The Pharaoh's Daughter (42 page)

Amram nodded.

“And Puah knew, didn't she?”

After a slight hesitation, Amram nodded again, eyes full of unspoken regret.

Betrayed. On the night he lost his wife, Mered had also lost the trust he'd placed in his dearest friends. How could they have kept this from him all these years?

“Jochebed and I felt it best not to tell you because you worked closely with the amira and Mehy at the villa.” Amram squeezed his shoulder. “You are too honest to live a lie.” When Mered didn't respond, Amram crouched beside Anippe. “Why is the amira here—in your home?”

“Horemheb ordered her death and will say she died in an accident. The Medjay brought her here and said I should
‘make her a Hebrew.'
 ” Mered heard the whine in his voice and cringed.

“It's a good plan.” Amram nodded, stood, and walked toward his rooms.

“Wait. What do you mean a good plan? It's a terrible plan. I have no idea how to make her a Hebrew. I'm not sure El-Shaddai hears my prayers. And I don't know how to raise a daughter and three sons.” Mered was near hysteria, and the sun cast a pink glow on the eastern horizon. His children would be home very soon.

Amram settled his arm around Mered's shoulders and guided him toward Puah's still form. “Sit with me, Mered. Have I ever told you about my first wife?”

Mered glanced out the window, hoping this wasn't a lengthy story and wondering why Amram chose now to tell it.

“She died while giving birth to our first child.”

Mered was startled to attention. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“I lost both my wife and firstborn son that day, and I vowed never to remarry. I thought El-Shaddai had cheated me, and I wanted nothing to do with God or women or children or life.”

“Until you met Jochebed, right?” Mered knew how this story ended.

“Actually, no. Jochebed is my aunt.”

Amram obviously needed a good night's sleep. “Jochebed is your wife.”

“Yes, she is. And she's my father's sister—my aunt.”

“But she's thirty years younger than you.”

“Twenty-eight, to be exact.”

Mered buried his face in his hands. Why did this matter? Taking a deep breath, he lifted his eyes and stared at Amram. “Why did you marry your aunt Jochebed?”

“Because she needed a husband, and I needed a wife. Anippe needs to be Hebrew, and you need help raising your sons. You're not sure El-Shaddai hears your prayers? Well, I'm telling you He does, and He answered them before you prayed.” Amram rolled onto his knees, trying to stand, and used Mered's shoulders as a crutch. “Now get over there and wash off her kohl and scented oils before your children come home. Remove her wig, and I'll give you one of Jochebed's head coverings. She'll look as Hebrew as Jochebed.” He patted Mered's shoulder and winked. “But not quite as pretty.”

Mered was speechless. Amram was gone before he could form a thought. Puah's body lay beside him—the woman he'd loved since they were children. How could he marry Anippe? It was ludicrous. He reached for Puah's hand, but it was cold and stiff.

“You must let her go,” Amram said, startling Mered. He hadn't heard his neighbor return. “Puah loved you, but she's never coming back. Your life must go on.” He held out one of Jochebed's head coverings, pressing it against Mered's shoulder. “Go. You can't help Puah, but Anippe needs you.”

Mered grabbed the rough-woven cloth and left Puah's side. Two steps from Anippe, he was struck with sheer panic. “Amram, her clothes.”

His friend emerged from his rooms carrying a Hebrew robe.

Mered instantly felt the flush of crimson on his neck and cheeks. “I can't dress her—”

“I'll wait at the door for Jochebed or Miriam. One of them can change Anippe's robe. I'll turn away anyone else who comes, but you start washing her face.”

Anubis, take me. My heart died when they stole Mehy. My body breathes without permission. Take me. Anubis, search for my heart to weigh on your scales. You will not find it—a heart melted in sorrow weighs nothing at all.

A cold cloth on her cheeks. Icy hands. Trembling fingers.

Let them kill me. Please, whoever you are, let darkness come.

“Anippe, can you hear me?”

No. I will not hear you. Leave me to die.

The cloth, now warm, stroked her forehead and pressed against her eyes. “If you can hear me, know that you are safe. Mehy is safe.”

Mehy? My son, my son is safe.

“That's right. He's safe. Your eyes fluttered. You can hear me.”

She didn't want to hear unless it was Mehy's voice. Strong arms jostled her, lifted her, moved her. She leaned against something soft yet firm. The scent of ben-tree oil and hard labor.

A sudden chill. Her head exposed. Gasping, she thrashed.

“Shh. Shh. Relax. Relax.”

Lips against her forehead. A cloth over her head.

“I'm going to lay you on Miriam's sleeping mat for now.”

Miriam. A husband for Miriam. Miriam should marry.

The warmth shifted. Arms beneath her, carrying her away. Falling, she was falling.

“Shh. I've got you. You're safe, Anippe. You're safe.”

Safe?
Her chest tightened, tears threatening.
Anubis, please hurry, before I weep or wail.

Children's voices. Gasping, she called, “Mehy?”

Eyes open, she stared into the startled face of—Mered. She clutched at his robe and then pushed him away, pressing against his chest, squirming out of his arms. Why was he carrying her?

“Wait. Wait. Let me set you down.” He lowered her to a sleeping mat in a low-ceilinged room she'd never seen.

“Where am I? What are you doing? Why am I here?”

“You're in my parents' rooms.” Miriam stood behind Mered with a rough-woven robe in her hands. “I'll help you put this on.”

Children's voices came from a room beyond a tattered curtain. “Who's that?” Anippe asked.

Mered stood over her, dragging his hand through his hair, eyes tightly shut. “My children. They're saying good-bye to Puah.”

“Mered, not now.” Miriam knelt beside Anippe. He left without a word.

Anippe began to tremble uncontrollably, teeth chattering.

“Are you cold, Amir—” Miriam shook her head, seeming frustrated. “Are you cold?”

“No.” Anippe submitted to Miriam's dressing—as she'd done a thousand times before, though never in Hebrew cloth. Pride bowed to Anippe's fear. “I don't remember how I got here or what happened after—” What was the last thing she remembered?

Miriam's round, brown eyes glistened in the early shades of morning. “Are you sure your questions can't wait until you've rested?” She brushed Anippe's cheek with her hand. “I'll sit right here while you sleep. I won't leave you.”

Anippe felt bone weary, and the confidence of her friend's presence might allow her to sleep. “Would you sing to me, Miriam?”

The girl nodded and rested Anippe's head on a piece of lamb's wool. Soft but strange after sleeping on a neck rest all her life. Miriam opened her mouth, releasing the haunting tune that washed away every sound and thought. Anippe settled into her weariness, listening to the words.

“El-Shaddai is my strength, my song. He is my God, and I will praise Him, my father's God, I will exalt Him …

“I should tell her,” Mered whispered.

Miriam made sure Anippe was still sleeping beside her. “I can tell her if you'd rather. I've delivered other startling news to her at Gurob. Your plan to marry her will be a bit more than startling, but she'll accept it—I think.”

Miriam's flagging confidence fueled Mered's doubts. Anippe was Pharaoh's daughter. Why was he even considering Amram's advice?

Anippe's eyes fluttered and opened. She smiled at Miriam, furrowed her
brow at Mered, and then noticed her surroundings and jumped to her feet. “Where am I?”

Miriam gently tugged at her hand. “Come. Sit. You're in my parents' room in the craftsmen's village. Sit down with us.”

Anippe folded her legs beneath her and sat stiffly on the reed mat. She stared at Mered.

“How are you feeling this afternoon?” he asked.

She directed a panicked glanced at the single window. “Afternoon? What happened to morning?”

Miriam cradled her hand, patting and soothing her. “You have many questions, I know, but we have one for you—and it may be very hard. Tell us everything you remember about last night.”

As if she were a bird in a fowler's snare, Anippe's every move seemed anxious. Each sound startling, every blink a change in focus. “I remember …”

“Go slowly.” Mered kept his voice low. “We have all day.”

“All day? Why aren't you at the linen shop?”

He couldn't hide a grin. Of course, her first response would be practical. “King Horemheb declared a day of rest.”

Anippe sobered at his name. “Abbi Horem …”

She studied the packed-dirt floor. Silence lingered. The first signs of memory came with uneven breaths that tensed to rapid gasps.

“Mehy. He took Mehy from me and …” She shook her head, emotion twisting her features.

Miriam rubbed her back. “Take your time.”

“Abbi ordered Mandai to kill Ankhe and said my death should look like a crocodile attack.” The words came out on a sob as she alternated panicked looks from one Hebrew to the other. “An accident. You must make my death appear an accident. How will you do it?”

“We're not going to kill you,” Mered said. “We would never hurt—”

“But you must. If Abbi Horem discovers another deception, he'll kill Mehy.”

“He won't discover the deception.” Mered's tone broached no argument.

Miriam took her hand. “Anippe is dead. They found her—pieces of her body—this morning at the river near her bathhouse. Crocodile attack.”

Confusion and shock alternated on Anippe's features as she stared at Miriam and then Mered. “How? Whose body did they find?”

“I don't know,” Mered said, “but Horemheb has declared a three-day mourning period for his daughter. We'll hide you here with us—in plain sight.”

“No, Mered. He'll know. Abbi Horem is a god. He'll know.”

“He isn't a god,” Mered said, cupping her cheeks and wiping away her tears with his thumbs. “There is only one God, and He brought you to us for safekeeping.”

Her expression changed to that of a lost lamb, and her cheeks grew warm beneath his touch. When she dropped her gaze, he withdrew his hands, wishing he could hold her.

She spoke in barely a whisper. “How can you hide Pharaoh's daughter in a Hebrew village?”

Mered inhaled deeply, praying for wisdom. “Do you remember anything after Horemheb's death sentence? Do you remember who brought you here or anything before this afternoon?”

Anippe shook her head, more tears falling. “No, and it terrifies me. Why can't I remember?”

Miriam patted her knee. “Perhaps El-Shaddai is protecting you and comforting you by helping you forget those frightening moments.”

“Do you want me to tell you what happened?” Mered peered beneath her bowed head, capturing her gaze. She nodded but didn't look up. “Mandai couldn't obey Horemheb's order, so he brought you to our long house—into the room where I was grieving my wife. Puah died giving birth to our fourth child last night.” Mered's voice broke, and Anippe's head shot up.

“Mered, I'm sorry.” Her face twisted with pain. “It seems we both lost our families last night.”

Mered reached for her hand. “Mandai left, and Amram came in as I wept in despair. He offered a solution that can hide you safely and provide my children with a mother.” He searched her eyes for a spark of recognition. “You really don't remember any of this?”

She shook her head but didn't speak, her cheeks growing pink.