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After someone had read to him Machiavelli’s The Prince, the pasha of Egypt had said, “I could teach him some things.”
Two big hands circled her waist. “What in blazes is that?” he said. “My waist,” she said. “I mean the sash thing you’ve wound about it. Have you rocks in it?” He patted a place near her left hip. “It is called a hezam,” she said. “Yes, but what is it?” “A scarf girdling the waist,” she said. “Useful for stowing things. Like my knives.”
Shall we proceed, and ought I do so with my knife drawn?” “You’d better keep it where it is for the moment,” he said. “Otherwise you might stab me to death accidentally.” “If I stab you to death,” she said, “it will not be accidental.”
By land she need only cope with sandstorms, temperamental camels, and marauding Bedouins.
She let herself become overexcited about a lot of falcons wearing hats.
She wondered what he was thinking. She knew it was not about Coptic, one of the world’s most boring topics.
I cannot think why any rational mongoose would wish to eat a dirty shirt.
And we’ve been invaded by a lunatic mongoose.”
But men see the pair of cartouches, and their imaginations run away with them. You are such romantic creatures.”
He paused. “You’re the genius. What do you think that means?” She threw him a sidelong glance. “I think you’re insane,” she said. “Perhaps you have developed an infection which has gone directly to your head.” “I am not insane,” he said. “A woman of your highly advanced intellect ought to be able to perceive that I am in love. With you. I wish you had told me. It was deuced embarrassing to find it out from your brother.”
