Read Reflections in the Nile Online
Authors: Suzanne Frank
Reflections in the Nile
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1997 by J. Suzanne Frank
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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www.HachetteBookGroup.com
A Time Warner Company
Originally published in hardcover by Warner Books.
First eBooks Edition: June, 1996
The Warner Books Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-93013-0
Contents
GLOSSARY THE MAJOR GODS AND GODDESSES LOCATIoNS
EGYPT. WHITE WALLS WITH LIFE-SIZE FIGURES IN COLORS SO BRIGHT, THEY HURT.
The floor on which she was lying was cold and getting colder. Chloe attempted to sit up, only to fall back onto the stone, boneless as a rag doll. She looked around again, a feeling of horror and disbelief growing in her.
Something was wrong.
Was she dreaming? But dreams should not be filled with cloying odors. She should not hear singsong voices from beyond this room. She should not be able to taste the blood from a cut on her lip. She should not feel bruised and battered. Something was terribly, horribly, unfathomably wrong…
“A dazzling tale of momentous adventure and unexpected love.… Fans of literate fantasy will revel in the delights of this enthralling tale.”
—Romantic Times
“A dazzling, spectacular, gloriously sumptuous saga of timeless passion—with a delicious surprise twist.”
—Bertrice Small, author of
Betrayed
“An unforgettable saga of hope and love and miracles. Dialogue that literally jumps off the page, characters that come to life in the most wonderful ways, and a story that is as magical as it is compelling.”
—Jo Reimer,
CompuServe Romance Reviews
“This is incredible. Ms. Frank blends fact and fiction into a story that makes ancient Egyptians breathe with the immortality that they so craved.”
—Heartland Critiques
“A captivating first book that keeps readers up late as they thrill to the tales of ancient Egypt.”
—Fresno Bee
“A fast, exciting read with a moving love story and a fascinating retelling of the biblical escape from Egypt.”
—Roberta Gellis, author of
The Roselynde Chronicles
“A brilliant new book … a remarkable story that keeps the reader enthralled for many pleasurable hours. J. Suzanne Frank is a uniquely gifted writer and storyteller.”
—Lake Worth Herald
(FL)
“J. Suzanne Frank's first novel is a delicious read, with a devastatingly yummy hero, a spunky heroine, and a fascinating premise. It's an absolute delight.”
—Anne Stuart, author of
Prince of Swords
“J. Suzanne Frank has not only a talent for painstaking research and good storytelling, but a sense of historical imagination that makes the marshes of the Nile come alive and peoples the palaces of its plains with physicians, gods, and priestesses—all scheming, conniving, and fornicating in their quest for immortality.”
—Diana Gabaldon,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Drums of Autumn
To my parents who never said “you can't,” who never doubted I could, and who always loved me, regardless.
Thank you.
T
here is a fissure in time—a channel through which, by certain combinations of astronomy, location, and identity, it is possible to leave the present. The person who travels is not an observer but steps into the body and mind of another, a shadowed reflection …and fulfills another destiny. Like a ripple in a pond, each switch alters the present and the past. Sometimes the changes are miracles. Other times they are nightmares. History comprises both. Which people are the key to the combination? Who intrudes in our world, observing from another century, hidden in the flesh of another, hidden behind our expectations? Hidden because, ultimately, we see only what we expect to see.
E
gypt was gorgeous. Lapis sky, green palms, sands the color of pale gold. The artist in me could appreciate the beauty, never mind that my feet were swollen and my eyes bleary and that I felt as though I'd left my soul about two thousand miles back. It had been a long trip, flying from Dallas to Cairo via New York and Brussels, then taking an overnight train to Luxor, which at one stop had thrown me violently from my bunk to the floor. It went with the territory. I had spent some time growing up in the Middle East, so I knew what to expect and was familiar with the three ruling concepts, namely
Inshallah
—as God wills it;
bukra
—tomorrow; and an ever-present, incomprehensible hospitality.
Unfortunately, said hospitality didn't extend to someone helping me with my backpack as I stepped onto the platform at Luxor station. It was a heady moment as the city enveloped me. I had forgotten how the Middle East smelled. I had left in 1987, off to university at age seventeen. The odors drowned me now: spices, incense, unwashed bodies, and urine. They combined into a potent mix that caught me between gagging and smiling. And the noise! The shouts of reuniting families, the babble of tourists, the cacophony of radio stations, and, above us, the Muslim call to prayer. I pushed past the hawkers offering me “very best price, lady,” on cheap hotels, because I knew cheap equaled no door, no closet, and many multilegged sleeping companions. This was Christmas and my birthday, and I had left behind the cool glitter of the Galleria, spiked eggnog, and crackling fires. No way was I staying in some sleazy, doorless hotel.
My sister, Cammy, short for Camille—believe me, I know it's confusing, her Camille, me Chloe—stood across the way. You'd never guess we were sisters, since I'm tall and lean, with copper penny-colored hair, green eyes, and pale skin, as opposed to Cammy, who looks exotic. She's not as tall, but she's statuesque, with chestnut hair and eyes the color of new Levi's. Indigo blue—sometimes they almost look purple. All that and she's brilliant, too. I was here to celebrate her receiving her doctorate in Egyptology. I love Camille; she's been my idol all my life, despite the fact she cursed me with a goofy nickname—kitten.
“Chloe! Hello, sis!” she said, looking into my face, her smile bright against her tan.
“Dr. Kingsley, I presume?”
Cammy threw back her head and laughed, a low throaty sound that garnered more than one appreciative male glance. “I'll bet you've been waiting all day to say that!”
“Actually, I've been waiting most of your life to say it. Is all the toil and sweat worth it? Now that you're finished you've got to find a real job.”
“Not a problem. I believe I'll be employed sufficiently for quite a few years,” she said with a smile Mona Lisa would have envied. She took my daypack and headed to the taxi queue. Further conversation was drowned out by the cries of “Baksheesh!” from a pack of children, their large dark eyes dancing with excitement as they played their game with tourists. Baksheesh was not begging, it was more like a tip. A tip for them being alive, if nothing else.
“Did you bring those pens I wanted?” she asked.
“In the pack.”
Cammy pulled out a handful of cheap, almost worthless ballpoint pens, and the children oohed in awe. With admonishments in Arabic to leave us alone, Cammy distributed the pens, and the children scattered. “You've just bought yourself a handful of helpers,” she said triumphantly.
“All for a few ballpoint pens?”
“Yes. Now when they go to school they will have something with which to write. Keep the pens with you—they're good for reducing the price of anything in bargaining.”
She knew how truly dreadful I was at bargaining. “Cool,” I said.
As I shouldered my bags a taxi screeched to a halt before us, and I climbed in next to Cammy. She gesticulated and argued with the driver before we took off, as he tried to push the ancient machine from zero to thirty-five in something under a half hour. We headed south on the main road, parallel to the river.
Luxor is two cities, one a modern reflection of the other. While the “touristic” part has hotels, restaurants, shops, and a few nightclubs surrounding the ancient sites of Luxor Temple and Karnak Temple, the “native” part consists of ramshackle houses, mosques, and tangled, narrow streets filled with small barefoot soccer players. We charged past several horse-drawn caléches clip-clopping along the waterfront, turned a few streets away from the
souq,
and drove through the twisting lanes until we finally lurched to a stop before a dilapidated inn with a fluorescent cartouche on the awning.
I couldn't believe it.
Dingy didn't even begin to describe this place. However, exhaustion was taking over, and I cared less about where we were going to stay than when I could rinse my face and lie down. We were settling for “native” versus “touristic,” but at this point I would have slept on a camel if it was still long enough. I hauled my bags out of the taxi and waited while Cammy paid.
I arched my brow. “We're staying here?”
Cammy smiled. “Yes. It's a fun place. It has a rooftop garden with a wonderful reproduction of a statue of Ramses …”
Yep. I was back in the Middle East “Do the doors lock?” I asked.
Cammy continued extolling its nonluxurious, nonamenable virtues. I held up my hand. “Okay, okay. I'll stay here while you're in town, but as soon as you hop that bus to your desert outpost, I am heading to the nicest four-star available!”
She opened the door with a smile and a flourish. “I didn't expect any different, my civilized little sister.”
A nap revived me. We changed clothes, locked the flimsy door that a halfhearted kick from a six-year-old would have popped right open, and headed into the Egyptian night.
The sky had deepened. Golden fingers wove purple, magenta, fuchsia, and rose pink into a tapestry, bleeding to midnight blue with silver stars. I huddled into my jean jacket against the breeze, since the temperature had dropped. We rode in a calèche down to the waterfront, where countless cruise ships moored, casting myriad lights onto the dark water. Immediately upon arriving at the hotel restaurant, we were shown to a table and we ordered one of everything with double the olives. I raised my gaze and looked expectantly at my agitated sister.
“You're about to pop. Excitement is almost an aura around you. What's going on? Anything to do with that cryptic statement about having a long-term job?”
Cammy's eyes widened. “Me? Excited?” Unlike mine, Cammy's face was an open book. Mom and Father never told her about Christmas or birthday gifts because she couldn't keep a secret longer than ten minutes.