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yellow beads blended with the tinkle of the rings she wore on her wrists and ankles, forming its own kind of music.
    “I am Hemiunu, Grand Vizier to Pharaoh Khufu, Wearer of the Double Crown.” To which she should have replied, “Life, Health, Strength!”
    Instead she said, “Yes, I know who you are.”
    And then we were in the central square of the house, a courtyard not much larger than my bedchamber, yet overflowing with twice the greenery of my courtyard. Terra-cotta pots held plants and shrubs, spilled out flowers, and ringed dwarf trees. A small decorative pool graced the center. She directed me to a stone bench and then floated away to the wall. I placed the papyrus on the floor.
    “You are looking for my father?”
    “For Senosiris, construction supervisor. This is his home?”
    She bent to the floor to retrieve something, and I noticed for the first time the riot of color on the wall. She held a brush in her hand. “Yes. He is my father. He should be home for his noon meal at any moment.”
    “What are you doing to that wall?”
    She laughed. “I am painting it, of course. Do you only know tan quarry stones, Grand Vizier?”
    “No, I also know pink Aswan granite.” A flush tickled my neck.
    She turned and raised her eyebrows, as though surprised by my reply, and smiled. Her eyes were painted with a green that matched the plants around me, and she seemed a natural part of this place.
    “I am Neferet,” she said, still smiling.
    I cleared my throat. “Neferet. Good to meet you.”
    She turned to the wall. “Would you like to watch me paint?”
    “I need to speak to your father.”
    She dipped her brush into a yellow the color of the sun. I watched as she slowly traced the tip of it across the wall— a feather-light stroke like the kiss of an afternoon breeze.
    I flexed my fingers and my knuckles crackled. “How soon until your father arrives?”
    She laughed and began her tune again, humming this time.
    It does not matter. I could remain here all afternoon.
    I shook off the strange thought, then occupied my mind with the tasks yet remaining to me today. I recited them, counting them off as my anxiety built. I shifted positions, drummed my fingers on the bench, cleared my throat. And still she painted. And hummed.
    Not surprisingly, it was flowers she painted. On a base of white with a waist-high border of yellow, she painted a riot of lotus flowers, their pink petals bursting open around a yellow center.
    “Why are you painting the wall?” I finally asked.
    She flung a glance at me over her shoulder, her eyes hidden beneath long lashes. “Why not?”
    “Because it produces nothing.” I rested an ankle on my knee and jiggled my foot.
    She was silent for a moment, her brush outlining a fuchsia petal. “It produces beauty,” she said. “And beauty brings forth something from our souls.”
    I shrugged. “I am a builder.”
    “Yes,” she said. “Yes, you are.” There seemed to be a note of sadness in her voice that I did not understand.
    “There is beauty in more than flowers,” I said. “Even in stone.”
    She paused, brush in the air, and studied me. “Tell me about your beauty in stone.”
    I turned my eyes toward the north, as though I could see through the wall, all the way to my pyramid. “It took me an entire year to design it, chart it, choose the site, calculate the artists and laborers needed and the stones and supplies required.” I paused for a breath. “Then nearly three years to construct the harbor and canal and the housing, bakeries, and breweries for twenty thousand laborers.” I turned back to the girl, whose smile encouraged me to boast further. “And now, at last, we are building, creating a structure so precise, so perfect, the world will wonder at it.” I shrugged. “The intricacy of the design, the coordination of thousands of men working toward a single goal, the pyramid itself—is there not beauty in all of that?”
    She bowed her head. “My father speaks