“My childhood?” Incredible! But then, it madea perverse sort of sense—Hatshepsut, Hattie. How convenient! Shewas rather pleased with the inventiveness of her subconscious.“Tell me about the funeral rites for…for my husband,” sheurged.
“Ah, Majes—Hattie, a glorious sight indeed!Priests of Amun escorted the Great God in all his splendor on hisjourney across the Nile and to the Necropolis. They performed thenecessary rites and spells to insure His Majesty life eternal. Oncein the tomb, the High Priest performed the Opening of the Mouth.”The man paused and cleared his throat. “At that moment you criedaloud and collapsed, and I fear I can tell you no more. I caughtyou in my arms and returned you across the river—here to thepalace—certain you had died of grief.”
“Died. Aye, you said that. But I am notdead.”
“Nay, you are not, and I confess I do notunderstand. I waited with the body for the…waited with you untilHapuseneb, High Priest of Amun, could come to take you to theNecropolis, but something detained him. Just as I was about to sendfor him again, you awoke. Amun be praised,” he added quickly.
Hattie’s heart beat faster and her pulseraced. The details of the funeral rites were unfamiliar, yet theysounded plausible. And Hatshepsut’s titles were a mystery toher—she had only heard her referred to as pharaoh—yet she had heardthem twice now, once from the crazy woman and once from this man.If this was indeed only a dream or a phantom of her subconsciousmind, how could she suddenly know details and historical facts shehad never read or learned? Was she inventing things that onlysounded correct? Or were they actually facts buried in hersubconscious?
If it were a dream, it was the most vivid oneshe’d ever experienced. She saw light glinting off the gold aroundthe man’s neck and biceps; she smelled the sharp, sweet scent ofthe wine. She pinched herself, hard, and her arm stung fiercely.Was it possible to feel pain in a dream, in a phantom body? What ifthis was all real? What if it wasn’t a dream or a hallucination,but somehow she had truly been transported back through time toland in Hatshepsut’s court?
Even if she had been transported back intime, who was she? She wasn’t Hatshepsut, so why would this man andthe servant believe she was? She was Hattie Williams, from Chicago.Yet she didn’t look likeherself. Did she look like Queen Hatshepsut? And if so, why? Hattiegroaned. She had many more questions than answers—and she wasn’taltogether sure she wanted to know those answers.
Her companion had said he feared Hatshepsuthad died during her husband’s funeral. He had seemed genuinelyshocked when she opened her eyes. Was that the key? Had Hatshepsutactually died during her husband’s funeral? Had Hattie somehowtaken her place? But that didn’t make sense. The real queen hadlived to rule as pharaoh. Hadn’t she? What was it the crazy ghosthad said—that her life and destiny had been cut short? But thatdidn’t agree with the small amount of Egyptian history Hattieknew.
“One more question, Mister…” Hattie frowned.What was his name? Had he told her? “I am sorry, but I fear I haveforgotten who you are.” She gestured at her aching head. “I am notmyself. Will you forgive me?”
“I would not presume to judge you, and thereis nothing to forgive, for you have been gravely ill. I am RoyalTutor to your daughter, Princess Neferure.”
A daughter. The plot had become ever moretwisted and tangled. Hattie sighed, massaging her temples again.“Of course, you are my daughter’s tutor…but what is your name?”
“My name is Senemut, Hattie. Do you notremember me?” He seemed distressed, though her previous lapses ofmemory had not appeared to bother him.
Hattie’s mouth dropped open, and a flushburned her cheeks. Oh, yes, she knew him now. Not from personalacquaintance, but from what little she had learned of Hatshepsut’s life. Her stomach lurchedas she realized this was not a nightmare produced by hersubconscious. This was real! She didn’t understand how it hadhappened, or why, but somehow, in some fashion, she had beentransported into the past, into the life and the body ofHatshepsut.
Senemut’s name had made it frighteninglyclear: the handsome man bending over her, the man who had been herconstant companion and only comfort throughout this inexplicablenightmare, was royal architect and constant companion to thePharaoh Hatshepsut—and, quite probably, her lover.
CHAPTER 4
“Majesty? Hattie? Are you all right? By Amun,I must send for the royal physician…”
The concern in Senemut’s voice shook Hattieout of her trance. “Nay, nay, there is no need for that. Of courseI know you.” She tried to smile, though she feared it was more of agrimace. “The past few days have been difficult.”
“How thoughtless of me! You must rest.” Herose from the stool and walked across the room, then slowly turnedand came back to her side. “There is one thing I must ask. WillYour Majesty see the princess now? She has been most distraughtduring your illness.”
Hattie didn’t know how old Hatshepsut’sdaughter was, but the child would surely recognize an imposter—evenif the imposter looked exactly like her mother. She needed sometime to pull herself together, to figure out what to do. She shookher head. “I fear I am not up to it yet, Senemut. Tell her, please,that I will speak with her as soon as—”
She broke off as the curtain flew aside and asmall form burst into the room. A beautiful child of about three,with dark hair and eyes and golden skin, flung herself ontoHattie’s recumbent form, knocking the breath out of her.
“Mother!” she cried, throwing her arms aroundHattie’s neck. “Aneksi would not let me come to see you. So I ranaway from her.”
Hattie frowned at Senemut over Neferure’shead as she tried to catch her breath.
“Aneksi is the child’s nurse,” hemurmured.
Ah, of course, the nanny. Hattie stroked thesmall head. “There, there,” she said awkwardly, as soon as shecould speak. “Everything is all right now.”
“But Aneksi told me you were dead! Both youand my royal father.” The child raised her head to stare at Hattiewith wide eyes, a tear quivering on her round, pudgy cheek.
“Well, as you can see, I am perfectlyhealthy.
