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But again, it crossed Ramses' mind that no pharaoh of his time had ever enjoyed the vast luxury known to a world of businessmen and commercial travelers in this day. And even the common people had their vintage wines and tobacco. He drank the champagne in one long draught.

How he hated this dark intelligence from Alexandria.

This was their last week in this great capital before they had to attend the betrothal party hosted by young gentle Alex Savarell, the very man Julie had once seemed fated to marry. Ramses wasn't dreading it, precisely, merely waiting eagerly for it to be over. He understood the goodwill behind the gesture, and the importance of the family to his beloved companion.

But he longed to travel again as soon as it was over, to see the Lake District of England, and the castles of the north, and the fabled lochs and glens of Scotland.

Now this startling news cast its dark shadow over all their plans, here in Paris, and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Julie rose and opened one of the windows so the smoke from her cigarette could escape. The drapes fluttered in the cool night air.

She was no longer a delicate thing. She had not been for some time. Long gone was the trembling young woman who had seen him rise from his sarcophagus in her very house in London, just in time to prevent her murderous cousin Henry from poisoning her in her own drawing room with a cup of tea--the same incorrigible man who had poisoned her father in Egypt, all in a bumbling attempt to raid the family's company to pay off his gambling debts. But Henry Stratford was gone now, and so too was the version of Julie he had almost killed. She'd been outspoken but naive, under pressure to marry a man she had not loved, and on the verge of being exposed to the true evils men can do in the name of avarice.

Yes, quite completely gone now, that Julie for this ever-resilient bride of his heart, to whom he did not need to pledge his undying loyalty with rings and ceremony.

On the ship carrying her back to London from their Egyptian adventure, that Julie had attempted to end her life, only to land in his powerful arms before the dark sea could claim her, accepting the elixir from him hours later with trembling hands.

She radiated an effortless confidence and poise, this Julie, who had begun to see the world around her from an entirely new perspective. And all the world had been theirs to explore only moments ago.

Ramses looked at Samir. How he treasured this mortal friend and confidant, an Egyptian of this age, dark of eye and face, with a deep understanding of Ramses and his ways that these lighter people of the north, even his beloved Julie, could not quite so easily discover. Someday, someday, perhaps, the time would come to confer the elixir once again, to this man, but there was time to ponder this, and Samir would never ask for this gift, never assume for a moment that Ramses, his lord and master, should be approached for such a thing, or so taken for granted.

"What do we know of this man she travels with?" Ramses asked. "Aside from his first name."

"Not much of which we are sure. But I have suspicions."

"Do share them, Samir."

"As I wrote you some time ago, one of the trains that struck her car that night continued on. Much of its cargo was bound for an outpost in the Sudan. After some investigation, my men came across a report there of a body that had been discovered in one of its boxcars."

"From where did this report come?"

"A local journalist."

"And the local hospital?" Ramses asked. "Did you contact them?"

"No one would speak of it. The nurses who had been on staff that night had since departed."

"This was only two months ago," Julie said.

"This man she travels with," Ramses said, "you believe him to be someone from the hospital? Her doctor, perhaps?"

"Perhaps, sire."

"And the others who departed?"

"More murder," Julie whispered.

"Maybe, Julie," Samir answered. "Or maybe not. One of my men in Cairo just contacted me about a rather large sale of artifacts. A private sale. The archaeological community is outraged, of course. Whoever made the sale has taken steps to conceal their true identity. But the rumor is they claimed the tomb in question was a secret storehouse of treasures kept by Cleopatra herself. That many of the coins and statues inside bear her likeness. There's been some coverage of it in the Egyptian papers. I had them send the articles to my office at the British Museum by post."

"She sent vast stores of treasures south when it was clear Egypt would fall to Rome," Ramses said. "I remember this."

A simple response, but it had sent him stumbling down a corridor of memories.

How he had wanted to believe her a monster, the creature he had raised. A terrible aberration raised from death by his own arrogance. But on the night of her terrible accident, in the moments before she'd fled the opera house in shame, stealing off in a motorcar she couldn't control, careening right into the path of two speeding trains, she had been far from a bumbling, voiceless ghoul. She had been full of focus and control and a desire for revenge. Moments before, she had confronted Julie in the ladies' powder room. Menaced her, threatened her life. Delighted in Julie's fear.

During her rampage through Cairo, Samir and Julie had both done their very best to convince him that she was a soulless creature. Not Cleopatra, but some terrible, monstrous shell. But when they had finally faced each other at the opera, there had been no denying it, the sight of the old spirit in her eyes.

And now? She lived still. Truly indestructible, it seemed.