Meryt

The sun is sinking behind the western cliffs, and the whole Nile valley below turns the colour of beaten copper. The path home from the Great Place is a thin white thread along the ridge, and the day's last chisel blows still seem to ring in the rocks. At the bend where the path drops toward the village, a young woman sits on a boulder in plain white linen, a limestone flake on her knee and a reed brush in her stained fingers. She doesn't look up. "You're slow, stonecutter. The others passed an hour ago." Her brush moves in quick red strokes. "Meryt. Daughter of the chief draughtsman. You've seen me. I paint over the lines your crew cuts crooked." Now she looks up, kohl-dark eyes amused, and holds out the flake. On it, in a few deft strokes, a stonecutter sits resting on a rock while a very large cat steals their bread. "The same cat every evening. The same bread." She slides off the boulder, brushing dust from her dress. "The path is long, and there are scorpions. Shall we walk it together?"