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CHAPTER 1 There it was again–that prickling, crawly sensation as though someone had run a velvety feather up the back of her neck, causing all the delicate hairs to stand on end. Harriet Williams snapped her head around, sure someone must be watching her this time. But, as always, the room was empty. Sighing, she brushed away the damp tendrils of wavy brown hair clinging to her forehead with the back of her hand. The stone floor of the museum was uncomfortable for prolonged sitting, but it was the only way to stay relatively cool in the warm, musty Egyptian exhibit room. She straightened her shoulders and rotated them a few times, stretched to get the kinks out of her back. She'd only imagined someone was watching her–what other explanation could there be? The museum was closed for the night, and she was alone. Hattie bent again over her sketchpad.
The scene of Hatshepsut being crowned ruler of Egypt took shape under the deft strokes of her charcoal pencil. She had Amun's temple at Karnak in place, crowds of priests and courtiers looking on while the High Priest of Amun placed the double crown on the head of the first woman to rule ancient Egypt as pharaoh.
The fragments of tomb paintings, gilded throne, and scepters in the glass case provided for her a feeling of authenticity that she captured in the sketch. But the face–Hatshepsut's face–refused to come to life. She couldn't get a feel for her features, and they remained flat and lifeless on the page.
Something tickled her ear, like the warm breath of a whispering lover. Hattie jerked away from the touch and leapt to her feet. What in heaven's name was going on? Herimagination was working overtime…but not on the problem of how to render Hatshepsut's features in the illustration. Instead, she found herself conjuring up visions of evildoers lurking in shadowy doorways.
Disgusted, she gathered up her pencils and pad and left the room through a small door in the rear marked "No Admittance–Staff Only."
She wound her way down a dimly lit corridor, past closed wooden doors with names painted on them in black. The last door, marked "Thomas Harris, Egyptian Curator," was still open, the overhead fluorescent light burning.
"Tom," she said, bursting into the office, "I can't get her face right." She slumped down onto a chair in front of a battered wooden desk.
A heavyset, middle-aged man with graying hair and kindly features looked up from the papers spread across the desk and smiled gently. "Calm down, Hattie. We have plenty of time before the manuscript's due. When I asked you to do the illustrations for my book, I didn't mean for you to get all worked up. I thought you'd enjoy it, and I knew you could use the work." He raised his eyebrows. "So, what's the problem?"
She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. "I don't know. I can't seem to make Hatshepsut's face come alive. Her statues are so stylized, I can't imagine what she really looked like–the woman, not the queen. Here, see for yourself." She thrust her sketchpad under his nose.
He took it from her and studied the drawing. "This is really wonderful, Hattie," he said after a minute. "You've captured the spirit of the proceedings perfectly, all the ceremony and splendor, the ritual, the crowds–just as I knew you would. But I see what you mean about Hatshepsut." He frowned. "I don't know how much more help I can give you. The statues you've seen are the only images of her in the museum. We don't know if they really resemble her or not. But if they're accurate, I'd say she looked a lot like you. Your skin is probably a bit fairer, your hair lighter, but you have her expressive eyes and her slender figure."
"You think Hatshepsut looked like me?" Hattie shook her head. "You must be imagining things, too. She was a queen–a pharaoh! I'm sure she looked nothing like plain-Jane me. Nothing at all."
Tom chuckled. "You're much too hard on yourself. You're a very attractive woman."
Hattie snorted.
"Well," he said with mock severity, "I did lend you several books on Egypt, with additional information about Hatshepsut. Have you read even one of them yet?"
"No. I've only flipped through them," she mumbled. "I should've known you'd scold me about that! But I do have other commissions in progress, you know. Besides," she added defensively, "ancient history is boring. I have absolutely nothing in common with a woman who lived thirty-five hundred years ago."
"I'll bet you have more in common with her than you think," Tom said. "She was a woman, like you. She had a life, friends, family, a job–like you. She had favorite foods, probably enjoyed music and art, had some hobbies."
"Maybe." Hattie was unconvinced. Surely a queen had a large family and many friends; she had people who depended on her, people who loved her. Hattie had no family left, few friends, and not even a cat to come home to at night. Her career was her life.
Tom sighed. "So, what's this about imagining things?"
"Oh, don't worry about it." She waved her hand. "I imagined someone was watching me. Naturally, no one was there, no matter how quickly I turned around. I've been at it too long, I guess. Or maybe I've seen The Mummy one too many times."
He laughed and handed back the sketchbook. "What are you going to do about Hatshepsut's face?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe a good night's sleep will give me more perspective." She yawned hugely and stretched out her arms. "I don't have any other ideas right now. I'm too tired to think straight."
Tom steepled his index fingers together and tapped them thoughtfully against his lips. "I have a suggestion. We have a necklace in our collection that's reputed to have belonged to Hatshepsut. It isn't being displayed currently, but I'd be glad to show it to you. Maybe it would help you to put a human face on a legend. What do you say?"
"Why not? It might do the trick."
Copyright © 2005 by Elizabeth Delisi.
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