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Ciel was amazed at the interior of the French style townhouse-the size dwarfed the exterior as if some magic was afoot. It was exceedingly deep, spotless antiques practically littered every surface, and every room was huge and lavishly furnished. The very back of the house was an open-air dining room, the back wall lined with half a dozen French doors that opened into a jungle courtyard. On the other side of that jungle was another two-story house that Sebastian explained was the kitchen and servants' quarters. This was where Aimee had lived and cooked their meals and where Lucien had found her lifeless in her bed. The bed had been removed, of course; most of the original furnishings had been after Lucien had let the place go to rot.
The kitchen was neat and fully stocked, Elizabeth was delighted to see, and the servants' rooms upstairs were very nearly as luxurious as the main house rooms. She would be staying here with Paula, regardless of Sebastian's refusal to let her play maid. It wouldn't be conscientious for a tutor to live in the main house with her student's family. And the three rooms above the kitchen were every bit as comfortable as her house in London had been. Sebastian said he'd have a contractor come the following week to make the middle bedroom into a nice bath for them. She wondered if he was aware that he was a demon and therefore should not be the most gracious and amiable person she knew. She didn't call him out on it though. She wanted that bath.
Ciel found a room to settle in. It had a nice masculine air about it, with dark mahogany furniture and blue trappings. The window was draped in light and dark shades of blue fabric, the linens were varying shades of blue, and there was an ornate silk rug beneath the bed in grays and blues. He kicked off his shoes and climbed into the bed, piecing together all the details of the story Sebastian had told him of Rene Corbeau and his life here. He could see it like a picture show behind his eyelids and it wasn't long before he'd drifted off.
Menefer, of course, did not know of the life Sebastian had led in this house-only that her Marcus had lived an interminable life in a great many places. She understood that this had been his home at one point in his past. She did not understand why he seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her, or why he seemed reluctant to touch her now that they were "home".
She followed him mutely as he gave a small tour of the house; watched as he rolled up his sleeves and with his demonic speed and strength, organized everyone's belongings in their respective areas. She stayed out of his way when some men from a lawfirm came to see his deeds and she even retreated when he said, "Mennie, dear, would you go check on Ciel? I need to handle some business and I haven't seen him since he wandered down the hall."
He was playing the roll of businessman/father superbly well. She wondered when he'd play the roll of husband. She'd never admit it to him, but she loved him dangerously deeply. She knew he used her body and even admired her presence of mind and intelligence and wit. But he didn't love her. And she suspected now, that this place had something to do with why he would never love her. She couldn't have known of course, that the things that had transpired in this house had been the first time he'd ever accepted human comfort. That this house had seen him at his weakest emotionally; at his strongest when he discovered the emotion that he'd thought stripped of him forever after the Fall. This house had sheltered the first family he'd ever known, had seen a demon become a human, had rung with laughter and been filled with passion and tears. There was no way she could have known he'd second guess everything he'd done since they'd fled London. She didn't know she was literally standing inside his heart.
She quietly padded down the carpeted hallway, reveling for a moment in the feel of the lush knotted silk between her toes, and peeping in every door she passed, she finally found Ciel in a smaller room on the left, curled up on a lavish four-poster and snoring ever so lightly. She smiled despite herself and decided he had the right idea. Sebastian had moved their things to the largest bedroom across the hall and she wandered in there, admiring all the ornaments and decoration in the room. Its walls were white and the furniture was painted to have a distressed look. There were green accents in this room, in varying shades, like the blues in Ciel's room. The bed was large and instead of a four-poster canopy like Ciel's, had a ring hanging from an intricately carved crown moulding piece in the ceiling above it and was draped with yards and yards of mosquito netting. Menefer wondered how the demon could provide the things for her that he had and not feel an inkling of emotion. She pushed back the netting and crawled into the center of the huge bed, curled her knees into her chest and slept.
Just before Menefer was eleven, her Roman Legionnaire reappeared at the temple. He looked different than she remembered; his hair was longer, he looked thinner. But like a starved dog, he looked far more vicious than a healthy one. She was skeptical at best when the priest beckoned her over to greet her "god". Ankhshunamun had heard her tales of this Roman soldier's glorious deeds and he found it all too amusing that she would shy away from him at his homecoming.
The old priest was a good man, and he'd treated her well, even if he had awoken the next morning having forgotten that he'd taken in a street rat with a broken hand the night before. Her hand had healed luckily, and with enough training she was told she might be able to feel it again one day. The younger priests and followers in the temple were teaching her exercises and martial arts and she seemed to have a proficiency for it-but for the hand she could not feel, she continually dropped her weapons. Ankhshunamun recommended the bow-staff. She loved it.
She was certainly healthier than he remembered, the demon thought as he approached the gilded columns of the Temple of Isis. Her hand appeared to have healed-she was sparring rather viciously with a boy her age near the lotus pond in front of the temple. He made his way up the steps without drawing her attention and was immediately confronted by the old priest again. Marcus had been remembered. And Menefer had been running her mouth, he realized rather quickly, after the old man greeted him.
"If it isn't little Menefer's god!" he exclaimed, holding his arms out in welcome. He seemed genuine enough, Marcus thought, so the demon didn't argue. He supposed he could be a god if he'd wanted to, at least, to these people. It was his own kind, after all, that were worshiped as such. He clasped hands with the priest and allowed himself to be ushered deeper within the temple. "I am sure you are wondering how she is doing. She has a very strong mind. She is quite gifted there. She has been learning with our scribes and can already keep pace with the ones that have been studying here for several years. She is also quite athletic," he chuckled, offering Marcus a seat in one of the back rooms. The old priest called for a boy to bring them henqet, and Marcus politely declined. "The mouth of a perfectly contented man is filled with beer," the old man advised, and Marcus knew he couldn't decline again. He nodded solemnly and untied his cloak, draping it over one of the stools in the room before seating himself.
The boy returned moments later with two earthen jugs of Egyptian beer and placed them on the stone slab that served as a table between the old priest and the Legionnaire. "Are your duties fulfilled in your homeland?" the priest asked, trying to make conversation. The haggard looking soldier across from him was plainly not a talkative one.
"You could say that," he answered vaguely. "I have returned to see Menefer. I hope to stay here. At least for a time..."
The priest lowered his voice and leaned closer to the demon. "Are you truly a god as she claims?"
Marcus lifted his eyes to meet those of the priest and made a split-second decision. He let his irises flare their hellish red for only a breath of a moment, and the priest jumped backward in his stool and nearly toppled off the other side. "Who are you?" he gasped, his face quickly draining of color.
"I suppose I am a god of death."
The priest stood abruptly, prepared to do battle with the demon if the matter escalated. "You've come for Menefer? But why save her?"
"I haven't come to kill her, you old fool. I've come to make her a pharaoh."
The priest stared at him for several moments, his mouth agape, his eyes huge with wonder. "A pharaoh?" he muttered finally, and re-seating himself, reached for his beer and up-ended the jug. "Impossible! She could never..."
"She could be as much a pharaoh as the fool on the throne as we speak," the demon countered, leaning toward the old man as much to get his point across as to see the fear in his eyes at the proximity. "If she becomes his favorite, he'll marry her. No matter her lineage. And a queen is more powerful if only that she pulls his strings."
"You mean to put her in the royal harem?" the priest spat under his breath. "She is training to be a priestess of Isis!"
"There is no reason she cannot be both," Marcus pointed out. "The pharaoh prizes above all else women who are faithful to his patron goddess and warriors with tits."
The old priest's face turned crimson and beer flew from his nostrils. He could not deny that. It was no secret to noble nor commoner that the king loved women that could fight as he was constantly holding tournaments among the warrior women in the palace. He had several women in his own army and his current queen was one of the champions of his games.
"When?" the priest asked, giving up the fight. "She is too young now. At best, she will be prepared in five years."
"Then have her prepared in five years," Marcus replied, reaching across the table and pushing his henqet in front of the priest. He stood abruptly, causing the old man to start, and snatched his cloak from the stool next to him. Throwing it over his shoulder, he left the room. He found his way back out into the overpowering sunlight easily enough without a guide. Menefer and her sparring partner appeared to be taking a break. They were both waist deep in the pool in front of the temple splashing water at one another and laughing as children were wont to do. The old priest appeared behind him and called out to her, beckoning her over to greet her guest.
Menefer climbed out of the pool and rushed part way to the two men before she realized that Marcus was her 'guest'. The look he'd turned on her caused her to slow her steps, and she completed her approach cautiously, wondering at the man she almost didn't recognize. He was the right height, dressed as Marcus had been dressed the night he'd delivered her to the temple-minus his armor and weapons-in a faded red tunic that reached his mid-thigh and displayed powerful legs and arms. But he was thinner, his muscle tone more pronounced due to his loss of weight. His hair was longer, unkempt, unwashed. It hung over his face where it wasn't quite long enough to tuck behind his ears. Rust colored eyes under thick black lashes stared at her with indecipherable intent. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but the look he was giving her could've withered the spirit of a Nile crocodile. She reached the base of the steps and gazed up at the two men silently.
"Do you know who this is, Menefer?" the old man asked, reaching out to her, beckoning her up the steps. Tentatively, she took his hand and came up to his side, taking refuge from this man she knew and yet didn't, on the opposite side of the larger of the two men. She peered around the flowing translucent robes of the the priest and met the eyes of the beautiful man she'd insisted was a god. "Marcus Brutus. Who saved me. And I am grateful," she whispered, "But he is not a benevolent god."
The priest bit back a laugh. "You are correct, my child. He says he is a god of death. But he has come to watch you grow. To spend some time here with you. He has plans for you, my dear."
"What kinds of plans?" she asked warily, still clutching to the old man's garments.
Marcus Brutus dropped to one knee and smiled despite himself. Holding the child's gaze, he willed her to him, reaching out a hand that she took, though her face was etched in worry and fear as he pulled her over to him. "Is this the same child that I plucked from the desert sands and offered refuge? She was fearless and wild. This girl is timid and frightened. What have you done to my Menefer?"
The priest chuckled as the girl's face turned scarlet at the demon's goading. "It is me! I am Menefer! I'm not afraid of you, god of death. I just want to know what plans..." she trailed off, allowing Marcus to pull her against him as he stood.
"I want you to be the best warrior in this temple by the end of the year," he said, resting his large hand flat atop her mass of black curls. "I want you to be the most knowledgeable student in Egypt by the end of the next year. And I want you to be a young lady with unequaled and impeccable manners by the end of the third year. By the end of the fourth, I expect you to be a woman, not a girl. In five years, I am going to introduce you to the pharaoh and he is going to take you into the palace. After that, it is your duty-nay, your fate-to be the queen of Egypt. And I am going to help you rule it."
She giggled despite herself. "You are serious?"
"Very." He looked down at her, his red-brown eyes smiling into earthen orbs. She couldn't help but believe him.
"I can do that."
"I am relieved that you are confident in your ability to complete these tasks," he whispered, patting her on the head and lifting his gaze to the forgotten priest next to them on the step. "You can handle this, I assume?"
"Yes, I think I can," the old man assured him. "She is already far ahead of the curve when it comes to fighting and academics. The hard part will be making her a convincingly well-bred woman."
Menefer huffed and spun around, sailing off the high steps into the sand and launching herself at the boy who was waiting near the pool to continue their sparring session. She summarily decimated him in mere moments, and still pouting, harrumphed her way around the side of the temple out of sight.
The demon and the priest looked at one another and laughed.
Menefer awoke to darkness. She was cocooned in the soft mosquito netting, the linen sheets cool beneath her; the chirping music of crickets wafting into the room from the cracked window. She lay unmoving for what seemed an eternity, remembering her past and the events that led to her early demise; waking in that display case in the British Museum and her Marcus there to rescue her yet again. She owed him too much, she knew. She'd lost count of the debacles from which he'd plucked her. She knew in all reality, he owed her nothing. So the best thing she could do for him, she reckoned, was to be a beautiful and obedient wife to him when he was among his peers. Having found her new resolve, she crawled out from the netting and found a change of clothes. She heard musical laughter coming from the back of the house and knew it was Lizzie. She was very nearly as enamored with Elizabeth as she was with Marcus, she realized. But Lizzie made her feel welcomed and loved, so she was the one to whom Menefer needed to cling.