Where the Library Hides (Secrets of the Nile #2)

Capítulo Cinco

CAPíTULO CINCO

Something soft brushed against the back of my neck. The slightest glide across sensitive skin. I kept my eyes closed, sure I was dreaming and that the minute I woke, the sensation would stop. But a strong arm was wrapped around my waist, tucking me close against a broad chest. I’d left the balcony open, and cool air drifted through the tight weave of the mosquito net wrapping around the bed like a cocoon. I opened one of my eyes, squinting at the gossamer fabric, making out the hazy paint strokes of dawn.

“Buenos días,” Whit murmured against my hair.

I shivered, tucking myself closer to his warmth. Memories from last night played through my mind, one moment after another. The heat from Whit’s hands as he explored every inch of my body. His kisses that made it hard to think, made my head spin and spin. The sharp ache when he first moved inside me, and it fading, becoming something that took over my body. Indescribable. He’d been gentle but possessive. Patient, and yet I felt his urgency in the noises he made, his soft gasps against my mouth. It seemed too incredible to be real. “Am I dreaming?” I asked in a marveling tone. “Did yesterday really happen?”

“I hope so, or I have no business being in your bed.”

I smiled against the pillow. “Were you able to sleep at all?”

“Of course not.” He stretched and pulled me closer and then sneezed when my hair tickled his nose. “I woke up wanting you throughout the night.”

I blushed. “Oh.”

Whit laughed, his thumb drawing light circles against my ribs, before slowly drifting upward. “I can’t believe I have a wife.” He pressed a soft kiss to my ear.

The enormity of what we’d done stretched out before me, as if our future were a ribbon unspooled. “What do you want to do?”

Whit paused, his thumb resting in the crook of my shoulder. “This minute?” He sounded amused. “The rest of the day? Or in general?”

I turned in his arms, curious and hardly believing we hadn’t discussed what came after the wedding. After I dealt with my mother, we had our whole lives ahead of us. The world was our oyster, as the saying went. I smiled, and Whit stared at me, brow furrowed.

“What is going on in that head of yours?”

“The world is our oyster,” I explained.

“Ah,” he whispered. “Shakespeare again.”

I trailed my finger along his jaw, following the hard line to his stubborn chin I drew months ago. “You’ve been a soldier, and a spy for my uncle. We have means now, and we can do whatever we want.” I licked my lips. “What do you want to do with your life?”

“I think the better question is what do you want to do? It’s your fortune.”

“It’s ours,” I said, because I didn’t want to start our marriage as if we were on different sides. I’d been cut off from my parents for so long, untethered and unsure of where I stood or where I belonged. All I wanted was to be a part of something he and I created together. A family. My mother had broken ours. My cousin’s face flashed through my mind, and grief surfaced, potent like strong liquor. For once, I didn’t want something I touched to smash into a million pieces.

“Inez, what do you want?”

“I want to know what happened to my father,” I whispered. “I want to know if he’s alive, or where he’s buried. Elvira—” My breath caught in my chest, and I swallowed hard. “Elvira died because of my mother,” I said. “I want her in prison. I want justice.”

“None of that costs money.”

“It’ll cost something to track her down.”

Whit shrugged. “You only need to find the right people.” He rubbed his thumb across my lower lip. “What about afterward?”

There was something that I hadn’t yet put into words. A feeling that stuck close whenever I walked the streets of Egypt. It was telling me to pay attention to my sense of wonder, the stimulating challenge in slowly learning a new language, the warmth and hospitality of the people here. Egypt had sunk deep into my bones, and I knew I’d miss her always. But what if… I called her home? What if we called her home? Working alongside my uncle and Abdullah had brought me joy. To work as a team and support what they were doing had given me purpose. A sense of rightness. I pushed my thoughts out into the open for the first time. “I want to stay in Egypt and fund Abdullah’s excavations. Perhaps purchase a home in Cairo.”

“You’d want to live here?” Whit asked, each word drawn out slowly, as if to make sure he had understood me fully. A tentative smile tiptoed across his face.

“I can’t picture calling anywhere else home,” I admitted. “What about you?”

“I was always supposed to return to England, so I didn’t let myself hope or expect anything different. Much like I hadn’t expected to be married to you.”

“Married,” I whispered. “Tengo un esposo.”

“Yes, you do.”

I’d forgotten he could understand me when I spoke my first language. A pleasant thrill sparked across my skin. This was how it would be between us. Slow early mornings and whispered conversation. He made me laugh, and he was loyal. I trusted him. “How good is your Spanish?”

Whit rose above me, guiding me onto my back. My pulse quickened, stirring my blood. His hair fell in soft waves across his brow, a tangled mess. The broad expanse of his shoulders blocked everything else. Sleepy blue eyes gazed at me, awake but not alert. A lazy smile deepened the corners of his mouth. He bent down, his soft lips gently parting mine, sinking into the kiss with a quiet ferocity, nibbling and tasting.

It was still dark in the room, and it felt like we were in a dream, until I felt his body wake up slowly, his breath coming out fast, his hand sliding down my neck and farther down still.

“Debería practicar más,” he said, his mouth moving against my collarbone.

“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about. A delightful haze had swept through my mind, and I wanted to never come out of it. I would have been fine to be lost forever. No map necessary.

Whit lifted his head, grinning, and I detected a hint of smugness. He moved against me, the long line of him cradled between my thighs, and my breath caught. His smile grew, no more hinting.

I narrowed my gaze. “You’re awfully pleased with yourself.”

“I said,” he whispered, pausing to nip my chin, and then repeated in Spanish, “that I needed to practice more.”

The words were right, but his accent needed work. “You ought to speak Spanish with Tío Ricardo.”

At the mention of my uncle’s name, we both froze. Whit dropped lower, nearly crushing me, and groaned against my neck. Then he lifted and flung himself backward against his pillow.

His voice was flat. “Ricardo.”

“We have to tell him today.”

Whit stared up at the ceiling and nodded. “This morning.”

“He’ll be furious,” I said. “He might hire a doctor; he might push for a divorce.”

Whit slowly turned his head toward mine and met my eyes. His voice was a murderous whisper. “No one is going to dictate my life, Inez.” He tugged me close, and I placed my ear over his heart. The rhythm was steady. “No one.”

I believed him.

We walked down the stairs to the second floor without touching, without speaking. With every step, Whit changed his demeanor in subtle ways, slipping on the mask he wore in front of everyone. The careless rogue who kept a flask within reach, the charming flirt who knew how to coax smiles. This version of Whit was familiar, but I missed the one I’d uncovered in the dark. That Whit held me close, and his words lost their sharp, cynical edge.

We reached a dark green painted door, etched in curls and spirals, but before I could knock, Whit reached for my pinky with his own and held it for the length of a heartbeat. And even though he held on to me with just one finger, I felt connected to him. We were in this together.

Whit released me and opened the door, stepping through first. We were greeted by a messy sitting room. Old newspapers were stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, and there were several trays of uneaten food: pita bread and hummus, bowls of fava beans stewed in tomato broth. Empty coffee mugs littered nearly every surface area.

The room smelled of stale air and male sweat.

I wrinkled my nose. I had tried to keep up with the mess, but Tío Ricardo howled at any interference. He permitted me to sit beside him for a few minutes, but then he would order me from the room to pack.

Whit knocked on the bedroom door, and my uncle’s grunt sent my nerves into a tailspin. My breath shuddered, and Whit must have heard because he pulled me back from the closed door.

“I can tell him on my own,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be here.”

“We’re a team,” I said.

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can,” I said, rising on my tiptoes. I pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

He held my hand. “Together, then.”

Whit opened the bedroom door and stepped through. If the sitting area was a mess, the state of my uncle’s bedroom was a catastrophe. Clothes were strewn everywhere, his boots had been flung near the window, and scores of books were scattered on the bed. Several empty mugs lined the windowsill, and there was a plate of uneaten toast on the nightstand. I grimaced and made a mental note to tidy up the space.

“Oh, good. You left your tickets on the table. They’re in an envelope over there. Have you packed yet?” my uncle asked, focused on a stack of papers in his lap. He hadn’t shaved in days, giving him the look of a surly grizzly bear. He wore striped pajamas that were faded, the cuffs frayed. It looked like something my mother would have given him. She liked to look after him because he would never do so himself. At the thought of her, fury rose like a billowing sand cloud. I couldn’t think of her without remembering Elvira.

I shoved Lourdes far from my mind.

Whit opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.

“As I’ve told you, I’m staying in Egypt.”

“And as I’ve repeatedly told you ,” my uncle said, lifting his gaze to meet mine. He threw the pile of papers off to the side, and the sheets fanned in every direction, a few falling off the bed. “I’m your guardian, and you’ll do as I say. I would prefer not to send another coffin back to Argentina.” He opened his mouth to say more but froze. His attention had drifted down to our clasped hands. All the color left his face, leaving him stark pale. His expression turned to astonished rage. “ Whitford .”

“We have news,” Whit said, and for once he wasn’t smiling or winking. His manner had the seriousness of a man walking through a cemetery, grave and respectful.

“Step away from her.”

Whit tightened his hold. My uncle registered the movement and swung the bedding away, feet coming down hard on the rug. He stood, swaying slightly, but then stumbled around the bed.

“No, don’t—” I exclaimed.

Whit maneuvered me behind him as Tío Ricardo raised his fist. Whit didn’t try to stop the hit—I heard the loud smack as my uncle punched my husband in the face. Whit staggered, and it took both of my hands to keep him upright.

“What have you done?” Ricardo boomed. “You promised me you wouldn’t—”

“He made me a promise, too,” I said.

“Inez,” Whit warned, wiping the blood from his lip. “Not yet—”

Ricardo’s hazel eyes widened. “Carajo,” he said just as I trilled, “We’re married!”

The words boomed like cannon fire, exploding all around us. I was amazed the walls didn’t tremble, that the floors didn’t crack.

“No,” Ricardo said, dropping onto the bed. “ No .”

Anger radiated off him in strong waves. He launched to his feet, one hand raised—but Whit sidestepped and used my uncle’s momentum to whirl him around and away from us.

“It’s done,” Whit said.

“It isn’t,” Tío Ricardo spat out. “I’ll have it annulled.”

“Too late,” I said cheerfully. “I’m ruined.”

“Inez.” Whit groaned. “Bloody hell.”

Tío Ricardo swung around, his eyes wild. “You’re lying—another one of your tricks!” He came toward me, hands outstretched as if he wanted to throttle me.

But Whit stepped between us. “You can yell at me,” he said quietly. “You can be disappointed, feel betrayed. But you do not raise your voice at my wife. If you want someone to battle, you battle with me, Ricardo.”

“I’ll send for a doctor,” he said, jabbing his index finger in my direction. “See that I won’t! You’re bluffing.”

“Do it,” I said, lifting my chin. “But you won’t like the results.”

My uncle appeared thunderstruck. Slowly, the angry bafflement cleared from his expression, leaving total desperation. I instinctively guessed that he was recalling every time I had put him through hell since I’d arrived in Egypt.

There were several occasions.

“Oh my God,” Tío Ricardo said. “ Dios .” He fell back onto the bed, his shoulders shaking. When he spoke again, his voice was flat and devoid of any emotion. “I will undo it.”

“I could be pregnant,” I said, this time less cheerfully.

The blood drained from Whit’s face. “Good God, Inez.”

My uncle pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly fighting for some semblance of control. I hadn’t expected the news would actually wound him. I expected his fury, but not his profound concern. In my anger, I’d just assumed this was about control. But I’d been mistaken. My uncle cared for my well-being, and he genuinely didn’t want to see me hurt. Whether by my mother’s machinations or by Whit.

Whit shot me a look, exasperated. “Could you try for tact?”

“He doesn’t understand tact,” I said, forcing myself to remember my uncle’s high-handedness. If he hadn’t pushed me, then I wouldn’t have married Whit in secret. It was his domineering behavior that had left me with no recourse. I’d only had two real choices.

Leave Egypt or marry.

“Maybe if you could try not to terrify everyone in this room, me included , the conversation might move in a more productive direction.”

I faced my uncle. “You’ll have to accept it.”

“He doesn’t deserve you. Whit doesn’t have a penny to his name, and when I found him, he was a drunk. He didn’t know what year it was.”

“He told me,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true. I hadn’t precisely known my new husband was penniless, not that it mattered. I needed his name. A husband.

“Whitford shares enough of himself to let you think he’s being vulnerable,” my uncle said wearily. “But he only lets you see what he wants you to see.”

I felt as if I were standing atop a tower, and with every sentence, my uncle was removing a block. If he kept going, the whole structure would crumble. And I’d be buried underneath the rubble.

“I know enough,” I said, my voice warbling at the edges. Whit had talked to me of his family, his past, the friendship he’d lost, and his disillusionment with his years in the militia. I snuck a glance at him, startled to find him completely stone-faced and withdrawn.

“You don’t know him.” Tío Ricardo jabbed a finger in the direction of my husband. “Tell her I’m right.”

I flinched, his words grating against my skin. I didn’t know how to protect myself from them because a small part of me worried about the same exact thing. Our marriage was like shifting sand in my palm. Our tenuous connection might slip through my fingers.

With visible effort, Whit met the criticism with a grin that reminded me of the sliver of light reflecting off the surface of his gun. He wore it like a weapon. “I didn’t know you thought so little of me.”

My uncle might never realize how he’d hurt Whit with his careless words, but I did. Now that I knew where to look, I could see the subtle display of pain in his tightened jaw, the rigid shoulders. A muscle jumped in his cheek. But he would not defend himself. He’d take every accusation, every blow to his character and honor with a detachment that was painful to watch.

This was how Whit survived.

He shut himself away and buried his wounds. Hid behind a bottle of whiskey, a quicksilver grin and caustic wit, a wall of cynical blocks that shielded him from the world before it could hurt him again.

“Did you get married in a church?” Tío Ricardo asked suddenly.

“We did,” I said. “With a chaplain.”

My uncle smiled. “It isn’t legal yet, Inez.”

“I sent a telegram to my brother,” Whit said. “He’ll file accordingly, and the banns will be read. It’s all over England by now. Lord Somerset broke his betrothal agreement and is officially off the marriage market.”

I shot him a questioning glance. I hadn’t seen him send anything of the sort. But then, we hadn’t been together the whole time. He could have sent it in the morning after he had woken me up. Whit didn’t meet my eye, and realization dawned. Perhaps he was lying? Yes, it had to be a ruse meant for my uncle.

Tío Ricardo seemed at a loss with this information, and I silently cheered Whit’s quick thinking. Then my uncle swayed forward, and I automatically gripped his elbow, steadying him. He still looked much too pale, and his clothes hung off his slighter frame. He’d lost weight since he’d been struck by that bullet. I knew that he’d been given excellent care, along with some maple syrup that had a touch of an old healing spell attached to it. The physician had shown me the bottle himself.

“I’ll never forgive you,” he said.

I was about to ask if he had spoken to me or Whit, but I held my tongue. It didn’t matter who. “I know this was a shock, but I made my decision. My inheritance is my own, and you are released from all guardian responsibilities. I’m free to stay in Egypt, and I’ll hear not another word about it, or my marriage to Whit. It’s done.”

Someone knocked on the main door of the suite, and the noise momentarily threw me. We had seemed out to sea, cut off from land, the three of us trying to stay afloat when there was a hole the size of a crater in our raft.

Whit left the room and came back a moment later carrying something in his hand. He brought it to Tío Ricardo. “It’s a telegram for you.”

My uncle ripped it open and pulled out the sheet, reading the curt lines quickly and bellowing a loud curse. He flung it away, and it landed on the bed.

The note read,

I NEED YOU IN PHILAE STOP DISASTER COME QUICK STOP brING A DOCTOR STOP

ABDULLAH

“I don’t understand,” I cried. “Is he ill? What could have happened?”

“He would never send such a message if it wasn’t serious.” Tío Ricardo stomped to his trunk and flung his shirts inside. He bent to retrieve his boots, but he let out a sharp groan, immediately touching his injured arm. I rushed forward to help him, folding his shirts to prevent additional wrinkles. Whit’s arm appeared across my vision as I packed, and I startled, lifting my gaze. Whit was handing me my uncle’s jacket, a pair of pants, and several pairs of socks.

“I can take care of my own things,” my uncle grunted. “I’m not helpless.”

Whit and I ignored him, working together to finish the task. He threw in two pocketknives, matches, several Egyptian notes, my uncle’s reading glasses. I folded in his toothbrush and powder, along with clean bandage rolls.

“I think you ought to reconsider going,” I said. “You’re still recovering. Why don’t Whit and I go? I’m sure that we—”

“No,” my uncle interrupted. “Whit and I will go, and you’ll stay here.”

My uncle’s ability to annoy me knew no bounds. His repeated attempts to leave me behind or send me away grated, as if he’d tried using a blunt knife against my skin.

“Where Whit goes, I go.”

My husband nodded imperceptibly. “Don’t forget his medicine, pocket watch, and that bottle of maple syrup. You ought to pack an extra blanket for the chilly evenings. He’s weaker from the wound.”

“Practical,” I said.

“Prepared,” he countered.

“Same thing.”

My uncle raised his voice, clearly tired of being left out of the conversation. “This won’t be a leisurely voyage up the Nile on a dahabeeyah, Inez.”

“We go together,” I said stubbornly.

Tío Ricardo grimaced and addressed my husband. “We need to get there quickly, so we’ll travel partway by train and the rest by camel.” He clenched his fist. “Remember what you owe me.”

Whit let out an annoyed huff and then motioned for me to follow him out of my uncle’s bedroom. I did so, dread pooling in my stomach.

I shut the door behind us for privacy.

Whit faced me, his hands deep in his pockets. “He’s right. You’ll slow us down, and the most important thing is we get to Abdullah in time.”

His words didn’t register at first. He wouldn’t say such nonsense to me, he couldn’t. I stared at him incredulously. “I’ll slow you down? I practically run everywhere.”

“You know what I meant.”

I stiffened. “I’m afraid I don’t. I have two legs same as you, don’t I?” Frustration made my eyes burn with tears.

He didn’t notice or he pretended not to see. Either way, he continued speaking, but the words seemed to blur together. “You’ve never ridden a camel,” he said. “The train ride is miserable and hot, and that’s just on the way to Aswan. Then we must trek through the desert, sleeping in tents. No, wait—one tent. Singular. We can’t carry too much.”

My lips parted. Whit was going to leave me behind, alone.

“You’re not serious.”

He stared at me gravely and raised his eyebrows suggestively. “I am.”

“You actually want me to stay behind.”

Whit nodded. “Correct.”

My uncle was right. I didn’t know my new husband at all. “You’re going to do what you want no matter what I say, aren’t you?” I said with an airy swipe of my hand. “As if I hadn’t proved my capabilities or worked hard enough—”

“Inez.” Whit glanced meaningfully toward my uncle’s door, his brows rising suggestively again. “It’s not about that. Ricardo needs time, and I think the distance will help. I’ll work on him, talk to him, and when I return, I think he’ll have gotten used to the idea of our marriage.”

What logical reasoning. Everything he said made sense, but I still hated every word of it. “But—”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Whit said abruptly. “I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.”

“When we got married, I hoped that we would be on the same side.”

“We are.”

I met his gaze levelly. “No, you just made a decision without me. That’s not what a teammate does.” I swallowed hard, giving him time to respond. When he didn’t, I walked to the door leading out of my uncle’s suite, my back straight. “Have a safe trip, Whit,” I muttered, exiting the room before he could see the extent of my hurt. I stomped down the hallway, folding my arms across my chest, absolutely raging. If he didn’t know how much I hated not to be included, to be ordered around as if I had no opinion or voice or—

Quick footsteps behind me.

“ Inez .”

Oh no—I was not ready to hear more directives from him. I marched on, faster now, but Whit hooked his hand around my elbow and swung me to face him.

“We have got to work on our communication,” he said, exasperated.

“Oh, I heard what you said,” I fumed. “ I’m not going to change my mind . No confusion there, Mr. Hayes. I’ll have you know that I don’t appreciate the pompous—”

“Usually you catch on quickly,” Whit was saying. “How many times did I have to look over at your uncle’s door—”

“—behavior with no thought to what I feel—”

“—where he was obviously listening—”

We both broke off at the same time.

“What?” Whit asked. “Pompous behavior?”

I blinked. “Catch on quickly? My uncle was listening at the door?”

We stared at each other in bafflement.

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Whit asked.

“What are you?”

He began laughing, gasping loudly, shoulders shaking. He bent over, taking deep breaths to compose himself. Except I was still frowning, and when he got another look at my face, he doubled over again, laughing. Whit released my arm and wiped his eyes, needing the corridor wall to help keep him on his feet. “Did you call me pompous?” he asked between breaths.

“You were acting like it,” I said.

“I was only saying what your uncle wanted to hear,” Whit said, still grinning, “because I could hear him shuffling around near the door. My God, you’re no better than he is.”

“Oh,” I said, finally understanding, my mood brightening considerably. Whit didn’t want to be parted from me just yet. “You do want me to join.”

He slowly shook his head, and my sudden elation deserted me. But he stepped forward and placed his hands on my shoulders, and his next words made everything better.

“Actually, what do you think about going through his room while we’re gone?”

WHIT

We took the train as far as Aswan, Ricardo only speaking to me when absolutely necessary. To be fair, he appeared ill the whole of the journey; every jolt of the carriage left him reeling and sweating. But no matter how sick he felt, he somehow managed to glare at me at regular intervals. If he’d had a gun on him, he would have shot me—I was sure of it. I saw so much of Inez in him I couldn’t quite meet his accusing eyes.

I knew one day she’d look at me the same if my plan failed.

Ricardo slumped over the side of the boat that carried us to Philae. The river lapped against us in gentle waves, but even so, he regularly threw up into the river. The sun’s glare was relentless, and sweat dripped down my back. It was hotter during the day in Aswan than in Cairo, despite it being winter.

“Maybe I should have come alone,” I said as I rowed.

Ricardo wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Estoy bien.”

I fell silent, hearing the dismissive tone. But I had told Inez I’d speak with him, so I stopped rowing, dragged the oars onto my lap. “You can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

He sighed, rubbed his eyes as if he wanted to rid them of the sight of me. I never thought he’d embrace the idea of the two of us, but I hadn’t believed he’d thought so low of me.

A drunk and a womanizer and a liar. Out for a good time and nothing else. Sneaky and secretive. It was something my father used to say. Probably still would if we were ever in the same room again.

“I’m disappointed in you, Whit,” Ricardo said. “You took advantage of her.”

There was no way around that, so I kept silent. I got the sense that he knew the truth, and I forced my face into a nonchalant expression. Maybe he’d think I was hoping to avoid an argument. Part of me was, but the other railed at his dismal opinion. His disappointment made me want to howl, made me want the bottle.

“I see you won’t deny it.”

“Everything will work out,” I said through gritted teeth.

Ricardo regarded me stonily. “Now that you have access to her fortune, you mean.”

For fuck’s sake. I shifted on the wooden seat. Philae came into view, the temple rising high above the water. It never failed to pull a gasp from me. Ricardo flicked a glance over his shoulder, but then he faced me once again. He wouldn’t let me ignore him.

“I know what I’m doing,” I said finally. “I have a plan.”

“Which is?”

“None of your business.”

“She’s my niece.”

“I know,” I said. “And she’s my wife.”

A muscle ticked in Ricardo’s jaw. “If you hurt her…”

He didn’t need to finish. I understood perfectly. Ricardo would make me rue the day I ever laid eyes on Inez Emilia Olivera.

As if I didn’t already.

I dipped both oars into the water and rowed us to the island shore. Ricardo stumbled over the side and began dragging the boat up the bank. I’d never met anyone so stubborn in my life, except, of course, for my wife. But I kept my mouth shut and helped him with the task. That done, I went up the gentle slope, careful to avoid the jutting rocks rising from the packed earth, Ricardo trailing after me, breathing heavily. We passed the spot where I told Inez I was leaving for England. The look on her face, the utter resignation.

Bloody hell.

The mess I was in.

“Abdullah!” Ricardo yelled as he reached the seemingly abandoned campsite. Sand nearly covered the fire pit, and even from where I stood, I caught sight of the ransacked headquarters, crates overturned, empty bottles half-buried, the crate of magic-touched objects pillaged. “What the hell is going on here?”

I squinted, using my hand to shade my eyes from the fierce glare of the sun. The hot sand scalded the leather of my boots, but I barely noticed. Where there ought to have been dozens of workers digging or enjoying the noon meal, there were none. The tents had all been torn apart, and there were stretches of sand stained with blood.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Don’t just stand there; help me look for them,” Ricardo said, stumbling off in the direction of the temple.

I searched Trajan’s Kiosk, a temple dating back to Emperor Trajan, maybe even as far back to Emperor Augustus, but there was no one underground, no one shoveling or picking their way through the tunnel. I climbed up the hidden stairs and walked back to the campsite. Perhaps someone had left a note. But there was nothing. Only the hallmarks of a fight—equipment stolen, blood on the sand. Without warning, memories flooded my senses. Anguished screaming, the sound of horses shrieking in pain, the clang of steel against steel. My breath turned cold in my chest, and I rubbed my arms.

Hold it together .

A soft groan came from the stone structure we’d used as makeshift rooms. I spun, veering toward it as a figure stumbled out of one of them. His eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks hollowed out.

“Thank God,” Abdullah said in Arabic. “I hoped you’d be here days ago.”

“We came as soon as your telegraph arrived.” I peered at him, anxious. His clothing had seen better days—his shirt and right jacket sleeve were ripped. A bruise on his cheek bloomed an angry dark purple. “You look awful.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not fine,” I said. “Have you been sleeping here? Alone?”

“I know, I know.” Abdullah wiped his sweating brow. “If Farida knew, she’d be furious with me.”

“Abdullah!” Footsteps thundered as Ricardo stomped toward us. His cotton shirt clung to him like second skin, soaked in sweat. “Her tomb! It’s all… it’s all—” He broke off with a hoarse cry, his gaze latching on to his brother-in-law’s battered state. “Dios mío, ?qué te pasó?”

Abdullah frowned. “Why are you bleeding?”

“I was shot,” Ricardo said, pale and sweating, holding his arm. It was clear I needed to take control of the situation. I immediately went to his side and inspected his shirt. His bandage was soiled again. I rubbed my eyes, muttering curses to myself. Ricardo didn’t notice, his attention still fixed on Abdullah. “Where is everyone?”

“They left after the attack on the campsite,” he said, tugging at his graying beard. “So many were injured.”

“Let me help you,” Ricardo panted. “You need medical attention.”

“Sit down before you fall over,” I snapped at him. “You have to help yourself, too. Let’s go to the boat. I brought supplies and your medicine that will help you both, and Abdullah will tell us what the fuck happened.”

“Why haven’t you gone to a doctor, Abdullah?” Ricardo demanded.

Pot, meet kettle. I barely restrained my eye roll.

“I couldn’t leave camp until you got here,” Abdullah said. He had the good sense to sound sheepish, before turning grim. “Even if it’s all gone.”

“ What? ” I asked sharply, trying to herd them both toward the river. They were worse than cats. “What did you say?”

“Cleopatra’s tomb was ransacked. Everything has been stolen,” Ricardo confirmed dully. “The sarcophagus, all the statues, the jewelry. Gone.”

“Christ.” My gaze swung to Abdullah. “Who attacked the camp?”

Abdullah licked his dry lips. “It was Mr. Fincastle.”

Then his eyes rolled heavenward, and he keeled over. Ricardo lunged for him as I turned away and sprinted to the boat, my heels kicking up sand. Behind me, Ricardo shouted at his brother-in-law, demanding that he wake up and not frighten the hell out of him.

I swear to God the pair of them would send me to an early grave.

By the time I’d gotten both of them settled, given them medicine, and rewrapped Ricardo’s wound in fresh bandages, they were both stable enough to move. Abdullah had woken a few times and now fitfully slept as I rowed us away from Philae.

Ricardo’s normally tanned face was pale and wan and half turned away from me as we left the island. Despair worked itself across his lined brow, deepening the grooves. “He’ll be all right,” he said.

I would have replied, but I didn’t think he was speaking to me. His voice was a murmur, barely loud enough to hear over the sound of the river pulsing around us. Ricardo abruptly turned away from the sight of the temple, rubbing his eyes.

“He took everything,” he said. “Hundreds of artifacts and every single roll of parchment. I never got the chance to read any of them.” His shoulders slumped. “He has the Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra—I’m sure of it.”

Without thinking, I shook my head and said, “He doesn’t.”

Ricardo slowly straightened, pierced me with an intense glare. “?Cómo sabes?”

The devil damn me. If I weren’t so tired, so worried about the pair of them, I would have stayed silent. But there would be no putting Ricardo off. “Because I went looking for it first.”

“Why?” His voice was frigid. Not even the sun at noon would be able to melt the icy edges.

I rowed harder, hating his disappointment, his censure. “Besides the obvious?”

Ricardo eyed me shrewdly. “That’s why you wouldn’t go home when the first letter from your parents came?”

I hesitated. “One of the reasons.”

“If the alchemical sheet isn’t here, then where is it?” Ricardo mused.

That was the question that had been plaguing me every waking hour.

And I would do anything to know the answer.