In the meantime, here is the last paragraph of what I wrote this morning. My aim here is to write a fun and very commercial historical novel, and what fun commercial historical novel would be complete without a mystery that can only be solved by spying? Spying inside a royal palace? Spying via secret passageways?
Nehesi had described this passage as being the length of six men lying head to foot. Yet it seemed to take a season of blind groping to reach its end. When she drew near the passage’s terminus, Hatshepsut’s eyes became quietly, vaguely aware of a lesser blackness, a paling of the dark. She paused, strained her eyes wide open to be certain they were open at all, and stared at the colorless ghost of light. The longer she stared, the more certain she became. Here was a broken, inverse twin to what she had found in the servants’ hall: another stone door at the corridor’s end, its edges defined by the faintest trace of lamp light coming from within the lesser audience chamber.