“All of my other children are much younger, less prepared and savvy than Hatshepsut. Whoever I select, she will be older, more educated, wiser in the ways of the court and government, as well as a natural leader—” he says, and I swell with pride at his stream of compliments.
Until Mother interrupts, her voice defensive as if my father had just spewed forth insults about me instead of praise. “Only because you’ve had her tutored like a boy. Brought her along to audiences and conclaves and festivals like a boy. Allowed her into the sacred rituals as if she were a priest.”
“And you should be thanking the gods that I have,” he thunders, finally tiring of her challenges. “Because whether I select Mutnofret’s son, Thutmose, or one of the other boys in the nursery, we will end up with a child pharaoh should I die soon. This land will need strongleaders to guide him—you as regent until that child comes of age and Hatshepsut as his wife.”
My mother tuts at the mention of Thutmose’s mother, Mutnofret, my father’s second-highest-ranking wife. She is at constant, competitive odds with my mother, even though, as the first wife, my mother has a higher rank and her children a greater claim to the throne.
“Me as regent? Ruling alongside Hatshepsut as queen?” she asks slowly rather than accusatorially, the significance of his words finally becoming clear to her. And to me.
“Who else?” he answers with a question. As if this had been his plan all along. Amenmose and Wadjmose notwithstanding.
“Who else,” she echoes him quietly.
“Hatshepsut will be magnificent,” Papa says. “And you will help her when the time comes.”
I glance over at Nedjem, needing to know that one other person heard the same words I just did—magnificent. Otherwise, I would always worry that I’d imagined them. Her lovely, dark face brightens with a smile, and I return it.
“Hatshepsut!” Thutmose’s voice booms, and Nedjem and I jump. “You may enter the quarters. There is no need for you to skulk in the hallways outside the quarters like an assassin.”
With Nedjem like a shadow behind me, I creep inside the comfortable space, lined with upholstered chairs and soft pillows unlike most of the palace in which every surface is hard, imposing and awe-inspiring. But Mama and Papa aren’t reclining before a platter of fruits as they occasionally do in this informal room. They are standing, waiting for me.
My father’s hand reaches for mine. As I intertwine my fingers with his, he says, “Come, Hatshepsut. We have much to do.”
Eve
Chapter Nine
AUGUST 14, 1919
HAMPSHIRE,ENGLAND
The Music Room becomes our laboratory. Each time I step into the jewel box of a space, it feels wrong to be using it as a sort of archaeological triage station. But Mama is unlikely to enter either the Music Room or the adjacent Library—the Morning Room and the Drawing Room are her usual domains—so the Music Room it must be for me and Mr. Carter, if we are to find the final resting place of Hatshepsut. I’ve been crafting a history of Hatshepsut using the few mentions of her in scholarly texts, Mr. Carter’s knowledge, and the artifacts we have at Highclere.But imagine, I think,what insights we might gain if we could locate her tomb.
Using a sturdy kitchen table supplied by Streatfield, our reluctant partner in subterfuge, I’ve been studying fragments of quartzite that Papa and Mr. Carter unearthed in their last Valley of the Kings dig before the war. Today’s work has been made easier than usual because I raced here in my riding clothes. The ease of movement of my riding skirt as compared to working in my usual dresses is shocking, and I decide to stop more regularly in the Music Room after my morning ride with Porchey, who is home on leave for the summer.
Using my tiniest implement, I brush the stones again to ensure every detail is visible. Closely examining the grains of the quartzite and the etchings on the surfaces, I believe that these parts might just make a whole. When I stand up and step back from the pieces I’ve assembled in a rough rectangle, I see a cartouche, the outline of a long oval with several interior hieroglyphs that make up the nameof an important figure. I’ve been sketching the emerging image on a piece of paper nearby, alongside a series of Hatshepsut’s known cartouches.
I feel rather than see someone behind me, and smell Mr. Carter’s distinctive tobacco. But I don’t glance back at him; my attention is fixed on the shape before me.
“Is that a cartouche?” he asks, awe in his voice.
Discovering a cartouche on a dig can have monumental significance. Not only were cartouches important to the ancient Egyptians—they believed the symbol protected them from evil in life and death—but they are crucial for archaeologists. They can help date a site and assist in deciphering to whom the site belongs.
“So it seems,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t trust myself to speak any louder.
“How did we miss it?” he asks, mostly to himself.
“I doubt you’d had the time to study these shards,” I answer, my volume returning. “You found them just before the war broke out, remember? They’ve been sitting in storage ever since.”
“True enough,” he admits, “but still.” I’ve never heard self-doubt in the tone of the reserved, yet supremely self-confident, archaeologist. “And who on earth does this cartouche belong to?”
We step closer to the table on which the shards are spread. I’ve been formulating a notion about the name, but do I dare share it with him yet? Will he accuse me of being colored by Mr. Budge’s confirmation about the scarab? I could wait until I’ve had more time to study the hieroglyphs, but I’m too excited.
“I’ve been studying the symbols and comparing the cartouche with others we know. I’ve formulated a theory,” I venture.
“You have?” He averts his eyes from the stone fragments to glance at me and then back to the sketch. I cannot read his expression.
I say it all at once: “I think it belongs to Hatshepsut.”
