Ra is drawn to a corner of his Solar Barque by the sound of weeping. Nephthys is crouched on deck, her face in her hands. Each sob that passes through her is like a small death. Her body jerks as though stabbed.
''Come, come,'' says Ra gently, kneeling beside his great-great-niece. ''What's this? I won't have people crying on my boat. It's not allowed.''
Nephthys looks up, pink-eyed. As the tears spill down her face, Ra thinks of a flash flood, a river bursting its banks in rainy season, arid land inundated. With his thumbs he wipes her cheeks dry. The sobs subside. Nephthys regains her composure.
''Forgive me, O Ra,'' she says, sniffing. ''You weren't supposed to see me like this. I came to talk to you, to ask your advice, but then… it all got too much… overwhelming…''
She seems on the verge of crumpling, but manages to maintain control of her emotions.
''Hush,'' soothes Ra. ''It's all right. Don't be upset. What's the matter?''
''Can we go somewhere private?''
Ra looks round. Maat and Thoth are within earshot, but both of them are discreetly minding their own business. Maat keeps a steady hand on the tiller, guiding the Boat of a Million Years along the river of day, with faithful Ammut as ever at her feet. Thoth is studying the ripples on the water's surface, seemingly absorbed in contemplation. Amidships, Bast lies curled on her divan, asleep. In the bows, Set is likewise asleep, exhausted after his latest bout with the serpent Apophis.
''You can rest assured, nothing you say to me here will go any further.''
''Even so,'' says Nephthys, with a glance towards her brother-husband.
Ra nods, and he leans back and opens his heart to her, and all is light and heat. They are surrounded by perfect white fire. They are standing at the centre of the sun. It's a place to which none may go unless invited by Ra, and into which none may pry. Here, atoms crackle and bubble like eggs on a skillet, and everything is a swirl of blazing creation. This is the crucible of life, the furnace that forges existence.
''Tell me then,'' says Ra. ''Why the tears?''
Nephthys is not a relative Ra has any strong feelings for, or against. She is, he has always felt, a little too in thrall to others to be truly interesting, and there is an air of duplicity about her, a kind of meek maliciousness which her sweet, heart-shaped face only just disguises. Nonetheless he regards her with fondness, as he does almost everyone, and he hates to see her upset.
''You're aware,'' she begins, ''of the infidel attacks on my domain.''
''I am.''
''And of how Wepwawet has suffered the indignity of seeing one of his few shrines despoiled by these unbelievers.''
''Sobek was a victim too, I understand. And there were others.''
''Wepwawet is unwell as a result.''
''I'm sorry to hear that.''
''My grandson has always been sickly,'' says Nephthys. ''His worshippers are few and far between, and he is overshadowed by his father. His dearest wish is to follow in Anubis's footsteps and rule over legions of death-lovers, but I'm afraid he lacks the drive and the influence. He will never be anything but a pale imitation. And now, poor creature, he is ailing, so thin you can almost see through him. It's heartbreaking. How I would love to see these wicked, faithless humans destroyed. I would gladly have them erased from the earth.''
She is close to crying once more. Only with great effort does she steel herself and stem the flow of tears.
Why do women cry when they are angry? It is a mystery even to great Ra. The fact that they do, however, makes their anger all the more devastating. They appear vulnerable just when they are at their most dangerous.
''O Nephthys,'' he says, ''your desire for vengeance is well warranted, and if it is your intention to visit retribution upon this Lightbringer and his cohorts, far be it from me to stand in your way. The blow that they have struck against you and your near kin is an offence of great magnitude. Although it is my belief that there is altogether too much strife and suffering among the mortals at present, in this instance I feel I can make an exception. The Lightbringer is not fighting at the behest of any god, he is fighting against us, all of us, and that must not be permitted. So if you and your husband wish to set about eliminating him-''
''My husband?'' Nephthys lets out a hollow, corroded laugh. ''Set? What do you think I'm doing here, talking to you? Set isn't paying attention to this matter. Set, in fact, doesn't seem to care. Wepwawet…''
She halts, and Ra realises she cannot bring herself to say what she would like to. Wepwawet, son of Anubis, is unquestionably her grandson. But is he Set's also? Strictly speaking, no. Not if, as is widely accepted, Anubis's real father is Osiris.
''Well,'' she says, ''Set does not seem to be able to find a great deal of time for Wepwawet.''
Nephthys cannot admit the truth, at least not out loud. Shame and decorum prevent her. She and Set and Osiris and even Isis are all entangled in the coils of a deception. They share in a family secret which they have covered up but which none of them can fully forget, or forgive. It is at the core of all their arguments. It is the root cause of the rift that divides them.
''Set…'' says Ra, ruminating.
All at once he perceives that he has penetrated to the heart of the matter, and with the realisation comes the possibility of a solution to the deadlock that exists between his descendants. As with any sudden flash of insight, it seems obvious, an answer that has been sitting there in plain view, waiting to be stumbled upon.
''Nephthys,'' he says, placing his hands upon her shoulders, ''let us be honest with each other, shall we?''
The goddess blinks and nods.
''Your brother-husband is difficult to get on with. I understand that. Set is a sullen creature, prone to fits of pique and envy. He resents it when things do not go his way. His manner is cool towards you, sometimes cruel. But remember this. You did betray him.''
Nephthys opens her mouth to protest. The graveness in Ra's eyes makes her close it again without uttering a word.
