“Then Rekh-marā’s him now?” said Jane at last.
“All that was good in Rekh-marā,” said the Psammead.
“He ought to have his heart’s desire, too,” said Anthea, in a sort of stubborn gentleness.
“His heart’s desire,” said the Psammead, “is the perfect Amulet you hold in your hand. Yes—and has been ever since he first saw the broken half of it.”
“We’ve got ours,” said Anthea softly.
“Yes,” said the Psammead—its voice was crosser than they had ever heard it—“your parents are coming home. And what’s to become of me? I shall be found out, and made a show of, and degraded in every possible way. I know they’ll make me go into Parliament—hateful place—all mud and no sand. That beautiful Baalbec temple in the desert! Plenty of good sand there, and no politics! I wish I were there, safe in the Past—that I do.”
“I wish you were,” said the learned gentleman absently, yet polite as ever.
The Psammead swelled itself up, turned its long snail’s eyes in one last lingering look at Anthea—a loving look, she always said, and thought—and—vanished.
“Well,” said Anthea, after a silence, “I suppose it’s happy. The only thing it ever did really care for was sand.”
“My dear children,” said the learned gentleman, “I must have fallen asleep. I’ve had the most extraordinary dream.”