Dreamers (21 page)

a midnight sky.

“Mistress? You sent for me?”

Her eyes were strangely veiled when she turned to look at

him, but the smile on her face was warm, the smile between

two equals, not slave and owner. “Thank you for coming,

Paneah,” she said, her voice as golden as the sun overhead.

He was about to prostrate himself, but she noticed and

motioned for him to remain on his feet. “Please, don’t bow.

When we are alone, you need not observe foolish formalities.”

Yosef nodded. “How may I serve you?”

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Her smile deepened. “I wonder if you could give me a few

suggestions about this garden. I have come to love this place,

and want to expand it beyond its present borders.”

“Did you want to expand it for some special occasion?”

“For every day.” She tilted her head as she looked up at

him. The deft makeup around her eyes gave her the sleepy-

eyed look of an elegant kitten. “I want to have it beautiful

always, so I can enjoy its charm whenever I want.”

She stepped forward on the tiled pathway and gestured for

him to follow. “I love the serenity of a garden, don’t you?”

Yosef’s mouth went dry. Masters did not often ask their

slaves for personal opinions. Even Potiphar, who trusted Yosef

to run nearly every detail of his life, did not trouble himself

to ask for Yosef’s personal preferences. “I like the garden,”

he said, feeling tongue-tied and dull. The mistress would

think him a total imbecile.

But Sagira only walked farther down the path. “I like all

flowers, but the lotus blossom is my favorite.” She turned to

smile at him. “The fragrance is perfect—not too sweet, not

too woodsy. Don’t you think so?”

Stunned by yet another personal question, Yosef could

only nod in agreement.

“So what do you think?” she asked, moving again along

the walkway. “What plants can we add to bring more beauty

to this place?”

She was two steps beyond him before he found the words.

“Mandrakes, irises, narcissuses and poppies for the ground.

Blue water lilies and white lotuses for the pond,” he said,

grateful she had finally asked a question that did not require a

personal reply. He hurried to keep pace with her. “And we can

bring in additional white lotus plants. They grow well in water.”

“And they bloom at night,” Sagira whispered, almost to

herself.

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“The blossoms remain open almost until midday,” he said,

hurrying to defend the plants Tuya loved. “It is only the heat

of the sun they cannot stand.”

“Don’t worry, Paneah, I shall not want them at midday. I

like the garden at night, and think I shall walk here often. And

of course, I shall want all of the flowers to myself.” She gave

him a guilty smile. “Tell the servants not to touch them, will

you please? Those I don’t wear I shall offer to the goddess in

the little temple.”

“As you wish,” Yosef answered.

Sagira stopped to reach for a lotus blossom growing near

the edge of the pool, then smiled helplessly when her short

arms couldn’t reach the flower. Taking the hint, he splashed

into the water to retrieve the blossom, then bowed and pre-

sented it to her.

“Thank you.” A blush colored her cheek as she inhaled the

sweet scent. Yosef waited with his hands folded while her eyes

closed in pleasure. “You must share this,” she murmured, not

moving the blossom from her face. “Bend down, Paneah, and

let the lotus entice you.”

He paused, uncertain how to proceed, and her dark eyes

flew open. “Don’t you like the scent of lotus blossoms?”

“I like it very much.”

“Then breathe in this one,” she whispered, closing her eyes

again. “It is sweeter than most, for it is offered by your mistress.”

Yosef bent at the waist. Feeling like an adolescent boy, he

lowered his head toward the flower only inches from her lips.

He scarcely dared to breathe lest he offend her with his nearness.

The lids rose from her black velvet eyes. “Isn’t it wonder-

ful?” she asked, her gaze holding him.

“Yes, mistress,” he whispered.

With the unpredictability of a butterfly, her hand rose to

tap the bridge of his nose. Shocked into stillness, Yosef did

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not move as her fingertips trailed across the wings of his

nostrils, then dropped to caress his lips.

“You are as beautiful as the lotus, my Paneah,” she said, a

sultry tone in her voice. “A most striking and unique Egyptian.”

An alarm bell rang in his mind as she emphasized the latter

word. Why was she toying with him? Did she suspect that he

was not of Egypt?

She did not seem to notice that his breathing had quick-

ened. She turned without further comment and tucked the

lotus blossom into the neckline of her dress.

“See to the flowers, will you, Paneah?” she asked, moving

toward the house. “Have them installed as soon as possible.

I do love the garden.”

Yosef sighed in relief when her small figure disappeared

beyond the gate.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Yosef said, glancing over his

shoulder as he spoke with Tuya in the garden. “She made

me uncomfortable.”

Tuya struggled to smother a smile, for Yosef was as jumpy

as a kitten. “What did she do, exactly?”

He lowered his voice. “She asked me to smell a lotus

blossom. And then she touched my face.”

For an instant, a white-hot dart of jealousy pierced Tuya’s

heart, but she smiled and tried to ignore the pain. Yosef loved

her steadfastly. And Sagira had a husband.

“You are making too much of this,” Tuya said, placing a

comforting hand on his arm. “Think, Yosef, of all our mistress

has endured! I know her like no one else, and though she is

spoiled and headstrong, I fear Sagira is lonely.” She turned

her gaze to the moon’s reflection in the shallow pool. “I think

she has grown tired of her priestess. She has spurned me and

is too proud to call me back, but Sagira cannot live alone. She

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needs company, the fellowship of friends, and our master is

not home often enough to give her the society she needs.”

“She has parties every week,” Yosef pointed out. “Surely

you can’t want her to have more guests and feasts—”

“No, I have all the work I need,” Tuya answered, softening

her voice. “And Sagira does love parties, but what happens

when the last guest is gone? She is left alone. She needs a friend,

Yosef, and you are close to Potiphar. Perhaps she hopes to win

her husband’s attention through you. She’s turning to you—”

“I’d rather she turned to one of her maids.”

“Maids and mistresses cannot be friends. Such things

are not done.”

“Potiphar and I are friends.”

“Potiphar is an unusual master,” Tuya answered. “And

while he treats you as a confidant, does he invite you to eat

with him? Does he take you with him to Pharaoh’s court? No.

You are his slave, and you will be kept in your place.”

She knew these things instinctively, but Yosef had not been

born a slave. His had been a privileged life, and moments like

these revealed his upbringing.

Tuya ran her hand over his back and began to knead the

tense muscles. “Please, Yosef, be kind to Sagira,” she whis-

pered. “Then Potiphar will reward you for being a friend to

his lonely wife. Perhaps our time of waiting will be shortened.”

Yosef groaned and tipped his head back as his muscles

relaxed. “For you, Tuya, I will be her friend,” he finally said,

giving her a sidelong glance.

She nudged him gently with her shoulder. “You are won-

derful.”

Something rustled in the nearby bushes, but when she

turned to investigate, the garden shimmered still and quiet in

the moonlight. “Did you hear something?”

“Only the pounding of my heart,”Yosef murmured, smiling.

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* * *

placed on the altar at the villa’s temple. Ramla had been gone

for a full month, fulfilling her religious duties, and Sagira was

anxious to speak with her. The priestess should have returned

two days ago, but perhaps she had been delayed—

A commotion at the gate distracted Sagira’s attention, and

she lifted her head and peered through the temple’s doorway.

A tall, veiled woman was greeting the gatekeeper, and Sagira

recognized the disfigured hand on her traveling veil. Good!

She turned back to the altar, determined that the priestess

should not know how eagerly she had been awaited.

Sandaled footsteps slapped on the pavement, then Ramla

prostrated herself before the statue of Bastet. Sagira pressed

her lips together and allowed the priestess a moment of si-

lence, then nudged the woman with the edge of her sandal.

Ramla sat up and regarded her friend. “How are things in

Potiphar’s house?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow. “What have

you done in my absence?”

“Nothing,” Sagira said, sinking to the floor. “I nearly lost

my self-control once, but then I realized that I need the gods

to help me through this. If Paneah’s Hebrew god is truly

powerful, I dare not proceed without Bastet’s protection.”

“So you still plan to conceive a child with this Hebrew?”

“So you still disapprove?” Sagira turned her eyes to the

stone idol. “Bastet has answered my petitions thus far. She

must approve of me.”

Ramla slipped the dusty veil from her shoulders. “Bastet

sometimes allows her children to do things they ought not to

do. Many hard lessons of life are learned this way.” She

paused, her dark eyes fixed on the floor. “As a priestess, I

would advise you to wait until Potiphar’s death. Then you can

remarry and bear a legitimate son. But as a woman—”

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“Yes?”

“As a woman, who would not desire Paneah?” Ramla’s

lean shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. “My own heart has

been stirred by the beauty of his countenance. He is truly a

man among men.”

“Keep your heart focused on the goddess,” Sagira answered,

bracing herself on the altar as she rose from her knees. “Paneah

is mine. But if you’re still willing to help, I need you.”

The priestess’s mouth curved in a dry smile. “What can I do?”

“Divine the future for me. I know the goddess will allow

women to conceive only on certain days, and I would know the

proper day for my son’s conception. And I would know Paneah’s

future, to be certain he is the best one for my plan.” She fixed

the priestess in a determined gaze. “Consult the goddess, work

your magic, and you will be handsomely rewarded.”

Ramla’s thin chest heaved as if she were weighing the

cost, then she nodded. “I will do it,” she said, rising. “But not

for a reward. I do this to ensure your success, my Sagira. If

Paneah’s future proves your plan, you will have my enduring

support. But if the gods reveal a dark future, will you promise

to give up this foolish notion?”

“Yes.” Sagira nodded, eager to promise anything that

would put her plan into motion. “Call on your powers, Ramla,

and do it quickly!”

An hour later, Sagira helped Ramla to her bed. The priest-

ess had worked her magic, uttered her predictions and col-

lapsed onto the floor in another of her strange seizures. Such

pain was a dire price to pay for knowledge of the future, but

Sagira would have been willing to sacrifice even Ramla’s life

for the final news.

The prophecy was both thrilling and disappointing. Well

into her trance, Sagira had moaned and trembled and pro-

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claimed that Paneah would be elevated to a position of power,

and every knee in Egypt would bow at his approach. Exhil-

arated, Sagira had pressed for more news. “So when shall I

confront him?” she urged, ready to shake the answers from

the wide-eyed priestess. “When?”

“The eighteenth day of the second month of the third year,”

Ramla muttered. “The first day of the Feast of Opet.”

“So long?” Sagira cried. “Three years from now?”

As Ramla collected her strength, Sagira paced through her

chamber and chewed on her henna-tinted nails. “I cannot wait

three years. I am ready to have a child now!”

“Perfection cannot be rushed,” Ramla murmured. “The

gods know what they are doing. Besides, you will need time

to prepare for this assignation.”

“I’ve already begun preparation,” Sagira replied.

“Then slow your pace,” Ramla warned. “You will need

three years to bind him to your side. And three years to rid

his heart of the slave girl’s memory.”

“Tuya?” Sagira stopped pacing as her throat tightened.

“How can I get rid of her? I can’t sell her. Potiphar won’t allow

it.”

Ramla pressed a hand over her eyes. “There are other ways.

Paneah’s love for Tuya is rooted in his heart. His love for you

must spring from the flesh, and fleshly love is easily enticed.