For Rebecca Ross,

who fell in love with Egypt as I wrote the first draft,

who cheered me on, even as I reached dead ends,

and who swooned when Whit first walked across the page



A (BROAD) TIMELINE OF EGYPT



PRÓLOGO

Never say you know the last word about any human heart.—HENRY JAMES

AUGUST 1884

A letter changed my life.

I’d waited for it all day hidden in the old potter’s shed, away from Tía Lorena and her two daughters, one I loved and the other who didn’t love me. My hideout barely stood up straight, being old and rickety; one strong wind might blow the whole thing over. Golden afternoon light forced itself in through the smudged window. I furrowed my brow, tapping my pencil against my bottom lip, and tried not to think about my parents.

Their letter wouldn’t arrive for another hour yet.

If it was coming at all.

I glanced at the sketch pad propped against my knees and made myself more comfortable in the ancient porcelain bathtub. The remnants of old magic shrouded my frame, but barely. The spell had been cast long ago, and too many hands had handled the tub for me to be completely hidden. That was the trouble with most magic-touched things. Any traces of the original spell cast were faint, fading slowly anytime it passed hands. But that didn’t stop my father from collecting as many magically tainted objects as he could. The manor was filled with worn shoes that grew flowers from the soles, and mirrors that sang as you walked by them, and chests that spewed bubbles whenever opened.

Outside, my younger cousin, Elvira, hollered my name. The unladylike shrill would almost certainly displease Tía Lorena. She encouraged moderate tones, unless, of course, she was the one talking. Her voice could reach astonishing decibels.

Often aimed in my direction.

“Inez!” Elvira cried.

I was too much in a wretched mood for conversation.

I sank lower in the tub, the sound of my prima rustling outside the wooden building, yelling my name again as she searched the lush garden, under a bushy fern and behind the trunk of a lemon tree. But I kept quiet in case Elvira was with her older sister, Amaranta. My least favorite cousin who never had a stain on her gown or a curl out of place. Who never screeched or said anything in a shrill tone.

Through the slits of the wooden panels, I caught sight of Elvira trampling on innocent flowerbeds. I smothered a laugh when she stepped into a pot of lilies, yelling a curse I knew her mother also wouldn’t appreciate.

Moderate tones and no cursing.

I really ought to reveal myself before she sullied yet another pair of her delicate leather shoes. But until the mailman arrived, I wouldn’t be fit company for anyone.

Any minute he’d arrive with the post.

Today might finally be the day I’d have an answer from Mamá and Papá. Tía Lorena had wanted to take me into town, but I’d declined and stayed hidden all afternoon in case she forced me out of the house. My parents chose her and my two cousins to keep me company during their monthslong travels, and my aunt meant well, but sometimes her iron ways grated.

“Inez! ¿Dónde estás?” Elvira disappeared deeper into the garden, the sound of her voice getting lost between the palms.

I ignored her, my corset a lock around my rib cage, and clutched my pencil tighter. I squinted down at the illustration I’d finished. Mamá’s and Papá’s sketched faces stared up at me. I was a perfect blend of the two. I had my mother’s hazel eyes and freckles, her full lips and pointed chin. My father gave me his wild and curly black hair—now gone over to complete gray—and his tanned complexion, straight nose, and brows. He was older than Mamá, but he was the one who understood me the most.

Mamá was much harder to impress.

I hadn’t meant to draw them, hadn’t wanted to think of them at all. Because if I thought of them, I’d count the miles between us. If I thought of them, I’d remember they were a world away from where I sat hidden in a small corner of the manor grounds.

I’d remember they were in Egypt.

A country they adored, a place they called home for half the year. For as long as I could remember, their bags were always packed, their goodbyes as constant as the rising and setting of the sun. For seventeen years, I sent them off with a brave smile, but when their exploring eventually stretched into months, my smiles had turned brittle.

The trip was too dangerous for me, they said. The voyage long and arduous. For someone who had stayed in one place for most of her life, their yearly adventure sounded divine. Despite the troubles they’d faced, it never stopped them from buying another ticket on a steamship sailing from the port of Buenos Aires all the way to Alexandria. Mamá and Papá never invited me along.

Actually, they forbade me from going.

I flipped the sheet with a scowl and stared down at a blank page. My fingers clutched the pencil as I drew familiar lines and shapes of Egyptian hieroglyphs. I practiced the glyphs whenever I could, forcing myself to remember as many as I could and their closest phonetic values to the Roman alphabet. Papá knew hundreds and I wanted to keep up. He always asked me if I’d learned any new ones and I hated disappointing him. I devoured the various volumes from Description de L’Egypte and Florence Nightingale’s journals while traveling through Egypt, to Samuel Birch’s History of Egypt. I knew the names of the pharaohs from the New Kingdom by heart and could identify numerous Egyptian gods and goddesses.

I dropped the pencil in my lap when I finished, and idly twisted the golden ring around my littlest finger. Papá had sent it in his last package back in July with no note, only his name and return address in Cairo labeled on the box. That was so like him to forget. The ring glinted in the soft light, and I remembered the first time I’d slipped it on. The moment I touched it, my fingers had tingled, a burning current had raced up my arm, and my mouth had filled with the taste of roses.

An image of a woman walked across my vision, disappearing when I blinked. In that breathless moment, I’d felt a keen sense of longing, the emotion acute, as if it were me experiencing it.

Papá had sent me a magic-touched object.

It was baffling.

I never told a soul what he did or what had happened. Old world magic had transferred onto me. It was rare, but possible as long as the object hadn’t been handled too many times by different people.

Papá once explained it to me like this: long ago, before people built their cities, before they decided to root themselves to one area, past generations of Spellcasters from all around the world created magic with rare plants and hard-to-find ingredients. With every spell performed, the magic gave up a spark, an otherworldly energy that was quite literally heavy. As a result, it would latch on to surrounding objects, leaving behind an imprint of the spell.

A natural byproduct of performing magic.

But no one performed it anymore. The people with the knowledge to create spells were long gone. Everyone knew it was dangerous to write magic down, and so their methods were taught orally. But even this tradition became a dead art, and so civilizations had to embrace man-made things.

Ancient practices were forgotten.

But all that created magic, that intangible something, had already gone somewhere. That magical energy had been sinking deep into the ground, or drowning itself in deep lakes and oceans. It clung to objects, the ordinary and obscure, and sometimes transferred whenever it first came into contact with something, or someone, else. Magic had a mind of its own, and no one knew why it leapfrogged, or clung to one object or person, but not the other. Regardless, every time a transfer happened, the spell weakened in minuscule degrees until it finally disappeared. Understandably, people hated picking up or buying random things that might hold old magic. Imagine getting ahold of a teapot that brewed envy or conjured up a prickly ghost.

Countless artifacts were destroyed or hidden by organizations specializing in magic tracing, and large quantities were buried and lost and mostly forgotten.

Much like the names of generations long past, or of the original creators of magic themselves. Who they were, how they lived, and what they did. They left all this magic behind—not unlike hidden treasures—most of which hadn’t been handled all that often.

Mamá was the daughter of a rancher from Bolivia, and in her small pueblo, she once told me, the magia was closer to the surface, easier to find. Trapped in plaster or worn leather sandals, an old sombrero. It had thrilled her, the remnants of a powerful spell now caught up in the ordinary. She loved the idea of her town descending from generations of talented Spellcasters.

I flipped the page of my sketchbook and started again, trying not to think about The Last Letter I’d sent to them. I’d written the greeting in shaky hieratic—cursive hieroglyphic writing—and then asked them again to please let me come to Egypt. I had asked this same question in countless different ways, but the answer was always the same.

No, no, no.

But maybe this time, the answer would be different. Their letter might arrive soon, that day, and maybe, just maybe, it would have the one word I was looking for.

Yes, Inez, you may finally come to the country where we live half our lives away from you. Yes, Inez, you can finally see what we do in the desert, and why we love it so much—more than spending time with you. Yes, Inez, you’ll finally understand why we leave you, again and again, and why the answer has always been no.

Yes, yes, yes.

“Inez,” cousin Elvira yelled again, and I startled. I hadn’t realized she’d drawn closer to my hiding place. The magic clinging to the old tub might obscure my frame from afar but if she got close enough, she’d see me easily. This time her voice rose and I noted the hint of panic. “You’ve a letter!”

I snapped my face away from my sketch pad and sat up with a jerk.

Finalmente.

I tucked the pencil behind my ear, and climbed out of the tub. Swinging the heavy wooden door open a crack, I peered through, a sheepish smile on my face. Elvira stood not ten paces from me. Thankfully, Amaranta was nowhere in sight. She’d cringe at the state of my wrinkled skirt and report my heinous crime to her mother.

“Hola, prima!” I screamed.

Elvira shrieked, jumping a foot. She rolled her eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Only in front of you.” I glanced down at her empty hands, looking for the missive. “Where is it?”

“My mother bid me to come fetch you. That’s all I know.”

We set off the cobbled path leading up to the main house, our arms linked. I walked briskly as was my norm. I never understood my cousin’s slow amble. What was the point in not reaching where you wanted to go quickly? Elvira hastened her step, following at my heels. It was an accurate picture of our relationship. She was forever trying to tag along. If I liked the color yellow, then she declared it the prettiest shade on earth. If I wanted carne asada for dinner, then she was already sharpening the knives.

“The letter won’t suddenly disappear,” Elvira said with a laugh, tossing her dark brown hair. Her eyes were warm, her full mouth stretched into a wide grin. We favored each other in appearances, except for our eyes. Hers were greener than my ever-changing hazel ones. “My mother said it was postmarked from Cairo.”

My heart stuttered.

I hadn’t told my cousin about The Last Letter. She wouldn’t be happy about my wanting to join Mamá and Papá. Neither of my cousins nor my aunt understood my parents’ decision to disappear for half the year to Egypt. My aunt and cousins loved Buenos Aires, a glamorous city with its European-style architecture and wide avenues and cafés. My father’s side of the family hailed from Spain originally, and they came to Argentina nearly a hundred years ago, surviving a harrowing journey but ultimately making a success in the railroad industry.

Their marriage was a match built on combining Mamá’s good name and Papá’s great wealth, but it bloomed into mutual admiration and respect over the years, and by the time of my birth, into deep love. Papá never got the large family he wanted, but my parents often liked to say that they had their hands full with me anyway.

Though I’m not precisely sure how they did when they were gone so much.

The house came into view, beautiful and expansive with white stones and large windows, the style ornate and elegant, reminiscent of a Parisian manor. A gilded iron fence caged us in, obscuring views of the neighborhood. When I was little, I used to hoist myself up to the top bar of the gate, hoping for a glimpse of the ocean. It remained forever out of sight, and I had to content myself with exploring the gardens.

But the letter might change everything.

Yes or no. Was I staying or leaving? Every step I took toward the house might be one step closer to a different country. Another world.

A seat at the table with my parents.

“There you are,” Tía Lorena said from the patio door. Amaranta stood next to her, a thick, leather-bound tome in one hand. The Odyssey. An intriguing choice. If I recalled correctly, the last classic she tried to read had bitten her finger. Blood had stained the pages and the magic-touched book escaped out the window, never to be seen again. Though sometimes I still heard yips and growls coming from the sunflower beds.

My cousin’s mint-green gown ruffled in the warm breeze, but even so, not a single hair dared to escape her pulled-back hairstyle. She was everything my mother wanted me to be. Her dark eyes stole over mine, and her lips twitched in disapproval when she took in my stained fingers. Charcoal pencils always left their mark, like soot.

“Reading again?” Elvira asked her sister.

Amaranta’s attention flickered to Elvira, and her expression softened. She reached forward and linked arms with her. “It’s a fascinating tale; I wish you would have stayed with me. I would have read my favorite parts to you.”

She never used that sweet tone with me.

“Where have you been? Never mind,” Tía Lorena said as I began to answer. “Your dress is dirty, did you know?”

The yellow linen bore wrinkles and frightful stains, but it was one of my favorites. The design allowed me to dress without the help of a maid. I’d secretly ordered several garments with buttons easy to access, which Tía Lorena detested. She thought it made the gowns scandalous. My poor aunt tried her hardest to keep me looking presentable but unfortunately for her, I had a singular ability to ruin hemlines and crush ruffles. I did love my dresses, but did they have to be so delicate?

I noticed her empty hands and smothered a flare of impatience. “I was in the garden.”

Elvira tightened her hold on my arm with her free one, and rushed to my defense. “She was practicing her art, Mamá, that’s all.”

My aunt and Elvira loved my illustrations (Amaranta said they were too juvenile), and always made sure I had enough supplies to paint and sketch. Tía Lorena thought I was talented enough to sell my work in the many galleries popping up in the city. She and my mother had quite the life planned out for me. Along with the lessons from countless tutors in the artistic sphere, I had been schooled in French and English, the general sciences, and histories, with a particular emphasis, of course, on Egypt.

Papá made sure I read the same books on that subject as he did, and also that I read his favorite plays. Shakespeare was a particular favorite of his, and we quoted the lines to each other back and forth, a game only we knew how to win. Sometimes we put on performances for the staff, using the ballroom as our own home theater. Since he was a patron of the opera house, he constantly received a steady supply of costumes and wigs and theater makeup, and some of my favorite memories were of us trying on new ensembles, planning for our next show.

My aunt’s face cleared. “Well, come along, Inez. You have a visitor.”

I shot a questioning look at Elvira. “I thought you said I had a letter?”

“Your visitor has brought a letter from your parents,” Tía Lorena clarified. “He must have run into them during his travels. I can’t think of who else might be writing to you. Unless there’s a secret caballero I don’t know about…” She raised her brows expectantly.

“You ran off the last two.”

“Miscreants, the both of them. Neither could identify a salad fork.”

“I don’t know why you bother rounding them up,” I said. “Mamá has her mind made up. She thinks Ernesto would make me a suitable husband.”

Tía Lorena’s lips turned downward. “There’s nothing wrong with having options.”

I stared at her in amusement. My aunt would oppose a prince if my mother suggested it. They’d never gotten along. Both were too headstrong, too opinionated. Sometimes I thought my aunt was the reason my mother chose to leave me behind. She couldn’t stand sharing space with my father’s sister.

“I’m sure his family’s wealth is a point in his favor,” Amaranta said in her dry voice. I recognized that tone. She resented being married off, more than I did. “That’s the most important thing, correct?”

Her mother glared at her eldest daughter. “It is not, just because…”

I tuned out the rest of the conversation, closed my eyes, my breath lodged at the back of my throat. My parents’ letter was here, and I’d finally have an answer. Tonight I could be planning my wardrobe, packing my trunks, maybe even convincing Elvira to accompany me on the long journey. I opened my eyes in time to catch the little line appear between my cousin’s eyebrows.

“I’ve been waiting to hear from them,” I explained.

She frowned. “Aren’t you always waiting to hear from them?”

A fantastic point. “I asked them if I could join them in Egypt,” I admitted, darting a nervous glance toward my aunt.

“But … but, why?” Tía Lorena sputtered.

I linked my arms through Elvira’s and propelled us into the house. We were charmingly grouped, traversing the long stretch of the tiled hall, the three of us arm in arm, my aunt leading us like a tour guide.

The house boasted nine bedrooms, a breakfast parlor, two living rooms, and a kitchen rivaling that of the most elegant hotel in the city. We even had a smoking room but ever since Papá had purchased a pair of armchairs that could fly, no one had been inside. They caused terrible damage, crashing into the walls, smashing the mirrors, poking holes into the paintings. To this day, my father still lamented the loss of his two-hundred-year-old whiskey trapped in the bar cabinet.

“Because she’s Inez,” Amaranta said. “Too good for indoor activities like sewing or knitting, or any other task for respectable ladies.” She slanted a glare in my direction. “Your curiosity will get you in trouble one day.”

I dropped my chin, stung. I wasn’t above sewing or knitting. I disliked doing either because I was so terribly wretched at them.

“This is about your cumpleaños,” Elvira said. “It must be. You’re hurt that they won’t be here, and I understand. I do, Inez. But they’ll come back, and we’ll have a grand dinner to celebrate and invite all the handsome boys living in the barrio, including Ernesto.”

She was partly right. My parents were going to miss my nineteenth. Another year without them as I blew out the candles.

“Your uncle is a terrible influence on Cayo,” Tía Lorena said with a sniff. “I cannot comprehend why my brother funds so many of Ricardo’s outlandish schemes. Cleopatra’s tomb, for heaven’s sake.”

“¿Qué?” I asked.

Even Amaranta appeared startled. Her lips parted in surprise. We were both avid readers, but I was unaware that she had read any of my books on ancient Egypt.

Tía Lorena’s face colored slightly, and she nervously tucked an errant strand of brown hair shot with silver behind her ear. “Ricardo’s latest pursuit. Something silly I overheard Cayo discussing with his lawyer, that’s all.”

“About Cleopatra’s tomb?” I pressed. “And what do you mean by fund, exactly?”

“Who on earth is Cleopatra?” Elvira said. “And why couldn’t you have named me something like that, Mamá? Much more romantic. Instead, I got Elvira.”

“For the last time, Elvira is stately. Elegant and appropriate. Just like Amaranta.”

“Cleopatra was the last pharaoh of Egypt,” I explained. “Papá talked of nothing else when they were here last.”

Elvira furrowed her brow. “Pharaohs could be … women?”

I nodded. “Egyptians were quite progressive. Though, technically, Cleopatra wasn’t actually Egyptian. She was Greek. Still, they were ahead of our time, if you ask me.”

Amaranta shot me a disapproving look. “No one did.”

But I ignored her and glanced pointedly at my aunt, raising my brow. Curiosity burned up my throat. “What else do you know?”

“I don’t have any more details,” Tía Lorena said.

“It sounds like you do,” I said.

Elvira leaned forward and swung her head around so that she could look at her mother across from me. “I want to know this, too, actually—”

“Well, of course you do. You’ll do whatever Inez says or wants,” my aunt muttered, exasperated. “What did I say about nosy ladies who can’t mind their own business? Amaranta never gives me this much trouble.”

“You were the one eavesdropping,” Elvira said. Then she turned to me, an eager smile on her lips. “Do you think your parents sent a package with the letter?”

My heart quickened as my sandals slapped against the tile floor. Their last letter came with a box filled with beautiful things, and in the minutes that it took to unpack everything, some of my resentment had drifted away as I stared at the bounty. Gorgeous yellow slippers with golden tassels, a rose-colored silk dress with delicate embroidery, and a whimsical outer robe in a riot of colors: mulberry, olive, peach, and a pale sea green. And that wasn’t all; at the bottom of the box I had found copper drinking cups and a trinket dish made of ebony inlaid with pearl.

I cherished every gift, every letter they mailed to me, even though it was half of what I sent to them. It didn’t matter. A part of me understood that it was as much as I’d ever get from them. They’d chosen Egypt, had given themselves heart, body, and soul. I had learned to live with whatever was left over, even if it felt like heavy rocks in my stomach.

I was about to answer Elvira’s question, but we rounded the corner and I stopped abruptly, my reply forgotten.

An older gentleman with graying hair and deep lines carved across the brow of his brown face waited by the front door. He was a stranger to me. My entire focus narrowed down to the letter clamped in the visitor’s wrinkled hands.

I broke free from my aunt and cousins and walked quickly toward him, my heart fluttering wildly in my ribs, as if it were a bird yearning for freedom. This was it. The reply I’d been waiting for.

“Señorita Olivera,” the man said in a deep baritone. “I’m Rudolpho Sanchez, your parents’ solicitor.”

The words didn’t register. My hands had already snatched the envelope. With trembling fingers, I flipped it over, bracing myself for their answer. I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the opposite side. I flipped the note again, studying the strawberry-colored wax sealing the flap. It had the tiniest beetle—no, scarab—in the middle, along with words too distorted to be called legible.

“What are you waiting for? Do you need me to read it for you?” Elvira asked, looking over my shoulder.

I ignored her and hastily opened the envelope, my eyes darting to the smeared lettering. Someone must have gotten the paper wet, but I barely noticed because I finally realized what I was reading. The words swam across the paper as my vision blurred. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe, and the room had turned frigid.

Elvira let out a sharp gasp near my ear. A cold shiver skipped down my spine, an icy finger of dread.

“Well?” Tía Lorena prodded with an uneasy glance at the solicitor.

My tongue swelled in my mouth. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to speak, but when I did, my voice was hoarse, as if I’d been screaming for hours.

“My parents are dead.”



PART ONEA WORLD AWAY



CAPÍTULO UNO

NOVEMBER 1884

For God’s sake, I couldn’t wait to get off this infernal ship.

I peered out the round window of my cabin, my fingers pressed against the glass as if I were a child swooning outside a bakery window craving alfajores and a vat of dulce de leche. Not one cloud hung in the azure sky over Alexandria’s port. A long wooden deck stretched out to meet the ship, a hand in greeting. The disembarking plank had been extended, and several of the crew swept in and out of the belly of the steamship, carrying leather trunks and round hatboxes and wooden crates.

I had made it to Africa.

After a month of traveling by boat, traversing miles of moody ocean currents, I’d arrived. Several pounds lighter—the sea hated me—and after countless nights of tossing and turning, crying into my pillow, and playing the same card games with my fellow travelers, I was really here.

Egypt.

The country where my parents had lived for seventeen years.

The country where they died.

I nervously twisted the golden ring. It hadn’t come off my finger in months. Bringing it felt like I’d invited my parents with me on the journey. I thought I’d feel their presence the minute I locked eyes with the coast. A profound sense of connection.

But it never came. It still hadn’t.

Impatience pushed me away from the window, forced me to pace, my arms flapping wildly. Up and down I walked, covering nearly every inch of my stately room. Nervous energy circled around me like a whirlwind. I shoved my packed trunks out of the way with my booted foot to clear a wider path. My silk purse rested on the narrow bed, and as I marched past, I pulled it toward me to grab my uncle’s letter once more.

The second sentence still killed me, still made my eyes burn. But I forced myself to read the whole thing. The subtle rocking of the ship made it hard, but despite the sudden lurch in my stomach, I gripped his note and reread it for the hundredth time, careful not to accidentally tear the paper in half.

July 1884

My dear Inez,

I hardly know where to begin, or how to write of what I must. Your parents went missing in the desert and have been presumed dead. We searched for weeks and found no trace of them.

I’m sorry. More sorry than I’ll ever be able to express. Please know that I am your servant and should you need anything, I’m only a letter away. I think it’s best you hold their funeral in Buenos Aires without delay, so that you may visit them whenever you wish. Knowing my sister, I have no doubt her spirit is back with you in the land of her birth.

As I’ve no doubt you are aware, I’m now your guardian, and administrator of the estate and your inheritance. Since you are eighteen, and by all accounts a bright young woman, I have sent a letter to the national bank of Argentina granting my permission for you to withdraw funds as you need them—within reason.

Only you, and myself, will have access to the money, Inez.

Be very careful with whom you trust. I took the liberty of informing the family solicitor of the present circumstances and I urge you to go to him should you need anything immediate. If I may, I recommend hiring a steward to oversee the household so that you may have time and space to grieve this terrible loss. Forgive me for this news, and I truly lament I can’t be there with you to share your grief.

Please send word if you need anything from me.

Your uncle,

Ricardo Marqués

I slumped onto the bed and flopped backward with unladylike abandon, hearing Tía Lorena’s admonishing tone ringing in my ear. A lady must always be a lady, even when no one is watching. That means no slouching or cursing, Inez. I shut my eyes, pushing away the guilt I’d felt ever since leaving the estate. It was a hardy companion, and no matter how far I traveled, it couldn’t be squashed or smothered. Neither Tía Lorena nor my cousins had known of my plans to abandon Argentina. I could imagine their faces as they read the note I’d left behind in my bedroom.

My uncle’s letter had shattered my heart. I’m sure mine had broken theirs.

No chaperone. Barely nineteen—I’d celebrated in my bedroom by crying inconsolably until Amaranta knocked against the wall loudly—voyaging on my own without a guide or any experience, or even a personal maid to handle the more troublesome aspects of my wardrobe. I’d really done it now. But that didn’t matter. I was here to learn the details surrounding my parents’ disappearance. I was here to learn why my uncle hadn’t protected them, and why they had been out in the desert alone. My father was absentminded, true, but he knew better than to take my mother out for an adventure without necessary supplies.

I pulled at my bottom lip with my teeth. That wasn’t quite true, however. He could be thoughtless, especially when rushing from one place to another. Regardless, there were gaps in what I knew, and I hated the unanswered questions. They were an open door I wanted to close behind me.

I hoped my plan would work.

Traveling alone was an education. I discovered I didn’t like to eat alone, reading on boats made me ill, and I was terrible at cards. But I learned that I had a knack for making friends. Most of them were older couples, voyaging to Egypt because of the agreeable climate. At first, they balked at my being alone, but I was prepared for that.

I pretended to be a widow and had dressed accordingly.

My backstory grew more elaborate with each passing day. Married off far too young to an older caballero who could have been my grandfather. By the first week, I had most of the women’s sympathy, and the gentlemen approved of my desire to widen my horizons by vacationing abroad.

I glanced at the window and scowled. With an impatient shake of my head, I pulled my cabin door open and peered up and down the corridor. Still no progress on disembarking. I shut the door and resumed pacing.

My thoughts turned to my uncle.

I’d mailed a hastily written letter to him after purchasing my ticket. No doubt he waited for me on the dock, impatient to see me. In a matter of hours, we’d be reunited after ten years. A decade without speaking. Oh, I had included drawings to him in my letters to my parents every now and then, but I was only being polite. Besides, he never sent anything to me. Not one letter or birthday card or some small trinket tucked into my parents’ luggage. We were strangers, family in name and blood only. I barely remembered his visit to Buenos Aires, but that didn’t matter because my mother had made sure I never forgot her favorite brother, never mind that he was the only one she had.

Mamá and Papá were fantastic storytellers, spinning words into tales, creating woven masterpieces that were immersive and unforgettable. Tío Ricardo seemed larger than life. A mountain of a man, always carting around books, and adjusting his thin, wire-framed glasses, his hazel eyes pinned to the horizon, and wearing down yet another pair of boots. He was tall and brawny, at odds with his academic passions and scholarly pursuits. He thrived in academia, quite at home in a library, but was scrappy enough to survive a bar fight.

Not that I personally knew anything about bar fights or how to survive them.

My uncle lived for archaeology, his obsession beginning at Quilmes in northern Argentina, digging with the crew and wielding a shovel when he was my age. After he’d learned all that he could, he left for Egypt. It was here he fell in love and married an Egyptian woman named Zazi, but after only three years together, she and their infant daughter died during childbirth. He never remarried or came back to Argentina, except for that one visit. What I didn’t understand was what he actually did. Was he a treasure hunter? A student of Egyptian history? A lover of sand and blistering days out in the sun?

Maybe he was a little of everything.

All I really had was this letter. Twice he wrote that if I ever needed anything, I only had to let him know.

Well, I did need something, Tío Ricardo.

Answers.

* * *

Tío Ricardo was late.

I stood on the dock, my nose full of briny sea air. Overhead, the sun bore down in a fiery assault, the heat snatching my breath. My pocket watch told me I’d been waiting for two hours. My trunks were piled precariously next to me as I searched for a face that closely resembled my mother’s. Mamá told me her brother’s beard had gotten out of hand, bushy and streaked with gray, too long for polite society.

People crowded around me, having just disembarked, chattering loudly, excited to be in the land of majestic pyramids and the great Nile River bisecting Egypt. But I felt none of it, too focused on my sore feet, too worried about my situation.

A fissure of panic curled around my edges.

I couldn’t stay out here much longer. The temperature was turning cool as the sun marched across the sky, the breeze coming from the water had teeth to it, and I still had miles to go yet. From what I could remember, my parents would board a train in Alexandria, and around four hours later, they’d reach Cairo. From there they’d hire transport to Shepheard’s Hotel.

My gaze dropped to my luggage. I contemplated what I could and couldn’t leave behind. Lamentably, I wasn’t strong enough to carry everything with me. Perhaps I could find someone to help, but I didn’t know the language beyond a few conversational phrases, none of which amounted to Hello, can you please assist me with all of my belongings?

Sweat beaded at my hairline, and nervous energy made me fidget needlessly. My navy traveling dress had several layers to it, along with a double-breasted jacket, and it felt like an iron fist around my rib cage. I dared to unbutton my jacket, knowing my mother would have borne her worry in quiet fortitude. The noise around me rose: people chattering, greeting family and friends, the sound of the sea crashing against the coast, the ship’s horn blaring. Through the cacophony of sounds, someone called my name.

The voice cut through the pandemonium, a deep baritone.

A young man approached in long, easy strides. He came to a stop in front of me, his hands deep in his khaki pockets, giving an air of someone who’d been strolling along the dock, admiring the view of the sea and probably whistling. His pale blue shirt was tucked and slightly wrinkled underneath leather-edged suspenders. The man’s boots laced up to midcalf, and I could tell they’d traversed miles, and they were dusty, the once brown leather turned gray.

The stranger met my gaze, the lines flanking his mouth drawn tight. His posture was loose, his manner carefree, but with more careful observation, I noted the tension he carried in his clenched jaw. Something bothered him, but he didn’t want anyone to see.

I catalogued the rest of his features. An aristocratic nose that sat under straight brows and blue eyes the same color as his shirt. Full lips featuring a perfect bow that stretched into a crooked smile, a counterpoint to the sharp line of his jaw. His hair was thick and tousled, walking the line between red and brown. He impatiently brushed it aside.

“Hello, are you Señorita Olivera? The niece of Ricardo Marqués?”

“You’ve found her,” I replied back in English. His breath smelled faintly of hard liquor. I wrinkled my nose.

“Thank God,” he said. “You’re the fourth woman I’ve asked.” His attention dropped to my trunks and he let out a low whistle. “I sincerely hope you remembered everything.”

He didn’t sound remotely sincere.

I narrowed my gaze. “And who are you, exactly?”

“I work for your uncle.”

I glanced behind him, hoping to catch sight of my mysterious relative. No one resembling my uncle stood anywhere near us. “I expected him to meet me here.”

He shook his head. “Afraid not.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Realization dawned and my blood rushed to my cheeks. Tío Ricardo hadn’t bothered to show up himself. His only niece who had traveled for weeks and survived the repeated offenses of seasickness. He had sent a stranger to welcome me.

A stranger who was late.

And, as his accent registered, British.

I gestured to the crumbled buildings, the piles of jagged stone, the builders trying to put the port back together after what Britain had done. “The work of your countrymen. I suppose you’re proud of their triumph,” I added bitterly.

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“You’re English,” I said flatly.

He quirked a brow.

“The accent,” I explained.

“Correct,” he said, the lines at the corner of his mouth deepening. “Do you always presume to know the mind and sentiments of a total stranger?”

“Why isn’t my uncle here?” I countered.

The young man shrugged. “He had a meeting with an antiquities officer. Couldn’t be delayed, but he did send his regrets.”

I tried to keep the sarcasm from staining my words but failed. “Oh, well as long as he sent his regrets. Though, he might have had the decency to send them on time.”

The man’s lips twitched. His hand glided through his thick hair, once again pushing the tousled mess off his forehead. The gesture made him look boyish, but only for a fleeting moment. His shoulders were too broad, his hands too calloused and rough to detract from his ruffian appearance. He seemed like the sort to survive a bar fight.

“Well, not all is lost,” he said, gesturing toward my belongings. “You now have me at your service.”

“Kind of you,” I said begrudgingly, not quite over the disappointment of my uncle’s absence. Didn’t he want to see me?

“I am nothing of the sort,” he said lazily. “Shall we be off? I have a carriage waiting.”

“Will we be heading straight to the hotel? Shepheard’s, isn’t it? That’s where they”—my voice cracked—“always stayed.”

The stranger’s expression adjusted to something more carefully neutral. I noticed his eyes were a trifle red-rimmed, but heavily lashed. “Actually, it’s just me returning to Cairo. I’ve booked you a return passage home on the steamship you just vacated.”

I blinked, sure I’d misheard. “¿Perdón?”

“That’s why I was late. There was a beastly line at the ticket office.” At my blank stare he hurriedly pressed on. “I’m here to see you off,” he said, and he sounded almost kind. Or he would have if he also wasn’t trying to appear stern. “And to make sure you’re on board before departure.”

Each word landed between us in unforgiving thuds. I couldn’t fathom the meaning of them. Perhaps I had seawater in my ears. “No te entiendo.”

“Your uncle,” he began slowly, as if I were five years old, “would like for you to return to Argentina. I have a ticket with your name on it.”

But I’d only just arrived. How could he send me away so soon? My confusion simmered until it boiled over into anger. “Miércoles.”

The stranger tilted his head and smiled at me in bemusement. “Doesn’t that mean Wednesday?”

I nodded. In Spanish it sounded close to mierda, a curse word I was not allowed to say. Mamá made my father use it around me.

“Well, we ought to get you all settled,” he said, rummaging around his pockets. He pulled out a creased ticket and handed it to me. “No need to pay me back.”

“No need to…” I began dumbly, shaking my head to clear my thoughts. “You never told me your name.” Another realization dawned. “You understand Spanish.”

“I said I worked for your uncle, didn’t I?” His smile returned, charmingly boyish and at odds with his brawny frame. He looked like he could murder me with a spoon.

I was decidedly not charmed.

“Well then,” I said in Spanish. “You’ll understand when I tell you that I won’t be leaving Egypt. If we’re going to be traveling together, I ought to know your name.”

“You’re getting back onto the boat in the next ten minutes. A formal introduction hardly seems worth it.”

“Ah,” I said coldly. “It looks like you don’t understand Spanish after all. I’m not getting on that boat.”

The stranger never dropped his grin, baring his teeth. “Please don’t make me force you.”

My blood froze. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you don’t think so? I’m feeling quite triumphant,” he said, voice dripping in disdain. He took a step forward and reached for me, his fingers managing to brush against my jacket before I twisted out of reach.

“Touch me again and I’ll scream. They’ll hear me in Europe, I swear.”

“I believe you.” He pivoted away from me and walked off, heading to an area where a dozen empty carts waited to be used. He rolled one of them back, and then proceeded to stack my trunks—without my say-so. For a man who’d clearly been drinking, he moved with a lazy grace that reminded me of an indolent cat. He handled my luggage as if it were empty and not filled with a dozen sketch pads, several blank journals, and brand-new paints. Not to mention clothing and shoes to last me several weeks.

Tourists dressed in feathered hats and expensive leather shoes surrounded us, regarding us curiously. It occurred to me that they might have observed the tension between myself and this annoying stranger.

He glanced back at me, arching an auburn brow.

I didn’t stop him because it would be easier to move my things on that cart but when he hauled all of my belongings out onto the dock, heading straight for the embarking line, I opened my mouth and yelled, “Ladrón! Thief! Help! He’s stealing my things!”

The well-dressed tourists glanced at me in alarm, shuffling their children away from the spectacle. I gaped at them, hoping one of them would assist me by tackling the stranger to the ground.

No such help came.



CAPÍTULO DOS

I glared after him, his laughter trailing behind him like a mischievous ghost. Prickly annoyance flared up and down my body. The stranger had everything except for my purse, which contained my Egyptian money, several handfuls of bills and piastres I’d found after scouring the manor, and Argentinian gold pesos for emergencies. Which, I suppose, was the most important thing. I could try to pry the cart away from him, but I strongly suspected his brute strength would prevent any real success. That was frustrating.

I considered my options.

There weren’t many.

I could follow him meekly back onto the ship where Argentina waited for me on the other end of the journey. But what would it be like without my parents? True, they spent half the year away from me, but I always looked forward to their arrival. The months with them were wonderful, day trips to various archaeological sites, museum tours, and late-night conversations over books and art. Mamá was strict but she doted on me, allowed me to pursue my hobbies with abandon, and she never stifled my creativity. Her life had always been structured, and while she made sure I was well brought up, she gave me freedom to read what I wanted and to speak my mind and to draw whatever I wished.

Papá, too, encouraged me to study widely, with a concentration in ancient Egypt, and we’d loudly discuss what I learned at the dinner table. My aunt preferred me quiet and docile and obedient. If I went back, I could predict what my life would look like, down to the hour. Mornings were for lessons in running an estate, followed by lunch and then tea—the social event of the day—and back home for visits with various suitors over dinner. It wasn’t a bad life, but it wasn’t the life I wanted.

I wanted one with my parents.

My parents.

Tears threatened to slide down my cheeks, but I squeezed my eyes and took several calming breaths. This was my chance. I’d made it to Egypt on my own, despite everything. No other country had fascinated my parents, no other city felt like a second home to them, and for all I knew, maybe Cairo was their home. More than Argentina.

More than me.

If I left, I’d never understand what brought them here, year after year. Never learn who they were so I wouldn’t forget about them. If I left, I’d never learn what happened to them. Curiosity burned a path straight to my heart, making it beat wildly.

More than anything, I wanted to know what was worth their lives.

If they thought of me at all. If they missed me.

The only person who had answers lived here. And for some reason, he wanted me gone. Dismissed. My hands curled into fists. I wouldn’t be forgotten again, tossed aside as if I were a second thought. I came here for a reason, and I was going to see it through. Even if it hurt, even if the discovery broke my heart.

No one and nothing was going to keep me from my parents again.

The stranger with my belongings strolled farther down the dock. He craned his neck over his shoulder, his blue eyes finding mine unerringly amid the swirling crowd. He jerked his chin in the direction of the boat, as if it were a foregone conclusion that I’d follow after him like an obedient lapdog.

No, sir.

I took a step back, and his lips parted in surprise. His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. He rolled my belongings a few inches forward, somehow not managing to hit the person in front of him waiting in line to board. The stranger with no name beckoned me with a crook of his finger.

A surprised laugh burst from my lips.

No, I mouthed.

Yes, he mouthed back.

He didn’t know me well enough to understand that once I’d made up my mind, there was no changing it. Mamá called it stubbornness, my tutors thought it a flaw. But I named it what it was: persistence. He seemed to recognize the decision on my face because he shook his head, alarm tightening the lines at the corners of his eyes. I spun around, melting into the crowd, not caring a fig about my things. Everything was replaceable, but this chance?

It was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity.

I snatched it with both hands.

The mass of people served as my guide, leading me away from the tugboats lining the docks. The stranger yelled, but I’d already skipped too far away to make out his words. Let him worry about my luggage. If he were a gentleman, he’d hardly leave them unguarded. And if he weren’t—but no, that didn’t quite fit. There was something in the way he carried himself. Confident, despite the irreverent grin. Put together, despite the alcohol on his breath.

He seemed aristocratic, born to tell others what to do.

Conversations broke out in different languages, surrounding me in every direction. Egyptian Arabic, English, French, Dutch, and even Portuguese. Egyptians dressed in tailored suits and tarbooshes skirted around all the tourists, hurrying to their places of business. My fellow travelers crossed the wide avenue, skirting around horse-drawn carriages and donkeys laden with canvas bags. I was careful not to step on any of the animal droppings adorning the street. The smell of expensive perfume and sweat wafted in the air. My stomach dropped at the sight of the crumbled buildings and piles of debris, a reminder of the British bombing two years earlier. I remembered reading how the damage had been extensive, especially at the citadel where some Egyptians had tried to defend Alexandria.

Seeing the battered port in person was far different from reading about it in print.

A crowd that’d come from the docks ventured to the large stone building adorned by four arches situated in front of a long train track that spanned outward for miles. The railway station. I clutched my purse and crossed the street, looking over my shoulder in case the stranger had decided to pursue me.

No sign of him, but I didn’t slow down. I had a feeling he wouldn’t let me go that easily.

Up ahead, a small group conversed in English. I spoke it much better than French. I followed the crowd into the station, sweat making my hair stick to the back of my neck. The square-shaped windows provided enough lighting to see the discord. Piles of luggage were scattered everywhere. Travelers shouted in confusion, calling to loved ones, or running to board the train, while others pushed carts filled with trunks teetering ominously. My pulse raced. I’d never seen so many people in one place, dressed in various degrees of elegance, from plumed hats to simple neckties. Scores of Egyptians dressed in long tunics offered to help with suitcases in exchange for tips.

With a start, I realized I’d lost the Englishman.

“Miércoles,” I muttered.

Rising on tiptoes, I frantically tried to sort through the masses. One person was wearing a tall hat—there. I skirted through the crowd, keeping a watchful eye, and they led me straight to the ticket office. Most of the signage was written in French, which of course I couldn’t read with ease. How was I supposed to buy a ticket to Cairo? My parents warned against speaking with strangers, but I clearly needed help.

I approached them, and broke one of Mamá’s rules.

* * *

I leaned back against the plush cushion and sniffed the stale air. A layer of dust coated everything from the seating to the storage shelves on top of the benches. The train had looked sleek from the outside; strong black lines adorned with a red and gold trim, but the interior hadn’t been updated in decades. I didn’t care. I would have traveled by donkey through the desert if it would have meant reaching Shepheard’s.

So far, I had the cabin to myself, despite scores of travelers climbing aboard, effendis heading to Cairo to conduct their business affairs, and tourists chattering madly in various languages.

The wooden door of my compartment slid open and a gentleman with a truly spectacular mustache and round cheeks stood in the entrance. His left hand gripped a leather briefcase, monogrammed in gold with the initials BS. He startled at the sight of me, and then smiled broadly, gallantly tipping his dark hat upward in a polite salute. An elegant gray ensemble with wide trouser legs and a crisp white Oxford shirt made up his attire. Judging by his polished leather shoes and smart tailoring, he was a man of means.

Despite the warmth of his gaze, a frisson of apprehension skipped up my spine. The journey to Cairo took about four hours. A long time to be enclosed in a small space with a man. Never in my life had I been in that situation. My poor aunt would bemoan the ding to my reputation. Traveling alone without a chaperone was scandalous. If anyone in polite society were ever to find out, there went my unsullied character.

“Good afternoon,” he said as he hauled his briefcase into one of the overhead compartments. “First time in Egypt?”

“Yes,” I said in English. “You’re from … England?”

He sat directly across from me, stretching his legs so that the tassels on his shoes brushed against my skirt. I shifted my knees toward the window.

“London.”

Another Englishman. I was surrounded. I’d encountered too many to count since disembarking. Soldiers and businessmen, politicians and merchants.

Tío Ricardo’s hired man intent on throwing me out of the country.

My companion looked to the closed door, no doubt waiting for someone else to join us, and when the door remained closed, he returned his attention to me. “Traveling alone?”

I squirmed, unsure of how to reply. He seemed harmless enough, and while I didn’t want to tell him the truth, he’d know it by the time the train pulled into Cairo.

“I am, actually.” I winced at the defensive note in my voice.

The Englishman studied me. “Forgive me, I mean no offense, but do you need assistance? I see you’re without a maid or chaperone. Quite unusual, I daresay.”

I’d have to continue wearing the mourning dress I’d worn for the majority of the trip in order to continue the charade. While I enjoyed the freedom it provided, I missed wearing my favorite colors, buttery yellow and olive green, periwinkle blue and soft lavender. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m mourning the death of my husband.”

His features softened. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Forgive my question, it was invasive.” A slight awkward pause followed, and I struggled with how to fill the silence. I didn’t know my way around Cairo, and any information or insight would be incredibly helpful. But it chafed me to give the impression that I was helpless.

“I lost my wife,” he said in a gentle voice.

Some of the tension stiffening my shoulders eased. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I have a daughter about your age,” he said. “My pride and joy.”

The train lurched forward, and I snapped around to face the smudged window. The sprawling city of Alexandria swept past with its wide avenues and piles of debris next to stately buildings. Moments later, we left the city clear behind and edifices were replaced with long stretches of green farmlands. The Englishman pulled out a tiny gold pocket watch. “On time for once,” he murmured.

“It’s not, usually?”

He scoffed with an arrogant lift to his chin. “The Egyptian railway still has a long way to go before anyone in their right mind would call it efficient. But we only recently took up the management, and progress has been lamentably slow.” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Though I have it on good authority the station will be receiving newer trains from England and Scotland.”

“When you say we, do you mean to say the British own the station?”

He nodded, apologetic. “Forgive me, I often forget ladies aren’t up to date on current affairs. We seized control in 1882—”

Any compassion I felt for his widowed state slowly eked out of me, one drop at a time. “I know all about how Britain bombarded their way through Alexandria,” I said, not bothering to hide my disapproval. “Thank you.”

The man paused, his lips tightening. “A necessity.”

“Oh, really?” I asked sarcastically.

The man blinked in clear astonishment at my spirited tone. “We’re slowly, but surely, reshaping the country until it’s more civilized,” he said, his voice rising and insistent. “Free from the overreaching arms of the French. In the meantime, Egypt is a popular destination for many travelers—such as yourself.” The corners of his lips turned down. “For Americans, as well. We have Thomas Cook’s tours to thank for that.”

Papá had raged about all the ways Egypt was being reshaped. Managed by a foreign country who looked down at the locals, appalled at the audacity that they might want to govern themselves. He constantly worried foreigners would strip and loot every archaeological site before he could visit.

What grated against my skin was this man’s assumption that I wasn’t up to date on current affairs. And his supercilious tone in the way he explained the horrifying lens through which he viewed Egypt. A country whose raw materials and resources were his for the taking. Mamá still seethed about the Spanish mining in Cerro Rico, the mountain full of silver in Potosí. Over centuries, it had been stripped bare.

The town had never recovered.

I fought to keep my tone neutral. “Who is Thomas Cook?”

“A businessman of the worst order,” he said with a pronounced scowl. “He founded a company specializing in Egyptian tours, particularly ones that clog the Nile with garish boats filled with loud, inebriated Americans.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Britons don’t speak in loud volumes or drink?”

“We are more dignified when in our cups,” he said in a pompous voice. Then he abruptly switched the topic, probably in an effort to avoid an argument. A pity, I was just starting to enjoy myself. “What brings you to Egypt?”

Though I expected the question, and had an answer prepared, I switched my reply at the last second. “A little sightseeing. I’ve booked a Nile River tour. Until you mentioned it, I’d forgotten the name of the company,” I added with a sly grin.

The man’s face turned purple, and I bit my cheek to keep myself from laughing. He opened his mouth to reply, but broke off when his eyes fell to the golden ring glittering as it caught rays of sunlight streaming into the dim compartment.

“What an unusual ring,” he said slowly, leaning forward to better examine it.

Papá hadn’t told me anything about where it came from. There hadn’t even been a note with the package. That was the only reason I didn’t cover my ring finger. I was curious if my unfortunate companion could tell me something about it. “Why is it unusual?”

“It looks quite old. At least a century.”

“Is it?” I asked, hoping he might give me a better clue. I’d thought the ring an antique, but never did I think it was an actual artifact. Papá wouldn’t have actually sent me one … would he? He’d never steal something so priceless from a dig site.

Unease settled deep in my belly. I was afraid of the doubt rising like steam in my mind.

What if he had?

“May I take a closer look?”

I hesitated but lifted my hand closer to his face. He bent his head to examine it more closely. His expression turned hungry. Before I could say anything, he slipped the ring off my finger.

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me.”

He ignored my protest, squinting to catch every groove and detail. “Extraordinary,” he murmured under his breath. He fell silent, his whole body unmoving. He might have been a painting. Then he tore his gaze away from the ring and lifted his eyes to meet mine. His feverish attention made me uncomfortable.

Alarm whispered into my ear, told me to take my things and go. “Please give it back.”

“Where did you get this?” he demanded. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

The lie was instinctive. “Elvira Montenegro.”

He repeated my name, considering. No doubt searching his memory and tossing it around for any connections. “Do you have relatives here?”

I shook my head. Lying came easily, and thank goodness I’d had a lot of practice. I’d told a frightful many to get out of afternoons filled with sewing and stitching. “Like I said, I’m a widow here to see the great river and the pyramids.”

“But you must have acquired this ring from somewhere,” he pressed.

My heart thumped loudly against my corset. “A trinket stall next to the dock. May I have it back, please?”

“You have found this ring in Alexandria? How … curious.” His fingers curled around my father’s gift. “I’ll pay you ten sovereigns for it.”

“The ring isn’t for sale. Give it back.”

“It occurs to me that I haven’t told you what I do,” he said. “I’m an officer for the Antiquities Service.”

I leveled him with my coldest, haughtiest stare. “I want it back.”

“This ring would be a marvelous addition to a showcase highlighting Egyptian jewelry. Now, I personally think it’s your social responsibility to relinquish such an item in order that it receives proper care and attention. Others have a right to enjoy its workmanship in a museum.”

I arched a brow. “The museum in Egypt?”

“Naturally.”

“And how often are Egyptians encouraged to visit the museum showcasing their heritage? Not very often, would be my guess.”

“Well, I never—” He broke off, his face deepening to the exact shade of an eggplant. “I’m prepared to pay you twenty sovereigns for it.”

“A minute ago it was ten.”

He quirked a brow. “Are you complaining?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Because it’s not for sale. And I know all about your profession, so I’ll thank you not to explain it to me. You’re no better than a grave robber.”

The man’s cheeks flushed. He dragged in air, straining the buttons of his crisp white shirt. “Somebody already stole this from a tomb.”

I flinched, because apparently that was true. My father had inexplicably taken something and sent it to me. Papá had made it clear to me that every discovery was carefully observed. But what my father had done went well beyond observation. He’d acted against his morals.

He’d acted against mine. Why?

“Look here—” He held up the front of the ring for my inspection. “Do you know what’s stamped on this ring?”

“It’s a cartouche,” I said mutinously. “Surrounding the name of a god or royal person.”

The man opened and closed his mouth. He looked like an inquisitive fish. He recovered quickly and fired another question. “Do you know what the hieroglyphs say?”

Mutely, I shook my head. While I could identify some, I was in no way proficient. The ancient Egyptian alphabet was immense and it’d take decades of study to be fluent.

“See here.” He lifted the ring to examine. “It’s a royal name. It spells Cleopatra.”

The last pharaoh of Egypt.

Goosebumps flared up and down my arms as I recalled the conversation I’d had with Tía Lorena and Elvira. That was the last time I’d heard the name—and it was in connection to my uncle and his work here in Egypt. That ring was a clue to what they’d been doing here. What—or who—they might have found. I was done being polite.

I jumped to my feet. “Give it back!”

The Englishman stood, fists on his hips. “Young lady—”

The cabin door opened and an attendant, a young man wearing a navy uniform, appeared within the frame. “Tickets?”

I angrily rummaged through my silk purse until I found the crumpled note. “Here.”

The attendant stared between us, dark brow puckering. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” I seethed. “This man stole a ring right off my finger.”

The attendant’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

I stabbed a finger in the direction of the Englishman. “This person—I can hardly call him a gentleman—took something from me, and I want it back.”

The Englishman drew himself to his full height, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin. We were facing off, battle lines drawn. “My name is Basil Sterling, and I’m an antiquities officer for the Egyptian Museum. I was merely showing the young lady one of our latest acquisitions, and she became overly excited, as you can see.”

“What—” I sputtered. “My father entrusted that ring in my care! Give it back.”

Mr. Sterling’s gaze narrowed and I realized my mistake. Before I could correct it, he pulled down his leather briefcase and produced a document and his ticket and handed both to the attendant. “You’ll find evidence of my position detailed on the sheet.”

The attendant shifted his feet. “This is very good, sir. Everything seems to be in order.”

Fury burned my cheeks. “This is outrageous.”

“As you can see, this lady is about to be hysterical,” Mr. Sterling interjected quickly. “I’d like to change compartments.”

“Not until you give it back!”

Mr. Sterling smiled coldly, a shrewd gleam in his light eyes. “Why would I give my ring to you?” He strode to the door.

“Wait a minute—” I said.

“I’m sorry,” the attendant said, returning my ticket.

The next second, they were both gone, and that odious man took the last thing Papá gave me, burying it deep into his pocket.

WHIT

For fuck’s sake.

I stared after the silly chit, my frustration mounting. I didn’t have time for wayward nieces, even if they were related to my employer. My employer who would be none too pleased when he found out I hadn’t been able to manage one teenage girl. I dragged an unsteady hand through my hair, my attention dropping to the sizable trunks stacked high on the cart. She’d left without any of her belongings.

Bold move, Olivera. Bold move.

I considered leaving all of it on the dock but when my conscience protested, I let out a rueful sigh. My mother raised me better than that, unfortunately. I had to hand it to Olivera. She won the point, but I wouldn’t let her win again. That would be annoying. I didn’t like losing, as much as I didn’t like being told what to do.

Those days were long behind me.

And yet.

She had the gall to dress like a widow. Crossed oceans unchaperoned. Told me off with a firm hand on her hip. A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I studied the brass button I’d nicked from her jacket. It gleamed in the sunlight, an alloy of copper and zinc and first cousins with bronze. Her outraged expression had made me want to laugh for the first time in months.

The girl had personality, I’d give her that much.

My fingers curled around the button, even as I knew it would be better to toss the damn thing into the Mediterranean Sea. Instead, I tucked the keepsake deep into my pocket. I rolled the cart back to the road where my hired carriage waited, knowing I’d made a mistake.

But the button remained safe from my good judgment.

A severe headache pressed hard on my temples and with my free hand, I took out the flask I’d stolen from my older brother and took a long drag of whiskey, the burn a soothing flame down my throat. What time had I gotten in last night?

I couldn’t remember. I’d been down at the bar in Shepheard’s for hours, smiling and laughing hollowly, pretending to have a good time. God, I hated antiquities officers.

But some four inches of bourbon later, I’d found out what I needed to know.

No one knew who Abdullah and Ricardo were searching for.

Not one whisper.

Now all I had to do was deal with the silly chit.



CAPÍTULO TRES

Exhaustion dragged at my edges, sucking me down like mud. By the time the carriage pulled in front of Shepheard’s, my smart linen dress no longer looked smart or clean. The pressed shirt bore signs of dust and wrinkles, and somehow, I’d lost a button from my jacket. Anger had followed me every part of the journey, simmering under my skin as if my blood were boiling. The driver opened the carriage door, and I stumbled on the steps. He swung an arm in my direction to help me from toppling over.

“Gracias,” I said hoarsely. “Sorry, I meant shokran.” My throat was raw from arguing. No one had listened to me about my stolen ring. Not the conductor or other attendants or even other passengers. I’d asked everyone I could think to help me, sure that our argument was heard by the cabins on either side of us.

I paid the driver and focused on my surroundings. The style of architecture was so similar to the wide avenues of Paris, I could literally have been in France. Gilded carriages rushed up and down Ibrahim Pasha Street, and lush palms lined the thoroughfare. The buildings were of the same height, four stories high, and studded with arched windows, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. It was familiar when it ought not to have been. Exactly like in Buenos Aires, where streets ran wide like in the paved avenues of Europe. Ismail Pasha had wanted to modernize Cairo, and to him that had meant working with a French architect and fashioning parts of the city to look like a Parisian street.

Shepheard’s took up nearly the length of one block. Steps led to the grand entrance covered by a thin metal roof with delicate openings, allowing patches of twilight to kiss the stone floor below it. A long terrace filled with dozens of tables and wicker chairs, adorned by various trees and plants, stood adjacent to the wooden double doors. The hotel was more elegant and ornate than I could have ever imagined, and the people coming out of the front entryway, dressed in expensive clothing and gowns, matched the surrounding opulence.

I walked up the front steps, trying to ignore my disheveled state. The doormen, dressed in kaftans that reached their shins, smiled broadly and together they welcomed me inside. I pushed my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and rearranged my features to look serene, the picture of decorum.

The effect was immediately lost when I let out a loud gasp. “Oh, cielos.”

The lobby boasted the grandeur of the most luxurious palaces across Europe, places I’d only heard about. Granite pillars stretched high to the ceilings, resembling the entrances of ancient temples I’d only ever seen in books. Comfortable chairs in a variety of materials—leather, rattan, and wood—sat on opulent Persian rugs. Chandeliers crafted of metal in dark bronze featuring floral trelliswork and a scalloped skirt illuminated the dim interior, washing everything in a haze of warmth. The lobby opened up to another room, equally ornate with tiled flooring and dark alcoves where several people sat reading the paper.

I could picture my parents in this room, rushing in from their day out in the desert, wanting tea and dinner.

This might have been the last place they were seen.

I swallowed the lump at the back of my throat, and blinked away the sudden burning in my eyes. I looked around, surrounded from all sides by people of all nationalities, ages, and ranks. They spoke in different languages, the noise dimmed by the large rugs that had been thrown over the tiled floor. Elderly Englishwomen lamented the horrors of finding an adequate boat for the journey up the Nile as they sipped cold hibiscus tea, unmistakable for its dark purple color. British officers strode up and down the corridor, dressed in their red uniforms, sabers strapped to their waists, and with a start I recalled the hotel also served as the militia’s headquarters. Frowning, I turned away from the sight of them.

In the alcove, a group of Egyptian businessmen was gathered around a table, smoking their pipes and engaged in an intense discussion, the tassels from their fez hats brushing against their cheeks. As I walked past, snippets of their conversation regarding cotton prices reached my ears. My mother often returned to Buenos Aires with brand-new bedding, the fabric thick and looking nearly like silk. The plant grew along the Nile, and the production of it was a highly lucrative endeavor for Egyptian landowners.

I spun around, looking for the main desk, as a foppish American with his stalwart briefcase and booming voice bumbled into others, marveling at the decor. Someone yelled, “Burton! Over here!” and the American gave a great start and joined the rest of his party, where he was received with claps on the back. I watched the reunion wistfully.

The number of people who would welcome me home from a long journey had dwindled.

The employees at the front desk eyed me. One of the attendants paused mid-motion at my approach. His dark eyes widened, and he slowly lowered his arm. He was in the middle of stamping a booklet.

“Salaam aleikum,” I said uncertainly. His stare was unnerving. “I’d like to book a room, please. Well, actually, I suppose I should confirm that Ricardo Marqués is staying in this hotel?”

“You look so much like your mother.”

Everything in me stilled.

The attendant pushed the stamp and booklet out of the way with a soft smile. “I am Sallam,” he said, smoothing down his dark green kaftan. “I’m terribly sorry to hear about the loss of your parents. They were decent people, and we enjoyed having them here.”

Even after months, I wasn’t used to hearing them spoken about in past tense. “Gracias. Shokran,” I hastily corrected.

“De nada,” he said, and I smiled in surprise.

“Your parents taught me a few phrases.” He looked over my shoulder, and I followed the line of his gaze. “I’d have expected to see young Whit with you,” he said.

“Who?”

“Mr. Whitford Hayes,” Sallam explained. “He works for your uncle, who indeed is staying at this hotel for the night. But he’s not here at the moment. I believe he had business at the museum.”

So that was his name, the stranger I’d ditched at the dock. I made a mental note to avoid him at all costs. “Do you know when my uncle will be returning?”

“He has reservations for dinner in our dining room. Did you just arrive?”

“This morning in Alexandria. The train unfortunately broke down halfway to Cairo, otherwise I’d have arrived sooner.”

Sallam’s thick, graying brows climbed to his hairline. “You came to Cairo by train? I would have thought Whit had better sense than that. Always behind and breaking down. You would have had a better time by carriage.”

I decided to refrain from telling Sallam the full story. Instead, I brought up my purse and dropped it onto the counter. “Well, I’d like to book a room, please.”

“There’s no need for payment,” he said. “You’ll take your parents’ suite. It’s paid in full until”—he glanced down to check his notes—“the tenth of January. The room has been left undisturbed in accordance with your uncle’s wishes.” Sallam hesitated. “He said he’d deal with their things in the new year.”

My mind spun. I never dreamed I’d sleep in their own bedroom, the one overlooking the Ezbekieh Gardens. Papá talked at length about their usual suite, the lavish rooms and pretty view. Even my mother had approved of it. Neither realized how badly I had wished to see it for myself. Now it seemed I would. This trip would mark many such firsts, things I thought I would have experienced with them. My heart snagged, as if caught on a splinter.

My voice was barely above a whisper. “That will be fine.”

Sallam studied me for a moment and then leaned forward to write a quick note on crisp hotel stationery. Then he whistled to a young boy wearing a tarboosh and dressed in forest-green trousers and a soft yellow button-down. “Please deliver this.”

The boy glanced at the folded note, saw the name, and grinned. Then he strode away, nimbly weaving through the throng of hotel guests.

“Come, I’ll personally show you to suite three hundred and two.” Another attendant, dressed in the same green-and-yellow hotel livery, took over the desk and Sallam extended a hand, motioning for me to walk alongside him.

“I remember when your parents first came to Egypt,” Sallam said. “Your father fell in love the moment he arrived in Cairo. It took your mother a little longer, but after that first season, she was never the same. I knew they’d be back. And look! I was right. Seventeen years I think it’s been since that first visit.”

It was impossible for me to reply. Their trips coincided with some of my more terrible memories. I remembered one winter all too well. My parents had stayed a whole month longer in Egypt, and I’d fallen ill. The flu had spread all over Buenos Aires and yet my parents didn’t make it back in time to see the danger I was in. They came when I was well into my recovery, the worst of it over. I was eight years old. Of course my aunt had words with my mother—several of them. Afterward, Mamá and Papá spent every day with me. Eating every meal together, exploring the city, delighting in concerts and frequent outings to the park.

We were together until we weren’t.

Sallam led me up a grand staircase with a blue rug running down the center. I was familiar with the design, my parents having brought all manner of decor back to Argentina. They favored Turkish tile, Moroccan lighting, and Persian rugs.

We climbed up to the third floor and Sallam handed me a brass key with a coin-sized disc stamped with the words SHEPHEARD’S HOTEL, CAIRO and the room number. I inserted the key and the door swung open, revealing a sitting area that opened up to two additional rooms on either end. I walked inside, admiring the charmingly grouped green velvet sofa and leather chairs sitting in front of balcony windows. Silk-paneled walls trimmed in gold and a small wooden desk with a high-back leather chair underscored the stately elegance. As for the decor, there were several beautiful paintings, a gilded mirror, and three large rugs in a blue-and-mint color scheme adding sophisticated touches throughout.

“This is where your parents slept.” Sallam gestured to the room on the right. “The left is an extra space for guests.”

But never for me. Their only child.

“Egypt isn’t as warm as you might think during the winter. I suggest a wrap over your jacket,” Sallam said from behind me. “If you’re hungry, come down to dine at the restaurant. Delicious food in the French style. Your uncle will want to see you, I’m sure.”

I couldn’t help the resentful note in my voice. “I highly doubt it.”

Sallam retreated to the entrance. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

I shook my head. “La shokran.”

“Nice accent,” he said approvingly, and then he dipped his chin and shut the door behind him.

I was alone.

Alone in the room my parents had lived in for nearly half of the year. The last place they’d slept in, some of the last things they’d touched. Every surface drew my notice, begged a question. Had my mother used this desk? Had she sat in the leather wingback chair? Did she last write with this quill? I rummaged through drawers and found a stack of blank sheets of paper, all except one. The top sheet had two words written in a delicate hand.

Dear Inez.

She never got to finish the letter. I was robbed of my mother’s last words to me. I dragged in a deep shuddering breath, filled my lungs with as much air as I could, and then exhaled, fighting to keep myself from breaking down. This was a golden opportunity to study the room as they’d left it, before it became cluttered with my things.

The waste basket had several crumpled-up sheets, and I wondered if it took Mamá several tries to think of what to say to me. A sob climbed up my throat, and I abruptly turned away from the wooden desk. I hammered down the wave of emotion, pressing in like a strong tide. Another exhale later, and I was calmer and clearer eyed. I continued my exploration, determined to do something productive. My gaze flickered to my parents’ room.

I nodded to myself and straightened my shoulders.

With a bracing breath, I opened their door—and gasped.

Papá’s trunks were open on the bed, clothing strewn all over, shoes and trousers lying in piles. The drawers of a lovely oak dresser were open, the items inside tossed around as if he’d been packing in a hurry. I frowned. That didn’t make sense—their last note told me they were staying longer in Cairo. The sheets were gathered at the foot of the bed, and Mamá’s luggage sat on a chair near the large window.

I walked farther inside, examining the dresses slung over the back of the chair. Clothing styles I’d never seen my mother wear at home. The material was lighter, and more youthful, and heavily adorned with ruffles and beading. Mother’s clothing in Argentina, while fashionable, never drew any notice. She wore her modesty with a polite smile and pretty manners. She was raising me to be the same. Inside the wardrobe, rows of shimmering gowns and well-heeled leather shoes greeted me.

I fingered the fabric curiously, a feeling of wistfulness stealing over me. My mother was someone who knew the right way to comport herself; she always spoke eloquently and she knew how to host large parties and guests at the estate. But here, her clothing suggested she was more carefree, less starchy and refined.

I wish I would have gotten to know that side of her.

A sharp knock interrupted my reverie. Probably Sallam wanting to make sure I was settling in. He seemed like the kind of person my parents would have liked. Polite and competent, a good listener and knowledgeable.

I crossed the room and opened the door, an answering smile on my lips.

But it was not Sallam.

The stranger from the dock leaned against the opposite wall, legs crossed at the ankle, with my trunks stacked one on top of the other at his side. His arms were folded across his broad chest, and he stared at me, a sardonic curve to his mouth. He appeared to be faintly amused.

“Mr. Hayes, I presume?”



CAPÍTULO CUATRO

The man in question kicked off the wall and sauntered into the room. “You’re more resourceful than I thought you would be,” he said cheerfully. “It’s been duly noted, so don’t try that shit with me again.”

I opened my mouth, but Mr. Hayes pressed on with a smirk. “Before you cast judgment on my language, I’ll venture to guess that a young woman who traveled across the ocean, pretending to be a widow, has most likely consigned the proprieties to hell.” He bent his knees, his blue gaze level with mine. “Where they belong, I might add.”

“I wasn’t going to cast judgment,” I said stiffly, even though I had been. Mamá expected me to observe the proprieties, no matter what I personally believed. Sometimes, though, rebellion beckoned like a siren, and I couldn’t resist.

Hence my being here at all.

“Oh no?” he asked with an irritating smile. Then he ventured farther into the room, leaving the door open behind him.

“Well, Mr. Hayes,” I said, turning my body to keep him in my line of sight. He seemed like the type of person one ought to meet head on while standing. On the docks, I’d written him off, but there was something different in the way he carried himself now. Perhaps it was his brawn, or the faintly smirking line to his mouth. He looked and felt dangerous, despite his informal conversation. He lazily walked about the room, picking up random objects and setting them down in a careless fashion.

“Thank you for bringing me my bags.” And then because I couldn’t quite help myself, I added, “That was very kind.”

He threw me a dirty look. “I was doing my job.”

“So, you work for my uncle,” I said. “That must be exciting.”

“It certainly is,” he said. His elegant accent was at odds with the irreverent edge in his voice. He sounded like a stuffy aristocrat, except for that subtle hint of hostility lurking under the surface, and the colorful language.

He must be a recent hire. My parents had never once mentioned him. “How long have you worked for him?”

“A bit,” he said vaguely.

“How long is a bit?”

“Two years or so.” Mr. Hayes met my gaze every so often to distract me from his continued poking around. I let him satisfy his curiosity, thinking it might soften him. We’d gotten off on the wrong foot, and if he worked so closely with my uncle—and if I didn’t want him to haul me to the docks like he had my luggage earlier—then it’d be wise to have a friendly interaction. But more than that, I had questions and Mr. Hayes surely had answers.

I gestured to the couch. “Why don’t we sit? I’d love to talk about what work you do and my uncle’s latest excavation.”

“Oh you would, would you?” Mr. Hayes sat and stretched out his long legs, and idly pulled out a flask from his pocket. He took a long swallow and then held it out to me.

I took a seat on one of the available armchairs. “What is it?”

“Whiskey.”

“In the middle of the day?” I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“Does that mean you only drink at night?”

“It means I don’t drink at all.” I was very careful to keep my voice from sounding interested. Mamá never allowed me to take even the smallest sip of wine. That didn’t mean I hadn’t tried it, though. I managed to sneak in tastes during one of their many dinner parties right under her nose.

He grinned, and screwed on the cap. “Listen, as pretty as you are, I’m not your friend, I’m not your guard, and I’m certainly not your babysitter. How much trouble are you going to cause me?”

The question almost made me laugh, but I caught it in time. I considered lying, but instinct told me that he’d see through me anyway. “I really can’t say,” I said honestly. “It might be a great deal.”

He let out a surprised chuckle. “You’re supposed to be stuffy and boring. A lady well brought up, buttoned up with nary a wrinkle on your gown.”

“I am a well-brought-up lady.”

He assessed me slowly, his perusal lingering on my dusty boots and my travel-stained jacket. For some reason, his observations seemed to irritate him. “But not always,” he muttered. “That’s terribly inconvenient for me.”

I tilted my head, brow furrowed in confusion. “How exactly?”

Now the line of his mouth was thin and humorless, and he remained silent and considering, his gaze never leaving my face.

I squirmed in my seat, unused to such a direct stare. “Am I supposed to apologize?” I asked finally with an exasperated huff. “I’m not your problem. Let my uncle deal with me.”

“Actually the fact that you’re here at all is my problem. At least, your uncle will see it that way.”

“I won’t apologize for what I did.”

Mr. Hayes leaned forward, a wicked gleam lurking in his wolflike eyes. “I didn’t think you would. Hence, why you’re a terrible inconvenience for me. It would have been better if I found you stuffy and boring.”

Were we still talking about the docks? A feeling I couldn’t identify rose within me.

It might have been alarm.

“Well, I doubt we’ll be spending that much time together,” I said stiffly. “But I consider myself warned, Mr. Hayes. So long as you don’t cross me, we’ll get along fine.”

I hadn’t meant to make it sound like a challenge, but I instinctively understood that was how he took my words. He seemed to be visibly at war with himself. His body relaxed in slow degrees. When he spoke again, his expression was closed off and remote, his tone of voice almost aloof. “You’ll be sent away soon, anyway; it hardly signifies.”

He lounged on the couch as if he didn’t have a care in the world, or maybe that was the impression he wanted to give. My gaze narrowed. There was a directness in his stare, even as his red-rimmed eyes flickered over the room.

“Are we back to that argument?”

“As far as I’m concerned, we never left it,” he said with a glance in my direction. “This isn’t up for discussion. Your uncle wants you back home and far away from here.”

“Why is that, exactly?”

Mr. Hayes arched a brow and remained infuriatingly silent.

“What exactly do you do for my uncle?”

“A little of everything.”

I considered kicking him. “Are you his secretary?”

He laughed.

The quality of it gave me pause. “Is your work dangerous?”

“It can be.”

“Is it legal?”

His grin dazzled me. “Sometimes.”

“Mr. Hayes, whatever you and my uncle are—”

“What’s legal and illegal in this country is very fluid, Señorita Olivera.”

“Well, I want to know what happened to my parents,” I said in a low voice. “Why were they wandering around in the desert? What were they looking for? And why wasn’t Tío Ricardo with them?”

“Your parents were free to do what they wished,” he said smoothly. “They were the money behind the whole operation and weren’t often told what to do. The only person who had any sway over them was Abdullah.” Mr. Hayes paused. “You do know who he is, correct?”

I’d heard the name hundreds of times. Abdullah was the brains behind every dig site. He was my parents’ business partner, the brilliant man who knew everything there was to know about ancient Egyptians. Over the years, my parents would sometimes idly share where Abdullah’s team was digging, but they’d never said a word about their latest excavation.

The one that had something to do with Cleopatra.

“Tell me more about the operation.”

Mr. Hayes shot to his feet, and I startled. He drew closer to my parents’ bedroom, the door flung open, and peered inside their chamber and let out a low whistle. I stood and joined him under the doorframe, once again struck by the discord.

“They weren’t messy people. Well, Papá is—was—incredibly absentminded. But this is something else.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, and for once he sounded serious. “Ricardo isn’t messy either.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said coolly. “I’ve been in his company exactly one time, ten years ago.”

Mr. Hayes made no comment, but silently stepped forward, carefully picking up the discarded clothing. I didn’t like a stranger pawing at my parents’ belongings, and I almost said so, but a realization silenced me.

He wasn’t the stranger—I was.

Mr. Hayes knew a side of my parents I’d never seen. Knew them in ways that I never would. He had memories of them I would never be a part of. He worked alongside them, shared meals, and slept at the same campsite.

“Have you been inside the room before?”

He nodded. “Many times.”

So, he had more than a working relationship with them. They were more likely to invite a friend inside their private hotel room, and not a work colleague. “Have you been inside since they’ve disappeared?”

His shoulders tensed. He leveled a look in my direction and stared at me for a few seconds in silent contemplation. Incredibly, the hard line of his mouth softened. “You understand, don’t you, that they’re gone?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I want you to comprehend that you’ll gain nothing with your questions.”

I swallowed a painful lump at the back of my throat. “I will discover what happened to them.”

He neatly folded one of Papá’s shirts, and gently placed it inside one of the trunks. “It’s your uncle who unearths things for a living. Not you, Señorita Olivera.”

“But that’s my aim, nevertheless.”

He kept his attention trained on me and I fought the urge to fidget. If he wanted to intimidate me, he’d have to try harder than that. Despite his size, despite the gun hanging loosely at his side. The handle was engraved with the letters CGG. I hadn’t noticed it before, but taking him in from his rough leather boots to the straight line of his shoulders, the unpleasant truth hit me square in the face.

“Military?”

His brows lowered, forbidding. “Pardon?”

“Are you British military?”

“No,” he said.

“Those are not your initials.” I pointed to the gun in his holster. “I thought your name is Whitford Hayes?”

“It is.” Then he abruptly changed the subject. “Put on something frilly and decent and come down for dinner.”

First, he tried to send me away from Egypt. Now he was ordering me to dinner. “Stop trying to tell me what to do.”

He walked around the bed and stood in front of me, a mischievous glint hidden in the deep well of his blue gaze. The subtle scent of smoky liquor on his breath swirled between us. “Would you rather I flirt with you?”

His confidence, bordering on arrogance, must have come from having never been told no in his entire life. My expression remained unimpressed. “I wouldn’t bother.”

“Right. You’re off-limits.” He smiled down at me, dimples bracketing his mouth like parentheses. I didn’t trust it. “Come down and join me. Please.”

I shook my head. “I’ve traveled all this way pretending to be a widow, and while I probably got away with it, I doubtless won’t be able to continue the charade here. Eating with you wouldn’t be proper—not without my uncle.”

“He’s down there.”

“Why didn’t you say?” I exclaimed.

He abruptly walked out of the room, saying over his shoulder, “I just did.”

With an indignant squawk, I rushed to follow him, only to encounter an empty sitting room. He’d made a mess without my noticing. Subtly moving things around; the throw pillows on the sofa no longer sat in the corner, but the middle; and the corner of the rug had been curled back. Deliberately toed aside. I made a sound of annoyance at the back of my throat.

He was already halfway down the long corridor.

“Oh, and Mr. Hayes?” I called out.

He elegantly swung around, and without checking his stride, walked backward. “What is it?”

I strode after him. “I’d like to know what it was that you were searching for, please.”

Mr. Hayes stilled. “What makes you think I was looking for something?”

His tone was a little too nonchalant. His easy familiarity felt a touch too practiced, his manners the mark of someone who knew just how handsome he was. He was handling me, and trying not to show it. Suspicion pressed close.

“The rug was overturned, the pillows moved.”

“So?”

I stayed silent, his lie hovering between us, creating a palpable tension in the air.

I raised my eyebrow and waited.

He made no comment but regarded me thoughtfully. When it was clear that he wouldn’t give me an answer, I let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Can you wait a moment?” I asked. “I must change.”

He eyed my dress in amusement. “I don’t recall you waiting when I asked,” he said with a grin. Then he winked at me before resuming his long-legged stride down the corridor. That was the smile I didn’t trust—I just knew it came with consequences. He was the kind of person who could charm someone while robbing them blind.

I turned around and dragged my luggage into the room—a man of courtesy would have helped me—and quickly rummaged through several gown options. From everything I remember about Shepheard’s, their dining room became the central hubbub of society at night. Well-to-do travelers, tourists all the way from America and the metropolitan cities of Europe would be mingling in the grand foyer. For this first meeting with my uncle, I had to look the part. Respectable and capable.

Maybe, then, he’d change his mind about sending me away.

I selected a long-sleeved navy-and-cream striped dress with a cinched waist and corresponding necktie. On my feet were slim leather boots that crept up mid-calf, their only ornament a row of tiny brass buttons. I had no time to fix my hair or even splash my face with water, and for that, I quietly cursed the annoying Mr. Hayes. I locked the door behind me and raced down the corridor, careful not to trip over my voluminous skirt. By the time I made it to the foot of the stairs, my breath was coming out in embarrassing loud huffs.

There I stopped. I had absolutely no idea where to go next. The hotel covered nearly a city block, and from where I stood in the lobby, there were a number of corridors leading to who knew where. I might end up in the gardens or in their laundry room.

I looked around, searching for Sallam, but found no trace of him. My gaze caught on the foppish American I’d seen earlier. He was sitting in an alcove, engrossed in his paper. I walked over. He didn’t notice my presence until I was a foot away from him.

He looked up, blinking. He glanced to the left and then to the right, unsure. “Hello?”

“Buenas tardes,” I returned in Spanish. “I’m looking for the dining room. Would you mind telling me where it is?”

His brow cleared. He folded the paper and stood, and gallantly offered me his arm. “I would be happy to assist you!”

I took his arm, and he proceeded to lead me down one of the corridors. He was tall, but he kept his shoulders hunched, his lean form lanky. He appeared to be in his early thirties, judging by his unlined face and thick blond hair.

“I’m Thomas Burton,” he said, looking at me from the corner of his eyes. A deep blush bloomed in his cheeks. “You have a charming accent. Might I ask for your name?”

I was surprised to again hear myself say, “Elvira Montenegro.” I cleared my throat, discomfited. “You’re from America, I think?”

He nodded. “New York. Have you had the pleasure of visiting?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

He smiled shyly. “Perhaps I’ll see you there one day.”

I returned his smile, somehow knowing that had he come calling at the estate, my aunt would have welcomed him with open arms. So would my mother, come to think of it. He was unassuming and friendly, with kind brown eyes. His clothing told a story of wealth and success.

We reached the entrance of the dining room. He dropped his arm and gazed at me. I shifted on my feet, dismay fluttering in my belly. I recognized that look.

“Would you … would you like to join me for dinner, Miss Montenegro?”

“Thank you, but no. I’m meeting family.” I kept the smile on my face to soften the rejection. “Thank you for the escort.”

I walked inside the dining room before he could reply. It was decorated from top to bottom in the Renaissance style. Arched windows allowed a generous stream of moonlight to touch every wooden table, covered in snowy cloth. The ceiling, painted in a creamy white, displayed a Greco pattern lining the four corners while the walls were adorned in oak panels and sculpted garlands.

Nearly every table held guests and patrons, all chattering among themselves, sipping wine and enjoying their entrees. Like the lobby, the room teemed with people of all nationalities. French tourists marveling over the wine offerings. Pashas and beys in Western clothing paired with the cylinder-shaped tarbooshes atop their heads, speaking in Egyptian Arabic. English soldiers in uniform, their brass buttons gleaming in the soft candlelight.

I took a few hesitant steps inside and the general chatter dropped to a hush. A few people looked me over curiously, no doubt noticing my messy hair and tired eyes. I tucked a few strands behind my ears. Straightening my shoulders, I took a few more steps, my gaze flickering from one table to the next, searching for my uncle.

I found Mr. Hayes instead. He sat near one of the immense windows. I had an easy view of his profile, the hard line of his squared jaw, and rigid chin. His hair looked more red than brown in the soft lighting. Four people sat at the table, and while I didn’t recognize the two gentlemen visible to me, there was something familiar in the shape of the man who sat at Mr. Hayes’s left.

My feet propelled me toward them as if by their own accord. I skirted around the sea of dining tables and hotel guests dressed in their expensive evening gowns and suits. The journey felt like miles, every step a steep climb up to an unknown summit. Worry dug deep in my belly, taking root. Tío Ricardo might refuse to speak with me. He might send me away in front of all these people—in front of Mr. Hayes, who clearly belonged when I didn’t.

I kept moving.

Mr. Hayes saw me first.

He met my gaze, and the corners of his mouth deepened. He looked to be on the verge of laughing. The other two gentlemen observed my approach, pausing their drinking. They weren’t hostile, but rather surprised. One of them eyed me over, noting the state of my hair contrasted with the ornate details of my evening dress. He was an older gentleman with white hair and beard, the regal air surrounding him all but palpable. He wore his respectability like a well-tailored cloak. The other gentleman had a friendly face and heavy-lidded eyes. I wasn’t nearly as interested in them as I was in the man whose face I couldn’t see.

He continued talking, a deep bass to his voice. Goosebumps erupted up and down my arms. I recognized that baritone, even after all these years.

“Sir Evelyn, you’re a damned fool,” Tío Ricardo said in a hard voice.

Whichever Sir Evelyn was, I couldn’t guess. Neither the gentlemen nor Mr. Hayes were paying the slightest attention to my uncle, despite one of them having just been insulted. My uncle’s companions were focused on me, riveted by the sight of an unchaperoned girl in a crowded dining room, clearly waiting to address them.

But I was done with waiting.

“Hola, Tío Ricardo,” I said.



CAPÍTULO CINCO

My uncle’s shoulders stiffened. He gave a minute shake of his head and then half turned in his chair. He lifted his chin and met my gaze. The sight of him, the familiar hazel eyes he shared with my mother, robbed me of breath. I’d forgotten how much they’d resembled each other. The curling dark hair, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of the nose. He had more wrinkles, more gray strands than my mother, but the shape of his brows and the curve of his ears were identical to hers.

Which meant I looked like him, too.

For one breathless second, fury detonated across his face, eyes narrowed into slits, his breathing harsh. I blinked and then his expression turned welcoming, a smile stretching his lips.

Master of his emotions. What a useful skill set.

“My dear niece,” he said smoothly, getting to his feet. “Take this seat and I’ll request another from—oh, I see they’ve already anticipated me.” Tío Ricardo stepped closer to allow room for an attendant to dart forward, carrying a dining chair. I couldn’t quite believe that after all this time, after the long weeks in getting here, my uncle stood not even a breath away. He towered over me, and while he wore his age in every line of his face, his bearing denoted a subtle strength.

His smile still in place, he patted my shoulder in a way that felt almost fond. “You’re no longer the girl I remember with dirty knees and scraped elbows.”

“Not for some time,” I agreed. “You look well, Tío.”

“And you,” he said softly, “look just like my sister.”

The room softened to a hush. I felt, rather than saw, the stares of everyone in the room. Mr. Hayes and the other gentlemen stood, the latter two watching me with unabashed curiosity.

“Your niece,” one of the men said in a thick French accent. “Incroyable! But this must be the daughter of Lourdes, then.” The Frenchman fell silent, a deep blush marring his pale cheeks. His balding head shined in the soft candlelight illuminating the dining chamber. “Forgive me, je suis désolé. I was very sorry to hear what happened to your parents.”

“Monsieur Maspero, Sir Evelyn, allow me to present my niece, Miss Inez Olivera. She’s come for a quick visit”—I stiffened, but didn’t argue—“to enjoy the sights. My dear, I trust that you’ve met Mr. Hayes?”

Since my uncle had sent him on the errand to the docks, he knew that I had. But I played along. “I have, gracias.”

Sir Evelyn inclined his head and we stood as the waiters brought an additional place setting. We sat down once all was arranged for five guests. My uncle and I were squeezed together on one side, our elbows brushing, while Mr. Hayes sat at the head of the table on my opposite side. Bookmarked by the two people who wanted to send me packing.

Mr. Hayes eyed the cramped space. “I can switch with one of you.”

Tío Ricardo glanced at me. “I’m comfortable, if you are?”

There was the slightest hint of challenge in his voice.

“Perfectamente.”

The waiter brought menus printed on buttercream-hued sheets, the paper thick and luxurious. Conversation lulled as we examined the offerings, the only sound coming from Monsieur Maspero, who murmured appreciatively at the selections. They were extravagant: boiled sea bass, hens glazed in white wine with buttered rice, roasted wild duck paired with a seasonal salad, and Turkish coffee for dessert, with chocolate cake and fresh fruit. I wanted to try one of everything but restrained myself and ordered the chicken prepared the Portuguese way. Everyone else requested the fish, which made me think they knew something that I didn’t. The waiter left, promising to bring several bottles of French wine.

“Next time order the fish,” Monsieur Maspero said. “Caught fresh from the Nile daily.”

“That sounds delicious. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” I said. “I arrived just in time to hear you insulted, Sir Evelyn.”

Mr. Hayes let out a choked laugh. Monsieur Maspero’s light eyes darted from my uncle to Sir Evelyn. Tío Ricardo folded his arms, angling his face in my direction, amusement lurking in his hazel eyes. I could only imagine the thoughts that swirled in his mind as he tried to figure me out. But the truth was simple. I deplored empty conversation and my uncle clearly had a reason for dining with people he didn’t seem to like. I wasn’t going to let my presence distract him from what he was after.

That wouldn’t put me in a favorable light.

Before anyone could reply, the wine came and was promptly poured into gorgeous, long-stemmed glasses. Mr. Hayes took a prolonged sip. Not partial to just whiskey, then. Sir Evelyn sat stiffly in his chair, coldly silent.

“You are correct, Mademoiselle,” Monsieur Maspero said. “Your uncle sought to offend, and he succeeded. How this will help his cause, I have no idea. But perhaps it’s a clever ruse to get what he wants.”

“And what is his cause?” I asked.

“Are you going to answer that, Mr. Marqués?” Sir Evelyn asked in a frigid tone. “You’ve done most of the talking, so far.”

The two men stared at each other, hardly moving except to breathe. I took my cue from Mr. Hayes, who remained quiet, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the knife next to his side plate. Finally, my uncle turned to me. “Egypt has been overrun with people who spend most of their lives in grand hotels, visiting many lands but not bothering to learn languages, who have looked at everything, but seen nothing. They ruin the planet with their footsteps, and they disrespect Egyptians by taking priceless historical objects and vandalizing monuments. These two men have the means to improve the situation here.”

“Well, you have just said it,” Sir Evelyn said. “We are only two men. How are we to keep tourists from defacing archaeological sites? To keep them from smuggling artifacts in their trunks? It is impossible.”

Tío Ricardo adjusted his thin, wire-framed glasses. “You set the example by allowing duplicates out of the country. Hardly anything is being recorded or studied or made available to the people here. Thousands upon thousands of objects pertaining to Egyptian history are disappearing—”

“Now, be fair,” Monsieur Maspero protested. “I curate the Egyptian Museum myself—”

“Oh, I know all about your sale room,” my uncle said. “I’m shocked the mummies you’ve unwrapped over the years don’t all have a price tag on them.”

Despite Tío Ricardo’s mild tone, his polite smiles, I sensed his profound dislike of the two men. It was in the way he clutched his flatware, the way the corners of his eyes tightened whenever either Monsieur Maspero or Sir Evelyn spoke.

Monsieur Maspero flushed, his mustache quivering madly. “You go too far, Ricardo!”

Slowly, I leaned closer to Mr. Hayes. His scent reminded me of the morning mist shrouding the grounds of our estate: woodsy, with the slightest hint of salt and musk. When I was close enough, I cleared my throat softly. He tilted his chin down in acknowledgment without taking his attention off the men arguing.

“Yes?” he asked under his breath.

“Sale room?”

His expression remained carefully neutral, save for the tightening of his jaw. “Maspero allows tourists to buy excavated artifacts in his museum. Statuettes, figurines, jewelry, pottery, and the like.”

I blinked. “Historical objects of significance are for sale?”

“Correct.”

“To tourists?”

“Correct again.”

My voice rose. “And the money goes where, exactly?”

Their conversation abruptly stopped. All three men shifted in their seat to look at me. My uncle’s expression held reluctant admiration.

“Back to the government, of course,” Sir Evelyn said, his lips stiff and barely moving. When I had sat down he had regarded me curiously, but now he glared at me with obvious dislike. How quickly I had fallen from grace.

I straightened away from Mr. Hayes with as much dignity as I could muster.

“And the money will eventually end up in Britain. Isn’t that how it works, Sir Evelyn?” Tío Ricardo asked with a knowing gleam. “I think it’s fair to say that you’re becoming a wealthy man.”

Sir Evelyn’s expression turned stony.

My uncle laughed, but it sounded off to me. As if he weren’t actually amused, far from it. Tension gathered in his shoulders. “You say you’re only two men, when I know countless valuable artifacts are sold in that room by foreign buyers. No one is worse than Mr. Sterling,” Tío Ricardo said. “The man is a deplorable rogue.”

I let out a gasp and covered the sound by coughing loudly. No one noticed. No one except for Mr. Hayes.

“Are you all right, Señorita Olivera?” Mr. Hayes leaned forward, intently studying my face. “Did you recognize the name?”

My uncle handed me a glass of water and I took a long sip, biding time in order to carefully think of my answer. Should I admit to having met the vile Mr. Sterling? But to do so, I’d have to reveal what Papá had done. He’d sent me an ancient Egyptian ring, smuggled it out of the country and never explained his reasoning. Tío Ricardo would hardly approve, nor Abdullah. Not to mention what I thought of what he’d done. Papá had lost his senses.

I lowered the glass. “He doesn’t seem like someone I would care to know.”

“And you shouldn’t,” Tío Ricardo said. “The man ought to be in prison.”

“Now, see here. He’s a friend—” Sir Evelyn interrupted.

My uncle snorted. “Because he makes you an obscene amount of money—”

“Who follows the law to the letter—” Sir Evelyn said.

“Laws that you have made as the consul general of Egypt,” Tío Ricardo said, his hand curling into a fist around the cloth napkin. “You oversee the country’s finances. It is you who has stripped Egypt of any progress instigated by Ismail Pasha. It is you who has closed schools, barred Egyptians from higher education and opportunities for women.”

“I notice how you don’t mention how Ismail Pasha sank Egypt into debt,” Sir Evelyn said dryly. “He’s the reason for Europe’s involvement in this country’s affairs. Egypt must pay back what it owes.”

My uncle rubbed his temples, weariness etched into every line that crossed his brow in deep grooves. “Don’t start with that. You’re deliberately missing the point I’m trying to make.”

“Eh, bien. What is it that you want?” Monsieur Maspero asked.

“Gentlemen,” Tío Ricardo began after inhaling deeply. “I’m asking that you put my brother-in-law Abdullah in charge of the Antiquities Service. He deserves a seat at the table.”

“But that’s my job,” Monsieur Maspero sputtered.

“He’s hardly qualified, Mr. Marqués,” Sir Evelyn said coldly. “When was the last time your team discovered anything? Every season you and Abdullah turn up empty-handed. You’ll forgive me if I’m hardly inspired.”

“If we didn’t allow a legal way for objects to be excavated and removed from Egypt, then we’d have a rampant return of illegal auctions,” Monsieur Maspero mused. “You must admit that my tenure has already seen a marked decrease in objects leaving the country. We must all learn to bend a little, I think.”

“Ask my brother-in-law how he feels and then perhaps I’d be inclined to listen to you,” Tío Ricardo said. “You know as well as I do that it’s impossible to ascertain how many objects leave Egypt’s borders since so many are stolen. And you yourself have granted permits to the Egypt Exploration Fund.”

“They must ask before taking anything out of the country,” Monsieur Maspero said, outrage dawning. “It’s all under the supervision of the Antiquities Service.”

Which begged the question, did the Antiquities Service employ any Egyptians? I glanced at Tío Ricardo and his clenched jaw. He was a teapot, filled with boiling water, and nearly ready to whistle. It ought to be Abdullah sitting here, arguing the point. But I understood my uncle’s earlier words, his frustration that Abdullah wasn’t even allowed a seat at the table.

“Have you forgotten what you do for a living, Mr. Marqués?” Sir Evelyn asked. “You’re a treasure hunter like all the rest of them, and a terrible one at that. Bleeding money every month. I’ve heard of how you and Abdullah run your excavation sites, paying your workers exorbitant sums—”

Tío Ricardo sneered. “You mean a living wage? No one works for me for free—”

“—You’re a fool dressed up as an archaeologist,” Sir Evelyn said, his voice bellowing above my uncle’s.

Monsieur Maspero let out a noise of protest. Mr. Hayes narrowed his eyes into dangerous slits. His knuckles brushed the handle of the knife near his dinner plate. I shifted in my chair, my heart thundering wildly. I stared at my uncle, at the stubborn line of his jaw, his clenched hands. Despite my earlier frustration, despite him not wanting me in Egypt at all, my admiration of him grew. I agreed with his words, and even with the ones he hadn’t said.

Everyone deserved a living wage. No human ought to be treated as if their work didn’t matter, or their choices, or their dreams.

“You’re not a fool,” I whispered to him.

Tío Ricardo glanced down at me, partly in surprise, as if he’d forgotten I was sitting next to him, practically bumping elbows.

“A fool,” Sir Evelyn said again, and this time, his words were aimed at me.

I glared at him, my fingers reaching for my glass. I wanted to throw it in his face.

“Whitford,” Tío Ricardo warned in an urgent hush.

Mr. Hayes released his hold on the knife and instead lifted his drink and emptied it in one long swallow. He leaned back against his seat, hands folded calmly across his flat belly, a serene expression settling over his countenance, as if he hadn’t been contemplating murder one second ago.

Someone approached our table, an older Egyptian with a regal bearing and a shrewd gaze. My uncle noticed where I was looking and glanced over his shoulder, then immediately stood to greet the man. Mr. Hayes followed suit, but Sir Evelyn and Monsieur Maspero remained seated. I didn’t know the proper etiquette, and so I remained in my seat, too.

“Judge Youssef Pasha,” Tío Ricardo said smiling hugely. Then he lowered his voice and said something only the judge could hear. They exchanged more words and then my uncle and Mr. Hayes returned to their seats. The mood at the table soured further. Sir Evelyn’s face had turned tomato red.

“That man is a nationalist,” Sir Evelyn said stiffly.

“I’m aware,” Tío Ricardo said cheerfully. “He’s an avid reader of the newspaper run by Mostafa Pasha.”

“Those are the people you are spending time with?” Sir Evelyn asked. “I’d tread carefully, Ricardo. You don’t want to find yourself on the wrong side.”

“Are you talking of war, Sir Evelyn?” Mr. Hayes spat.

I blinked in astonishment. Until now, he had seemed content enough to let Tío Ricardo take the lead in the conversation. Fury radiated off Mr. Hayes’s tense shoulders.

My uncle reached across me and laid a hand on Mr. Hayes’s arm. “Sir Evelyn would prefer we all behave like Tewfiq Pasha, I’m sure.”

Tewfiq Pasha, the son of Ismail Pasha. I knew little of the present khedive, except that he supported Sir Evelyn’s atrocious policies, dismantling whatever progress his father had made in Egypt. I recalled Papá lamenting the man’s meek submission to British policy.

Sir Evelyn threw down his linen napkin and stood. “I’m done with this conversation. And if I were you, Mr. Marqués, I’d be careful with your ideas. You might not have permission to dig anywhere in Egypt, isn’t that right, Monsieur Maspero?”

“Well, I…” Monsieur Maspero floundered.

Sir Evelyn’s nostrils flared and then he strode off, spine rigid. He didn’t look back as he left the dining room.

“There is much work that must be done,” Monsieur Maspero said quietly. “Not all is bad, I think.” The Frenchman sighed and stood, going after Sir Evelyn.

Judging by how the conversation went, this evening would have lasting repercussions. I hadn’t remembered earlier, but I recalled that it was Monsieur Maspero who allowed excavators to work in Egypt. He accorded licenses as he saw fit.

My uncle might not get another.

“That went well,” Mr. Hayes said dryly.

“Would you please—” my uncle began.

“Certainly,” Mr. Hayes murmured. He quickly made his way through the numerous tables and chairs, the hushed gossip, and rudely staring hotel guests, and disappeared through the arched entrance.

“Where is Mr. Hayes going?” I asked.

Tío Ricardo folded his arms across the breadth of his muscled chest and studied me. Any trace of his earlier politeness vanished in the space of a blink. We eyed each other warily. Whatever assumptions he’d made about me, I wasn’t leaving just because he told me to.

“Are you angry?” I asked in Spanish.

“Well, I would prefer you hadn’t disobeyed me,” he said. “When I think about the manner in which you traveled here, to a different continent … what do you think your mother would have said, Inez?”

“I’m here because of them.”

Something shifted in his expression, a subtle tug at the corners of his mouth. A faintly discomfited look. “They wouldn’t want you here, either.”

His words opened a yawning pit deep in my belly. The chatter surrounding us seemed distant. I struggled to find something to say, but my throat had tightened.

His expression turned ruthless. “In all the years that they’ve come to Egypt, have they ever extended an invitation?”

I could only stare. He knew the answer.

“No, they haven’t,” he continued. “Their will named me as your guardian, and as such, you are in my care and I mean to go on as they would have wished.”

“Your letter left me unsatisfied.”

His dark brows rose. “¿Perdón?”

“I spoke quite clearly. What happened to them? Why were they traveling through the desert? Did they not have guards or assistance? A guide?”

“It was an unspeakable tragedy,” he said through stiffened lips. “But nothing can be done. The desert eats people alive and after a few days without water or shade or reliable transportation, survival is impossible.”

I leaned forward. “How do you know they didn’t have any of those things?”

“It’s simple, Inez,” he said quietly. “If they did, then they’d still be alive.”

Two waiters came to the table, laden with steaming dishes. They placed the food before us, correctly remembering who ordered what, and then left us to enjoy the meal.

“Should we wait for Mr. Hayes?”

Tío Ricardo shook his head. “Eat your dinner while it’s still hot.”

I took several bites, and though everything tasted divine, I hardly noticed. My uncle’s behavior cut deep into my skin. While traveling on the ship carrying me from Argentina to Africa, I had dreamed of a reunion in which he’d welcome me with open arms. He was family, after all. Together we’d work through what had happened and then he might take me under his wing in the same way he had my parents. His refusal had struck a nerve close to my heart. He wouldn’t talk to me, and he didn’t want me here. I took a sip of wine, thinking furiously. How could I persuade him to answer my questions about my parents?

I thought about the golden ring Papá had sent, and the way Mr. Sterling had ogled it as if it were a diamond. An idea struck, brilliant like a lit match against shadows.

“Mamá mentioned you have a boat.”

My uncle inclined his head. “A recent acquisition.”

“And what pharaoh did you name it after?”

“I chose the name Elephantine,” he said. “After an island near Aswan.”

“How curious!” I said, taking another sip. The wine tasted sharp. “I would have thought you’d choose something like … Cleopatra.”

Tío Ricardo smiled small, and then said, “I have a little more imagination than that.”

“A fascinating character in Egyptian history, wouldn’t you say?”

He paused lifting his fork to his mouth. “What do you know about her?”

I weighed my next words carefully. My idea felt tenuous; one wrong slip and he might continue to dismiss me. But if I could surprise him, show him that I was familiar with his life’s work, and somehow allude that my parents told me more than he knew, perhaps he might let me stay.

I threw down the gauntlet.

“She loved two powerful men and bore them children. She was a brilliant strategist, and knew how to raise a fleet, and she spoke ancient Egyptian when none of her ancestors had bothered to learn.” I leaned forward and whispered, “But that’s not all, isn’t that right, Tío Ricardo?”

“What are you talking about, querida?”

I leaned forward even more, inclining my head. He matched my posture with an amused eye roll. Very slowly, I cupped my palm around my mouth and whispered into his ear, “You’re looking for Cleopatra’s tomb.”

WHIT

I followed the pair into the lobby, taking care to keep far enough away so they wouldn’t see me, but close enough that they were still in my line of sight. Not that either of them would expect to be followed. They strode out into the night and paused on the open terrace of Shepheard’s, overlooking the busy Cairo street. Four-wheeled broughams carried tourists away into the night, while donkeys with henna-stained manes cluttered the path. I hid in the shadows, near a potted palm, within hearing range of my marks. Neither disappointed my efforts.

Sir Evelyn snapped his fingers and one of the hotel attendants rushed over. He ordered a carriage and the young worker rushed off to do his bidding.

“He’s only grown more intolerable,” Sir Evelyn muttered. “I don’t know how you can bear his arrogance.”

“Mr. Marqués is usually quite charming and there’s no denying his expertise, or that of his business partner—”

“Who is an uneducated Egyptian.”

Monsieur Maspero made a noise of protest at the back of his throat. “I believe he has studied extensively abroad—”

“Not,” Sir Evelyn began in a flat voice, “where it matters.”

“You mean in England,” Monsieur Maspero said in a slightly disapproving voice.

The Englishman didn’t notice. “You should take my advice and bar their ability to work in Egypt. They are unpredictable and can’t be controlled. If there’s another ‘Urabi revolt, trust that Ricardo and Abdullah will be in support of it. Them and the disingenuous Mr. Hayes.”

I clenched my fists, forced myself to breathe slowly though my blood had begun to riot in my veins. The revolt had been led by Egyptian nationalists, but they lost the battle against Britain two years earlier. And now the country was under England’s dominant thumb.

“I can’t without grounds,” Monsieur Maspero said.

“You have many!” Sir Evelyn spat. “His refusal to comply with our methods, his failing to report any of his findings, his vague and unsatisfying explanations into Abdullah’s digging plans. He’s a loose cannon who won’t play by our rules.”

“I’m not convinced his methods are all that untoward.”

Sir Evelyn turned to face his companion with an air of disbelief. He seemed to visibly work to restrain himself from shouting, his mouth opening and closing. “If you need proof, I can acquire it.”

Monsieur Maspero shifted on his feet, and nervously twirled his mustache. “Here! I believe the carriage comes.”

But Sir Evelyn reached out and gripped his arm, his face turning a mottled red. He was like acetone drawing near a flame, readying to explode. His next words were a shout. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“I did,” Monsieur Maspero said quietly. And then he said something else I didn’t catch, not with the noise of another party moving out into the terrace from indoors.

“I have the perfect man in place, and I already have agents at Aswan to assist him. He can gather whatever you need,” Sir Evelyn said.

The words set my teeth on edge. Aswan was a little too close to Philae for my comfort. I shifted, drawing out of the shadows, trying to get a better view of the Frenchman’s face. But whatever he’d said I missed it. The pair walked forward and down the steps, and ultimately climbed into a carriage. Sir Evelyn turned his head halfway, as if finally realizing they might have been overheard. It didn’t matter, he wouldn’t see me. And besides, I’d heard enough.

Sir Evelyn had a ready spy on his hands.



EPÍLOGO

Porter looked out onto the Mediterranean Sea, the telegram clenched in his hand. The paper was creased from frequent reading, but still he held on to it as if it were a lifeline. He supposed that it was. His fellow passengers were crowding the deck, every one of them eager for the first sight of Alexandria’s port. He read the short message for the hundredth time.

INEZ FELL FOR IT.

It had been an abysmal crossing. But it didn’t matter anymore.

Whit had kept his word.

And now it was time to collect.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ISABEL IBAÑEZ is the author of Together We Burn (Wednesday Books) and Woven in Moonlight (Page Street), listed among Time magazine’s 100 Best Fantasy Books of All Time. She is the proud daughter of Bolivian immigrants and has a profound appreciation for history and traveling. She currently lives in Asheville, North Carolina, with her husband, their adorable dog, and a serious collection of books. Say hi on social media: @IsabelWriter09. You can sign up for email updates here.




WHAT THE RIVER KNOWS. Copyright © 2023 by Isabel Ibañez. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.