The Pharaoh's Daughter (43 page)

Still holding her hand, Mered closed his eyes, his heart pounding like a
herd of Pharaoh's stallions.
El-Shaddai, give me the words to convince this woman we need each other.

When he opened his eyes, the woman before him was no longer Egypt's royalty in sheer linen. Her rough-spun robe covered the details of her form, and her sandy-brown eyes held compassion for his loss, giving him courage to say her name. “Anippe.” The sound of it on his lips made him brave. “I want you—I need you—to be my wife.”

She didn't laugh—that was promising—and she didn't remove her hands from his grasp. She did stop breathing, which was concerning. But it was her unbroken stare that grew awkward. He drew breath to explain more fully, but she broke the silence first.

“I think you should kill me instead.”

Miriam giggled, but Mered saw no humor in her words.

“Wait, I didn't mean—” Anippe's face burst into brilliant crimson. She'd evidently realized she'd placed death above a lifetime with him.

“Perhaps you're right,” he countered. “How shall we do it—sword, dagger?”

Mered tried to pull his hands from her grasp, but she tightened her hold. “I'm sorry. I'm honored you would ask me—especially when I know how you loved Puah. What I meant by my choosing death is that you would be safer, Mehy would be safer, Jochebed, Amram, Miriam—your lives could be normal if I were dead.”

He reached to brush her cheek, but she turned away, looking at Miriam before ducking her head. Miriam's presence as a friend had been essential to calm Anippe, but to embrace her as a wife, he must speak to her intimately.

“Miriam, please give us time alone.” He lifted his hand when the girl drew breath to refuse. “You can stand outside the curtain if you like, but I will speak with Anippe alone.”

When the curtain drew closed, he tilted Anippe's chin up, capturing the wide brown eyes he now examined freely. “None of our lives would be normal without you. We have shared a deep friendship, you and I, so we will enter this marriage truly honest. My heart still belongs to Puah, and your heart yearns for Mehy. Our marriage will be a ship in a storm. Let's sail together through grief's waters and see what waits beyond.”

Yes? I said yes?

Anippe watched Mered walk through Jochebed and Amram's doorway and heard him announce their marriage.

Miriam rushed in, concern etched on her features. “Are you all right? Are you sure about this? I'll be as close as our rooms at the villa—only a curtain separating us.”

Anippe nodded but felt numb. Would she ever be all right again? She surveyed the room and saw three ornate baskets, two partially finished.
That's right, Jochebed is skilled in basketry.
Dirt floors. Reed mats for sleeping that also served as movable dining space. A grinding stone and sieve. Well-worn baskets stacked with dried fruit, dried fish, and nuts.

“Just like the villa, Miriam.”

Jochebed drew back the curtain, and Anippe felt her cheeks flame. She'd taken this woman's son without conscience and then sent her back to the craftsmen's village. How long had it been since she'd seen Jochebed—since Jochebed had seen Mehy?

Jochebed's abiding peace entered the room with her. She cupped Anippe's
elbow and led her to a floor mat. “We must talk about your name, dear. We can no longer call you Amira, of course—or Anippe.”

Why must her life revolve around a name? “Call me anything you like. I was a decoy for the gods as Meryetaten-tasherit, adopted by Horemheb as Anippe, and I became Amira when I married. None of it mattered.”

“A name matters very much to El-Shaddai.” Jochebed rose from her mat and began rummaging through one of the ornate baskets. “Our God has even changed a person's name to represent the character within the soul. Now where is that … oh, here it is.” She produced Anippe's bronze mirror, holding it aloft. “Miriam brought this basket from the Gurob ship yesterday and planned to return it when she reported to your chamber this morning.” She returned to the reed mat and held the mirror up to Anippe. “Look at your face while I describe who I see. Then we can choose your name.”

Grudgingly—almost fearfully—Anippe peered into the polished bronze. A stranger stared back. Arched, brown brows perched over wide-set brown eyes ringed with thick black lashes. Her olive skin was dry in patches, needing an oil-and-salt scrub. Her lips, too, were chapped and pale, missing the familiar red ochre. The head covering rode high on her forehead, exposing thin patches of hair usually covered by her wig.

Jochebed patted her shoulder. “I see a Hebrew bride, lovely but frightened.”

“Lovely, no. Frightened, yes.” Anippe tried to rid herself of the mirror, but Jochebed pushed it back in place.

“All right then, dear. Tell me who you see in the mirror.”

With a defeated sigh, Anippe looked again, and this time saw Ankhe's reflection staring back. She squeezed her eyes shut as memories of last night assaulted her. If only she'd summoned Ankhe right after the feast. If only the guard hadn't followed Ankhe to the bathhouse. If only …

When she opened her eyes, Anippe saw her reflection again. The stark absence of paints and a wig made her feel naked, as bare as her life. “I'm no longer a sister. No longer an ummi. No longer a daughter.” Emotion closed her throat.

Gathering her into a warm embrace, Jochebed soothed her. “You've told
us who you aren't, but who will you become? As long as El-Shaddai gives us breath, we have reason to hope.”

Hope.
The word tortured Anippe. “I stole Ankhe's hope when I refused to make a marriage match for her.”

“That's not true.” Miriam grabbed Anippe's arm, startling her. “Hope can't be lost or stolen. Hope is a choice we embrace for ourselves each day.”

“But wasn't it your dream that warned me against Ankhe losing hope? Cain and Abel—if hope is gone, the brother becomes the sister?” Anippe's voice rose with each word, regret and sorrow warring.

Miriam released her arm and softened her gaze. “El-Shaddai spoke through that dream to warn you of danger, not to hold you responsible for Ankhe's choices. Please don't blame yourself because Ankhe
chose
to live in despair.”

Anippe clutched her middle, trying to squeeze the pain away. “I blame myself because Ankhe kept my secret—and now she's dead.”

“Blame and guilt serve no purpose,” Jochebed said, turning Anippe's chin toward her. “I'm sure you'll miss Ankhe in the days to come as we'll miss Puah, but make no mistake—El-Shaddai saved your life for a purpose. And we'll work with Him to protect you.”

Shame mingled with confusion, hushing Anippe's voice to a whisper. “Why? Why would your god save me?”

“Why did He save Moses?” Jochebed said, wonder in her tone. “Why does He save any of us from the slave master's lash? The plans of El-Shaddai are yet to be revealed.”

Miriam pointed to the dividing curtain and the growing chatter beyond. “The people in this household will become your family if you allow it, Anippe. You'll be an ummi, a sister, and a daughter again.”

“We're all daughters of El-Shaddai.” Jochebed said, patting her hand. “He spun every thread of our inner beings and wove us together in our mothers' wombs.” Her eyes suddenly went wide. “That's it. Your new name will be
Bithiah
, daughter of God.”

“Daughter of God?” Anippe whispered. The words pierced her. She'd been daughter of Akhenaten, sister of Tut, wife of Sebak, and again Pharaoh's
daughter—but never the daughter of this Hebrew God. “I can't. I'm not.” She sniffed back tears, afraid she'd ruin her kohl—“I'm not wearing kohl.” Startled at the new freedom, she looked again in the mirror and blinked, purposely sending a tear over the edge of her lashes.

Jochebed was delighted. “Yes, we Hebrews can cry all we want.”

Mered poked his head around the curtain. “Are you ready to meet my children? Jochebed, have you settled on her name and story?”

Anippe's heart skipped a beat. “What story?”

“Hurry, the boys are restless, and Amram is ready to give the wedding blessing.” Mered disappeared, and the curtain fell into place.

The wedding blessing.
Anippe felt as if she'd swallowed a boulder.

Miriam started toward the door. “I'll help Mered settle the children until you're ready to join us.” She offered Anippe a final glance over her shoulder. “Welcome home, Bithiah.”

Anippe's—Bithiah's—throat went dry as Jochebed began explaining. “Puah's death was a great loss to both Qantir and Avaris, but slaves aren't allowed a formal mourning period. It's understood that Hebrew men with children must remarry quickly to manage their households—though this marriage is a bit quicker than most.” She lifted a brow and added, “Many single women will want to know why they weren't considered in the choosing.”

“Oh.” Anippe covered her face. Had she traded the backbiting, competitive nobility for a nitpicking, clucking village?

“Miriam and I decided we can tell the others you came with her on the Gurob Harem ship—which is true. You were born in the king's household—also true—but you displeased him and have been exiled.”

“True but understated,” Anippe concluded.

“So, are you ready to become Bithiah?” Jochebed pushed herself to her feet and then extended a hand.

Anippe stared at it a moment, wondering if Mered's offer of death by sword or dagger was still available, and then accepted the help to stand. Still a bit woozy from her lack of food, she squared her shoulders and faced the dividing curtain. “I am Bithiah.”

Waiting on the other side of the curtain were Amram, Miriam, and
Mered's three older children—Jered, Ednah, and Heber. Miriam's brother, Aaron, held a newborn as did another woman. Had Puah delivered twins?

“Mered?” She whispered his name, this moment surreal.

Mered rushed toward her, gathering her hands in his. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

He smelled of ben-tree oil and honey. Her heart raced, her breathing labored.

When she didn't answer, he turned to those waiting. “My bride needs more rest—”

“No, it's all right.” She squeezed his hand, refusing to let go. “Please, I want to meet everyone.”

Panic shadowed Mered's features until Jochebed arrived at her left side. “I'll introduce Bithiah to my husband, Amram. Miriam knows Bithiah from their time together at Gurob. Our son, Aaron, married last year and lives in the long house with his wife's family. This is their firstborn, Nadab.”

Bithiah nodded to her old friends, each one pretending they'd just met.

Mered placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the only woman she didn't know. “This is Aaron's wife, Elisheba. Their son is only two weeks old, so she volunteered to nurse my son Jekuthiel. She'll keep him overnight until he's ready for goat's milk but will bring him back to you for care during the day—and, of course, stop over regularly for feedings.”

Elisheba glared at her suspiciously. “You won Mered's heart quickly, Bithiah. Many women in camp will be disappointed.”

Thankfully, Mered nudged her toward his older children before she had to reply. “And this is Jered. He's twelve. Ednah, ten. And Heber—”

“I'm 'dis many.” Heber held up four chubby fingers, and Bithiah's heart melted.

Kneeling before him, she said, “You are such a big, strong boy. Would you help me carry water in the morning, Heber?”

“Sorry, I can't. I help my mama carry water.”

The whole room gasped. Bithiah stood quickly. Her head swam, and Mered steadied her, whispering against her cheek. “It's all right. He forgot. He's a little boy. It will take time.”

She stood trembling while Mered reminded his son, “Heber, your mama Puah is resting in Sarah's bosom. She won't come home to draw water, remember? Bithiah will be your new mama.”

“She's not our mother,” Jered croaked. Anippe closed her eyes, refusing to see if it was puberty or grief that changed his voice.

Mered met Jered toe to toe, eye to eye, crimson creeping up his neck. “We all know that, and no one misses your mother more than I. But Ani … any … thing you could do to make Bithiah welcome would be appreciated.”

The near slip of Anippe's name doused Mered's anger—and left Jered confused. Mered returned to her side and cradled her hand. “Amram, we're ready for your blessing, my friend.”

Amram cleared his throat, unrolled a yellowed papyrus within its leather protective skin, and began reading. “A man must say of a woman, ‘She is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she is called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.' Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and holds fast to his wife, and they become one flesh. If this is your intention, Mered, son of Ezrah, I bless this marriage.”

Mered faced her, held both hands, and looked into her eyes. “You are Bithiah, daughter of God, bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh. I will hold fast to you above all others as we become one flesh.”

Bithiah … flesh of my flesh … hold fast to you.
The man before her was so familiar and yet a stranger. Her best friend, and yet she knew so little of his life. Mered needed her, wanted her, had promised to protect her.
As we become one flesh.
This moment was meant to be the most perfect in a woman's life—but it came in the wake of Anippe's most devastating life events. No words could describe her jumbled emotions, but somehow she felt safe looking into the eyes of a man she thoroughly trusted. Even if for only that moment, Bithiah was born into one flesh with another. The reflection of herself in Mered's eyes was enough.