Under the shade of an indigo-dyed awning, Istara bit into a fresh baked slice of honey almond cake. It melted, warm and sticky against her tongue. Beside her, Iltu bit into her own slice, the soft upward curve of her lips confirming Istara's opinion: Edarru's talents in the bake house were unsurpassed.

Edarru waited, holding a tray with several more slices, artfully arranged. She bit her lower lip, anxious, the smooth planes of her features tight with apprehension.

"There is no question," Istara said, holding up her thin slice, admiring its edges baked to a delicious golden hue, "I have never tasted better in all my life, not even in the queen's palace of Tarhuntassa."

Edarru let out a breath of relief, delight filling her features. "I think the secret is in the honey," she confided as Istara took another bite, savoring the perfection of the cake's texture, the precise balance of sweet and savory flavors. Edarru continued, pleased, "Weremkhet managed to procure honey from the temple gardens of Isis. All know honey made from the bees in the gods' gardens is the purest."

"It's a good thing Sethi's purse is deep," Iltu murmured, pausing to dust several crumbs from her mouth. "Such a purchase would have cost his steward much."

"Ah," Edarru blushed. "Weremkhet did complain somewhat."

"Let him complain, your cake is worth it," Istara said as Edarru set the platter on a nearby table and backed away, beaming with pleasure.

Istara went to the divan and sat. Iltu sank down beside her. She set aside her unfinished cake and folded her fingers together, so tight the whites of her knuckles showed.

"What is it?" Istara asked, setting aside her own cake. "Have you heard news from the barracks?"

"No news," Iltu said, her gaze flicked up to meet Istara's eyes. "I--"

"Please," Istara whispered, dread circling her, stirring her deepest fears. "What do you know?"

"I cannot feel Seru's presence," Iltu answered, low, tears glinting in her eyes. "It has been almost four days now, and there is nothing here--" she pressed her palm against her heart, bleakness shrouding her, "--only silence."

Istara let out her breath, slow, discreet, ashamed to feel relief.

"It's as if my love never was," Iltu breathed. A tear slipped free. She brushed it away and glanced up at Istara. "It can only mean one thing. He is gone. Forever."

"No," Istara covered Iltu's hand with her own. "I beg you, do not despair, fear is taking hold of you. Five months--an entire season--" Istara sighed, "is long, but we must remain strong. Until we are told otherwise, our men live. It is our duty to keep them alive," she pressed her hand over her heart, "in here, so they can feel us."

Iltu said nothing. She looked away, grief sharpening her features. "How shall I go on without him?" she murmured, her fingers coming, trembling to her lips. "Now I understand why he did not want this. The pain--it is too much to bear. I am lost. Lost."

Istara blinked, unsettled by Iltu's enigmatic words. Her own uncertainty spiked, the dark question rising anew from the depths of her being, buried but never forgotten: What if Iltu and Seru were Baalat and Horus, made mortal? Her thoughts skidded to a brutal halt. If Seru were Horus and he had died, would that mean Sethi had died, too? Istara's chest tightened. Her breathing shortened. No. It couldn't be. Wouldn't she know, too? Wouldn't she also feel the loss of Sethi if he were gone? There could only be one answer, Iltu was not Baalat; her loss was not Istara's loss.

Beside her, Iltu's grief bled out, visceral, a living thing. Uncomfortable, Istara tried to think of something to say, to divert Iltu from her dark thoughts. But she floundered, lost, as Iltu's anguish seeped into her, catching her in its grip. Footsteps approached. She turned, dismayed by the intrusion.

"My lady," Weremkhet bowed, "you have a visitor. Lady Meresamun has arrived. She awaits you in the main reception room."

"Meresamun?" Istara repeated, half-rising from her seat, astonished. "Is here? Is she unwell? Hurt?"

"She seems well enough, if rather emaciated," Weremkhet answered. He glanced at Iltu, then away, uneasy. He backed up, realizing, too late, his error. "Forgive me. I will ask her to return another time."

"Do not turn her away for my sake," Iltu said, her gaze fixed on the horizon, past the gold and white sprawl of the city and the green of the river delta to the distant sands of the western desert, blinding in the late afternoon light.

"Perhaps she will have news," Istara said, "Ahmen is close to the pharaoh." But as soon as the words came from her mouth, Istara knew there could be no substance to them. Ahmen would never confide in Meresamun. She would know even less than Iltu.

"Go to her," Iltu said. "I will be here when you return. There is more I have to say, but it can wait."

At Iltu's ominous words, Istara's trepidation deepened. She hurried through the villa, forcing her dark thoughts aside, focusing instead on her friend, come to her after all this time. She slipped over the threshold into the reception's cool interior. Meresamun rose from one of the divans and moved into a shaft of sunlight. Istara stopped, stunned. Nothing remained of her friend except skin and bone.

"Meresamun?" she asked, uncertain.

Meresamun nodded, the golden band encircling her brow glittering against the canopy of her dark hair.

"It is I," she answered, soft, resigned.

Her voice, so unmistakeable, breached the lie of her appearance. Istara went to her and caught her hands in hers, embracing her with a stifled cry. In her arms, Meresamun felt as fragile as a songbird, her every rib pressing against Istara, sharp, her breasts diminished to almost nothing.

"What has he done to you?" Istara cried out, devastated. "It is unbearable. A crime." She pulled away, calling to one of the servants to prepare a hot meal for her guest.

"Do not trouble your servants to feed me," Meresamun said, sinking down onto the divan, weakness surrounding her. "I will not remain here long. I only wished to see you one last time before I leave."

Istara sat, taking her friend's hands in hers, her throat tight as she eyed the narrowness of Meresamun's wrists and forearms.

"What do you mean, 'leave'?" Istara asked, taut.

"I am determined to depart on the next caravan for Babylon," Meresamun said, bleak. "I cannot remain with Ahmen any longer." She glanced through the open door to the courtyard, wary, leaning forward a little so she could see the outer gate. "Ahmen will come looking for me here, I am certain of it, so we must be brief." Her eyes flicked back to Istara's. "I could not leave without saying goodbye."

"Where do you intend to stay until you go?" Istara asked as Meresamun's attention slid back to the outer gate.

Meresamun shrugged, the slight rise and fall of her shoulders elegant despite her emaciated state. "Seven months ago I was granted an undated summons from the pharaoh should I ever have need of it, guaranteeing me a place to stay at the palace," she answered, keeping her eyes on the gate. "But I would rather not go where people will talk. I have another place to stay--a place I worked, once, long ago, where I am no one." She smiled, rueful. "I never expected to cross that threshold again. How strange life can be."

"So it is over, then," Istara said, low. A ripple of anger stirred within her, nascent, dark. Ahmen had much to answer for.

Meresamun nodded, her fingers tightening on Istara's, the sudden strength in her grip surprising. "The man I once loved is gone. Last night he--"

A pounding at the gate made her jump. She lunged to her feet, the color draining from her face. "He is here," she whispered, taut.