I drank another cup of water and then held out my hands to allow the women to help me stand. After a bit of wobbling, I sat down on a stool. A pretty young woman with the round eyes of a doe placed a bowl in my hands and then backed away as if she had made an offering to one of the myriad gods and goddesses of antiquity. “Shukran,” I said warmly and forced myself to take a small swallow. I was not at all in the mood for a hot beverage, but I had no expectation of a whiskey and soda—especially one served to me by my beloved Emerson. Were he present, he would fling Herr Morgenstern over his shoulder, summon clouds to cover the sun, and staunchly trudge back to Amarna in short order. Regrettably, I lacked the strength to do so—but I did have two camels.

I took a second swallow of the broth to be polite, put aside the bowl, and went behind the wall panel to evaluate Herr Morgenstern’s status. He was supine on a mat and disturbingly silent. A woman knelt next to him, moistening his lips with a cloth. He did not respond when I nudged him with my foot, forcing me to bend over and ascertain that he had a thready pulse. “Herr Morgenstern! You must open your eyes now! I have come to take you back to Amarna for medical help.” I did not threaten to stuff a jerboa in his mouth, although I must admit the idea crossed my mind. Had he behaved like a proper archaeologist from the beginning, none of the subsequent calamities would have taken place. He would have uncovered the bust of Nefertiti, alerted M. Maspero at the Service des Antiquités, and basked in the publicity that he rightfully deserved. I nudged him once again with my foot, perhaps with more vigor than necessary. “Open your eyes, you sorry excuse for an Egyptologist!”

He emitted a soft groan.

Sighing, I brushed sandy residue off my clothing, patted my hair, retrieved my parasol, and said to Omar, “I would like to speak to the sheikh. Please escort me to him.”

“As you wish, Sitt Hakim,” he said without enthusiasm.