They were invisible to all, and in a world apart. Fanny blinked and thought she saw a thousand years rush by in a whirlwind of clouds racing across the heavens, and mostly a clear bright blue sky, while around her the sand granules whispered, and the grand tons of stone pressed down to conceal her, as she lay, dreaming, desiccating, dreaming again forever, swept into the sweet long eternal memory of the dead.

His memory. The dream of an ancient king. The man who knew and loved her, oh so long ago.

Fanny came to herself, trembling, as the dance ended. They stood together, close enough to be almost in an embrace, stilled in the last stance, their faces barely apart.

She recognized him, the golden radiant beloved Pharaoh. And she remembered at last—that she too, once loved him, before he had died, millennia ago, in her arms.

She knew his name.

Xethesamen. East Wind.

And then, unseen by all, the ancient Pharaoh drew his face downward, leaning over her. And he touched his lips upon her own—light as a feather, gentle as the coming of night.

Fanny Price exhaled with a sigh, feeling her very soul, her ka, uplift toward him, forgetting for the moment Edmund, Mr. Crawford, the ball—the whole world. Her lips parted in innocence and inevitability to meet his.

In that moment of brief joining, for the first time, he truly seemed to come alive. His perfect, golden-olive skin glowed with a sheen of health, youth, and vigor; his raven locks shone like silk; his dark eyes were clear as midday.

And immediately, the candles in the ballroom flared impossibly bright. A light warm breeze raced out of nowhere to ruffle the curtains, the tablecloths, the skirts of the dancers and the feathers in their hair. Everything seemed richer; all the senses came roaring into exultation. The colors were more vivid; the scents of ladies’ perfume and the late supper banquet were enhanced into an overwhelming fragrance of delight.

People in the ballroom looked around, dancers standing up with renewed zeal and wallflowers coming awake. On her sofa in an alcove near the buffet tables, Lady Bertram woke up with a start, sat up, and said, “Upon my word, a sip of tea would be nice.”

“Fanny,” meanwhile said her ancient beloved. “You know me again, at last. Come! Come with me and be with me again, my one and only love—this time for eternity.”

She looked into his haunting familiar eyes.

She thought, for interminably long weighted moments, of desire, duty, need, loneliness, wonder; all the flow of time—all the pasts put together. Time was the great Nile, flowing without end or beginning.