fingers trailing over the shelves. I pick up an alabaster jar for inspection, then make an effort to set it back as it was to hide the dust-free circle its absence left. They’re all old—they look like they haven’t been touched or moved in years. I pick up another to read the inscription, then notice a symbol inscribed on the bottom of the small glass jar. I look closer, peering at the curved outline, the pointy end.

“More scorpions.” I show it to Iset.

She shrugs. “Maybe she used scorpions in her potions.”

“Maybe.” My mind turns back to Senenmut’s words about Hathor’s power. A tool of some sort. She called it her scorpions. Could this be what he meant? “Maybe these potions are her scorpions.”

Iset chews her bottom lip, thinking, as I lift another, then another. We find a few more containers marked by scorpions, but most are unmarked.

“Whatever she called her concoctions, it’s safe to assume the woman who stocked these shelves had the ability to mix whatever potion she chose,” I admit.

“That doesn’t mean she poisoned your father,” Iset argues.

“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t. We’re no further than we were before. We need more.” I twirl in place, searching for something that could shed light on the mysterious woman and her enigmatic pursuits and, more importantly, Thutmose’s current plans.

“Why are they all still here?” Iset holds a small alabaster pigment pot in one hand, lantern held high in the other. “The doctor doesn’t use them, it seems.”

I’m about to admit I have no idea, again, and suggest searching the next room, when the door opens with a creak. I struggle to recall the words I practiced—words intended for the doctor—but they’ve vanished. It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not the doctor but his daughter, Teena, who enters the room, eyes round with surprise.

We stare at each other until Teena gathers her wits. “Adoratrice.” She closes her mouth and bends forward in submission, eyes on the floor, skin flushed. Teena is even older than me and still unmarried. She’s plain and a bit dull, but given her connection to our family, it’s odd that she hasn’t yet made a match.

“We’re looking for your father.” Iset steps forward, feigning a boldness I should emulate. I’m the princess and high priestess after all. These may be Teena’s quarters, but she’s living in my family’s palace.

Determined not to be outdone by my handmaid, I shift my shoulders back and do my best impersonation of Mother. “Your father is not here.” I say it like Mother would, with a coldness in my tone like the man should magically know to be waiting for me whenever I choose to bless him with my presence.

Teena stands tall and glances at the door I was about to enter. My blood chills. Is Inhapi in there now? Has he heard everything Iset and I have said?

“Father is not seeing people at the moment,” Teena stutters. “He’s been…ill.”

“I’m sorry, Teena. I didn’t realize your father was ill.” I sigh, feigned confidence gone. “We shouldn’t have… Is there something Mother and I can do for you?”

She looks up at me and I step back, surprised by the glint of anger in her eyes—anger so intense it’s tangible. Why? Is it directed at me? Is she mad that we’ve invaded her space? Probably. I’d be furious too if someone broke into my rooms, especially if I were burdened by a sick parent. She’s already lost her mother. Perhaps she’s just frightened and her emotions are getting the best of her.

“We will leave you to it then,” Iset says. Her hands are behind her back, an alabaster jar clutched in her fist.

“Right,” I add.

Iset slips the jar in a pocket, grips her lamp, and steps toward the door.

I don’t need nudging—I’m right behind her, back stiff, a pose I manage to maintain the entire way back to my quarters. The walk feels eternal.

Finally safe in my receiving room, I drop onto my chaise and moan. “That was a mistake. What if the doctor was in the other room the whole time? What if he heard us?”

Iset drops down next to me with a relieved sigh. “We didn’t say anything revealing. And we did learn something. We know for sure the wisewoman lived there. And that she had more than one could possibly need to mix poison.”

“We need to find her,” I blurt. “Thutmose said she was the key. He must need her to advance his scheme. Maybe he’s not sure she really poisoned Father. Or maybe he plans to force her into claiming Mother ordered her to do it. She could be his witness—”

“He did mention a witness.”

I nod, mind focusing. “If we can find Hathor before he does, we can disrupt his plan.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, thinking again of Senenmut explaining how Hathor simply disappeared. “But we must find a way. We need to know what the wisewoman did and why she did it. And we need to figure it out before Thutmose finds her and uses her as a weapon against us all.”

Iset nods, approving of my boldness. She shifts sideways to face me. “I wonder if Kamut’s brother is back.”

In the events of the night, I’ve forgotten about the scribe. Hope rises in my chest. “I hope so. We need to talk to that scribe. Even if he didn’t see the woman who sent the message, he may know someone who did.”

“Or the man,” Iset points out. “Maybe the message sender was a man. Maybe one person sent the message, and another met with Thutmose.”

“Maybe.” I sigh. There are far too many maybes for comfort.

Iset plops the small jar she stole on my golden chest. “At least we have a memento to remember our adventure by.”

I pick the jar up and twirl it between my fingers. My body is still buzzing as I read the signs. The jar is marked with the symbols for crocodile excrement. “I won’t need this ingredient anytime soon. Or ever.” I hand it to Iset.

“What is it?”

“It’s used by women who want to rid themselves of an unwanted pregnancy. Hold on to it. Who knows. One day, you may find yourself in need of an abortifacient—”

The door separating my receiving room and my bedroom squeaks open, and I jump up, worried Mother is about to find me sitting next to my handmaid. Ever since I realized Iset is the closest thing to a friend I have, the fear of Mother sending her away is a constant. But instead of Mother’s demanding presence in my doorway, the chambermaid enters, looking more alarmed than me. She drops her head, mumbles an apology, and rushes out the door before either Iset or I can speak.

I turn back to Iset. “Do you think she heard us?”

She looks up at me with wide eyes, shaking her head. The silence between us suddenly feels dizzy, like a secret, the evening’s antics finally catching up with us. Slowly, a smile spreads across her face. Without my permission, my lips follow suit, and we double over in uncontained laughter.

There’s a moment of lightness, as if we’re simply two girls free to whisper and gossip and trade stories in the light of the evening. But as our laughter dies down, I remember that the stories we’re trading have dire consequences and that Thutmose is in this very palace, plotting to accuse Pharaoh of murder.

“I need to stop Thutmose’s lies from taking root. He could destroy everything with this story.”

Iset puts her hand on mine so our fingers are twined together. “I know. And I know how much it hurts to lose a mother. I’ll do everything I can to make sure you don’t have to go through that anytime soon. And certainly not at his hands.”