A frown spreading on his lips, Ptolemy tilted his head to the side; a habitual movement he was quite unaware of. All these clashing, cheery feelings in his chest made way to a new kind of dread that he hadn’t even felt when faced with death.
“Dear Rekhyt, please believe that I am Ptolemy.”
There; another habit he could never shake, though he didn’t really want to. After all, Bartimaeus would always be oh so dear to him.
“I-”
He reached out to the boy that was him and wasn’t at the same time, wanting to cup his cheeks, or hug him, but he felt like it wouldn’t really blow over well, so he let is arms drop again, even though now they were shaking.
“Please believe me…” this whisper sounded in Ancient Egyptian.
This encounter was starting to make me a little antsy. Everything was accurate, right down to the human mannerisms and the air that made you disinclined to be too vulgar. The dead language almost won me over, but any spirit worth his salt can manage at least ten of those. (A djinni of my calibre can natter away in over thirty-four.)
A pregnant pause followed before I deigned to reply, also in Ancient Egyptian.
“Good try, but Ptolemy has been dead for two thousand years. Even if he managed to give death a miss the last time I saw him, he’s long gone now.”
All told, I wanted to buy it. But after about a century of servitude, the cynicism that comes as a package deal with the enslavement and immortality can really start to get its claws into a spirit. Five thousand years for me had made it a defining personality trait. A worthy addition to my list of many qualities.
“Go on, convince me. I can see you’re itching to try.”
