Indeed, there have long been striking similarities between Elizabeth Peters and Amelia Peabody—not the least of which being that they both liked to have the last word. To honor this preference, we close with some admonitions that Ms. Peters included in her 1986 preface to The Lion in the Valley—which we find to be just as appropriate now as they were then:

In this . . . volume of the memoirs of Amelia Peabody Emerson (Mrs. Radcliffe Emerson), the editor once again deems it expedient to explain certain anomalies and obscurities in the text. Mrs. Emerson was not as careful as she might have been about noting the dates of her entries. She seems to have picked up the current volume of her journal and scribbled away until something happened to distract her. . . .

As the editor has had occasion to mention, the names of most of the persons involved have been changed, in order to spare the feelings of descendants of said individuals. The informed reader will recognize some names as those of well-known archaeologists, who appear only peripherally. Mrs. Emerson seems to have been fairly accurate in describing their activities; however, it would be a serious error to assume that she was equally accurate in reporting their conversations with her for, like her distinguished husband, she had a decided tendency to attribute to other people opinions of her own.

Another obscurity in the ur-text (if the editor may so describe the journals themselves) arises from the fact that at some point Mrs. Emerson apparently decided to edit them for eventual publication. . . . Since she was as inconsistent about her revision as she was about dating her pages, the result is sometimes a peculiar blend of journalistic and novelistic styles.

In other words, none of the eccentricities of the present volume are the responsibility of the editor.* She has done the best she could and would suggest that complaints, criticisms, and other pejorative comments be addressed to the heirs of Professor and Mrs. Emerson, not to her.

One

From the harbor, the port of Alexandria is an attractive sight, its whitewalled houses and red tiled roofs framed by azure sky and sea. Since I had been there many times, I knew that the walls were disfigured by dried mud and rude graffiti and that the streets were inches deep in evil-smelling debris. I never arrived in Alexandria without wishing to leave it as soon as possible.

However, our welcome was warm enough to cheer the saddest heart. Our arrival had been heralded by the mysterious network of communication that operates in countries such as Egypt, and cries of greeting arose as our ship approached the dock. “As-salaam-alaykum, o Father of Curses. Marhaba, ya Sitt Hakim!”