perhaps he will wish the same joy for us. He likes us, don’t
you think? There is no reason we could not marry and serve
him five more years before he grants our freedom.”
The grooves beside his mouth deepened into a full smile.
“You truly believe our master will discover the happiness
we’ve found?”
“In time, certainly,” Tuya went on, studying his face. “Don’t
you think it could happen? If we offer sacrifices to the gods—”
“My god delights in obedience, not sacrifice.” Yosef’s
hands closed about her wrists. “My beautiful girl, there is so
much I don’t understand. I cannot speak for God, or assume
Angela Hunt
121
to understand why he moves as he does. I don’t know why he
called me out of my father’s tents. I don’t know what he has
planned for my tomorrows. And I don’t know why he has
rooted your image in my heart.”
She was about to say that reasons didn’t matter, but his
finger fell across her lips.
“I do know that the touch of your satin skin is enough to
drive me to distraction,” he whispered, his voice husky. “But
my father taught me that a righteous man does not touch a
woman until she becomes his bride. So until our master allows
us to join in marriage, your Paneah should keep a careful
distance from the lips you offer so willingly.”
To challenge his resolve she lifted her face to meet his, but
Yosef only smiled and stood, still holding her hands. “Good-
night,” he whispered, squeezing her hands before he dropped
them into her lap.
Could he not see that he was driving her insane? “Yosef—”
Only an echo came through the night shadows. “Good-
night, my love.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sunlight had burnished the warm morning air when Tuya
walked to the series of storage and workrooms that served as
the kitchen. Her new mistress would probably sleep late, but
would then welcome a bath and a bowl of fruit to break her
fast. Tuya had seen no slaves accompanying her mistress, so
if the lady did not own a personal maid, Tuya was prepared
to offer her services.
Abu, the goatherd, stood in the doorway, stuffing grapes
into his mouth. “Have you met the new bride?” she asked.
The man shook his head and muttered around a mouthful
of fruit. “Our master left early this morning to attend to his
duties at the palace. Paneah is in the house now, trying to find
a suitable chamber for the lady’s companion.”
“A companion?” Tuya frowned. “Will her maid sleep in
the house?”
“She’s not brought a maid, but a priestess,” Abu answered,
rolling his eyes. “The lady decreed this morning that
Potiphar’s temple is to be dedicated to Bastet.” Abu glanced
around as if the goddess might hear him, then lowered his
voice. “They’re bringing a horde of cat mummies this after-
Angela Hunt
123
noon. The lady says they’re to be kept in the temple, and no
one’s to argue about it.”
A sense of foreboding descended over Tuya with a shiver,
but she thanked Abu and carried a bowl of fruit to the house.
Hundreds of priestesses served the nobles of Thebes, and
thousands of people claimed Bastet as their patron goddess.
Surely Abu’s words meant nothing.
She climbed the steps to the outer porch and met Yosef. “Is
our lady awake already?” she said, sharing the smile she
reserved for him alone.
He returned the smile, and for a moment she thought he
would have kissed her in greeting, but too many others milled
about. “She is awake,” he said simply, checking a sheet of
parchment in his hand. “And she has a list of needs and wants
I am to see to at once. Our master is out for the day, but we
are to make our lady happy.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Tuya offered, moving past him into
the central hall. The room was empty, spacious and quiet in its
grandeur, but noises came from the master’s chamber at the end
of the hall. The women’s sitting room stood empty, as usual, but
would now have to be furnished. Tuya made a mental note of
mentioning this to Yosef—suitable furnishings could be found
immediately, of course, but if the lady wanted spectacular she
would have to give the carpenters and artisans time to work.
A wailing sound came from the master’s chamber, and Tuya
paused on the threshold, uncertain how to proceed. Peering
around the edge of the doorway, she saw a short-cropped head
swathed in sheets, a huddled mass in the center of Potiphar’s bed.
The shrouded figure silenced its weeping as dark eyes
fastened on Tuya. The slave carefully lowered the bowl of
fruit to the floor, then prostrated herself. “I am here to serve
you, mistress,” she said, hoping the lady hadn’t seen her spy-
ing glance.
124
Dreamers
The sheets rustled, a bare foot smacked the floor. Footsteps
padded over the tile until ten pampered and painted toes
moved into Tuya’s range of vision.
“Rise, slave, and let me have a look at you,” a young voice
commanded.
Steeling herself for confrontation, Tuya stood, lifting her
head at the last moment. The bride gasped before she did, but
Tuya had heard a warning in Abu’s words.
“Good morning, Lady Sagira,” Tuya said, her heart skip-
ping a beat. It would be easy to turn and walk away, leaving
Sagira as alone and frightened as Tuya had once been. But the
girl had stared out from beneath the bedsheets like a fright-
ened animal looking out from the brush.
Tuya gave her mistress a polite and practiced smile, then
folded her hands and lowered her head, waiting to see how
this joke of the gods would play out.
She stepped back, stung, when Sagira rushed forward and
embraced her.
Sagira did not know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of
Tuya. Part of her wanted to flee in embarrassment, but another
part yearned to embrace her childhood friend. Finally she did
both. She hugged Tuya for the sake of their former friend-
ship, then retreated back under the bedcovers. She did not
have to act the part of a regal bride and noble lady before
Tuya.
“Mistress, what’s wrong?” Tuya asked, stepping to the
edge of the bed. She bent and lifted a corner of the sheet. “You
can come out. No one will hurt you.”
“Oh, Tuya, it was awful!” Sagira blushed, the horror of the
memory sweeping over her again. “Never in my life have I
imagined that marriage would be like the night I’ve just passed.”
Tuya lifted a brow. “Did your mother not prepare you?”
Angela Hunt
125
“I was prepared for a night of love.” Sagira wiped her
damp nose with the back of her hand. “I was prepared for
anything and everything except—”
Tuya gazed at her in bewilderment. “Except?”
“Nothing!” Sagira cried, fresh tears stinging her eyes.
“Potiphar lay down and fell asleep. I sat beside him, waiting,
until I knew he would not wake, then I paced this chamber all
night, trying to decide what I should do.”
Tuya sat on the edge of the bed, a look of confusion on her
face, and Sagira threw herself into the older girl’s arms as she
had a thousand times when they were younger. It felt good to
fall into Tuya’s comforting lap. The slave had always been
unflappable. Whenever Sagira did wrong as a child, Tuya
took the blame or made everything all right. And now the gods
had returned Tuya, and Tuya knew Potiphar. She would know
how to correct Sagira’s problems.
“Our master Potiphar did not plan on being married yes-
terday,” Tuya was saying, so Sagira sniffed and tried to con-
centrate on the girl’s words. “He has just returned from the
military expedition. He is older, and he was tired. He probably
wanted to rest.”
“He doesn’t think I’m pretty,” Sagira said, lifting a corner
of Tuya’s skirt to wipe her nose. “I read that much in his eyes
as we were married. I don’t know what kind of woman he
likes, but I’m not his—”
Abruptly, she shrank back and glared at Tuya. “Are you his
concubine?”
“No, no.” Tuya flushed scarlet. “Never. The master has
kept me busy with work of the house. He has never invited
me to his bed.”
“Do you swear this by the goddess Bastet?”
“By whatever god you like, my lady. You can ask the other
servants. Our master sleeps alone.”
126
Dreamers
Sagira sighed, then lay down and propped her head on her
hand. “He has never had a wife?”
“No.”
“Or a concubine?”
“None I know of.”
“He is not—” Sagira raised a brow.
Tuya blushed. “He is not like that.”
Sagira idly ran her finger over the linen sheets. “Tired or
not, if he is a man, he can be stirred to action. Ramla has told
me what I must do. The prophecy demands that I bear a son.”
Tuya stiffened at the mention of Ramla’s name. “The
prophecy, my lady?”
Sagira pressed her lips together. She had said too much,
especially in the house of the captain of Pharaoh’s bodyguard.
Even a hint that Pharaoh’s lineage might not be established
for eternity would be tantamount to treason.
“Nothing.” She waved the matter away. “I want a child.
Doesn’t every woman?”
Ramla’s sharp voice interrupted the reunion. “I thought we
had rid ourselves of this slave.”
“Ramla, don’t scold,” Sagira said, sitting up. She smiled
at the priestess. “Tuya assures me that my husband was tired
last night. I am not to blame for his diffidence.”
The priestess crossed her arms. “I am not surprised.”
“He went to sleep,” Sagira said, standing and taking the
sheet with her. “But he will not sleep tonight. Prepare my bath,
Tuya, and spread the fruit on a mat for me. I’m hungry.”
Tuya reached for one of the papyrus mats rolled in a corner
of the room. “You should eat first.”
Sagira glanced at the gleaming grapes, pomegranates and
dates. Tuya must have taken pains to gather the ripest, most
delicious-looking fruit…
She reached for a bunch of grapes, but Ramla stepped
Angela Hunt
127
forward and slapped her hand. “I cannot believe you would
listen to the suggestion of a slave,” she snapped, fire in her
eyes. “You are the mistress here. You are no longer a child.
Such softness was allowable in a girl, but you are now a
woman of means. You do not confide in slaves, you do not
obey them, you do not heed their wishes. Do you understand?”
Sagira shrank back as if the goddess herself had chastised
her. Ramla had often been coyly disapproving, but never had
she let loose with an outburst like this. “Tuya is an old friend
and means me no harm—”
“Tuya is a slave who once thought herself your equal.
Have you forgotten the words I taught you? The instruction
of King Amen-em-Hat warns those who will rule that they
should be on their guard against subordinates—‘Trust not a
brother, know not a friend, make not for yourself intimates,
for in these things is no satisfaction.’ Remember the prophecy,
Sagira! Live like a queen, discipline your heart!”
Sagira grimaced at Ramla’s words, but Tuya turned to face
the priestess. “I mean no harm to my mistress,” she said, her
voice firmer than Sagira had ever heard it. “I would not harm
her or my master Potiphar for the world.”
Ramla lifted her hands to the sky in an eloquent gesture.
“Bastet, preserve us! Must I endure a pair of fools?”
Torn between the longing for the past and her hopes for the
future, Sagira buried her head in her hands. “Where is the
master of the slaves in this house?” She spat the words be-
tween her clenched fingers. “I would speak to him at once!”
“There is only one master below Potiphar,” Tuya answered,
her voice distant. “Paneah is the steward.”
“Bring him to me at once!” Sagira muttered, not lifting her
eyes. “No! Send him. You need not return.”
She waited until Tuya’s footsteps faded before lifting her
gaze to meet Ramla’s.
128
Dreamers
“Sometimes, my Sagira, you behave like a simple-minded
child,” the priestess said, crossing to an elegant chair in the
corner of the room. She seated herself and inclined her head
like a queen granting favors. “Tuya is a great beauty, can you
not see it?”
“She is a slave,” Sagira whispered. “I am a lady.”
“Your mother sent Tuya away because she knew the slave’s
beauty would overpower yours.” Ramla’s dark eyes glowed
with cunning. “She thought you would never win a husband
if you stood in your maid’s shadow. And yet today you
embraced your enemy, completely blind to the fact that your
husband will never look at you with desire or give you the
child you need as long as she remains here.”
“Potiphar has not touched her—”
“Would she tell you if he had? But even if she speaks the
truth, how do you know he does not dream of her?” Ramla
released a delicate, three-noted giggle, as out of character as