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

Capítulo Seis

CAPíTULO SEIS

I tossed the smelliest of my uncle’s socks over my shoulder and moved farther under his bed. My full skirt made the movement less than graceful, and I tugged hard at the material. I found abandoned ties and sand-coated boots, but nothing else of significance. I hissed out a breath and clumsily slid out before standing, brushing the sleeves of my jacket to rid them of the worst of the dust balls. I had already gone through all of his books and looked through the desk in his suite. I’d found nothing that would tell me more about my mother.

Hands on my hips, I glanced around his bedroom with narrowed eyes. Surely there was something here that my uncle didn’t want me to know. When Whit explained that he didn’t trust my uncle to share everything he knew or remembered about my mother’s double life, I understood what he wouldn’t say to my face. He had been nonchalant, but I could read him better now.

Because of me , Tío Ricardo now didn’t trust him .

Our marriage was a betrayal and one my uncle wouldn’t forgive so easily, if ever. He wouldn’t confide or plan or scheme with Whit anymore. My uncle had lost an ally, someone who would do what was demanded of him, no questions asked. Their relationship broke, and Whit would pay for it with my uncle’s cold and aloof behavior.

What I didn’t know was how exactly Whit felt about it.

If I asked, he’d probably tell me some variation of the truth, but my instincts told me that he’d want to spare my feelings. I wished that he wouldn’t, but that was a conversation for later.

I sat on the bed, fingers curling around the sheets until they brushed up against a sharp corner. Frowning, I looked down, realizing that my hand had found a pillowcase.

A pillowcase filled with something other than feathers.

“Hello, secret something,” I breathed, dumping the contents onto the bed.

But there was only one thing hidden inside. A journal, its cover decorated with painted peonies. It belonged to my mother, and I had read it before when the Elephantine had been struck by a sandstorm. Now I knew Mamá had filled every page with lies about my uncle. He was violent and abusive, up to his arms in criminal activities, and intent on stealing precious artifacts.

None of it was true. Why, then, did my uncle insist on hiding my mother’s journal?

And even more curious, why would he keep it at all?

After I moved all my belongings from my parents’ suite—gracias a Dios I had already packed most of it—into Whit’s much smaller room, I turned to the next item on my list.

More packing.

I had put off sorting through all of my parents’ things long enough, and now that I didn’t have their room, I could no longer put it off. All their clothes went back into their trunks, along with a myriad of other things, and I called up one of the hotel attendants to carry them into Whit’s room, which was quickly becoming crowded with stacks of books and several purchases my parents had acquired. They had bought rugs and lanterns, alabaster statues of the pyramids and cats, and several jars of essential oils. There was barely any room to walk between the narrow bed and nightstand and the old wooden dresser. Whit’s once-tidy room now looked like an attic where things went to be forgotten. He’d hate the clutter.

What we needed was a bigger room, and I would have gone straight to the bank to withdraw money, but I couldn’t without Whit—my husband now had total control over my inheritance as permitted by law.

I scowled as I sorted through the mess, dividing everything into two piles: one meant for Argentina and the other for donation. It ought to have come as no surprise to anyone that one pile was larger than the other. I just couldn’t bring myself to part with Papá’s books, or his collection of Shakespeare’s plays, or his suits. Maybe Whit could wear them? No, that wouldn’t work. Whit stood six inches taller than my father.

I’d have to give it all away.

By the third day, I was so emotionally drained by the task that I became more ruthless with where everything would end up. I was giving away every last thing of my mother’s, and I didn’t feel any grief over it. Elvira would applaud my decision with a witty quip about Mamá’s poor taste. She’d be making me laugh or annoying me by trying on my mother’s dresses. She never thought of herself as particularly funny, but she’d made me chuckle easily. It was her outlook, a way to see the quirks of the world. Grief settled over me, blanketing everything I saw and touched with a sense of gloom that I couldn’t shake. Elvira ought to be here in the room with me.

I sat down on the plush bed and pulled my mother’s journal into my lap, staring down at it morosely. I’d found nothing useful since Whit had left, and I hated not having any sense of where my mother could have gone. The only thing I felt certain of was that she wouldn’t have left Egypt—not with the artifacts she stole. It was too risky for her to move such quantities without drawing notice.

Although… Mamá clearly had many connections in Cairo. Someone could be assisting her—her and the trunks filled with Cleopatra’s belongings.

With a sigh, I flipped through the pages of her journal, reading bits at a time as I went. There were many entries of her day-to-day life, things she did or saw, places she visited, and people she met. I took notice of a pattern emerging with every turn of the page. At first, my mother wrote in the journal almost daily, but then the entries were spaced out by months and then, curiously, years.

The most recent pages switched back to daily writings that were filled with her worries about my uncle. Which I knew to be lies. At some point, this diary had turned into a deliberate and curated way to damn my uncle. An asset she could use against him.

It was clever and so calculating it made my stomach turn. How could she have planned to ruin her own brother’s life?

My brow furrowed as I flipped back to the earlier entries, dated seventeen years ago, and picked a page at random to read.

Back again in Egypt so soon after our last visit, at Cayo’s insistence. And now he tells me that he wants to stay even longer. Possibly over a year. Cayo insists Inez will never feel our absence throughout her infancy, but I’m not so sure. It’s as chaotic as always, the hotel filled with people from all over. I’ve run into old friends, at least, which has kept my days full of conversation that doesn’t revolve around excavating, thank goodness.

Cayo is demanding we leave for the site earlier than planned, and I’m dreading it. Once he has an idea in his mind, there’s no changing it. But I’d rather enjoy the comforts of the hotel and the little rituals that make the time spent here bearable.

I wonder if it would be so terrible if Cayo went on without me?

That way, I wouldn’t slow him down, or bother him with my boredom and complaints. Even Abdullah sees how miserable I am out in the desert.

Perhaps I’ll ask him. It would be better for everyone if I stayed behind. I could draw and paint, visit with the various ladies and gentlemen I’ve befriended. Read to my heart’s content. The hotel has scores of books and material that I might enjoy.

Mamá’s words and the depth of feeling she hid between the lines fully struck me. She had been miserable returning to Egypt. She had searched for ways to occupy her time, anything to make her days bearable. Meanwhile, Papá’s enthusiasm was abundantly clear, and perhaps he was oblivious to my mother’s apparent misery. I had no idea they had abandoned me for longer stretches of time when I was baby. Why didn’t they care to be with me? I inhaled, my breath shaky, and fought to keep the rising emotion I felt under control. It hurt too much, and it made it impossible to think.

I turned the page and encountered the first of her many sketches. It was dated the next morning after the entry I had just read, and a chill skittered down my spine when I recognized her magic-touched scarf. She’d found it right here at Shepheard’s.

A rap on the door interrupted my thoughts. I stood, my knees popping—I hadn’t realized that much time had gone by—and hobbled to the door. I must have ordered tea and forgotten all about it. But when I opened it, a tea tray wasn’t on the other side.

A young woman stared back at me, her honey-colored hair pinned at the crown of her head, thick curls framing a hollowed-out face. Her skin looked pale, ghostlike, as she stood in the candlelit corridor, and her blue walking dress first appeared respectable for company, but on a second look, I noticed the dirty hem.

I almost didn’t recognize her.

“Isadora!” We’d met weeks ago when I had snuck about my uncle’s dahabeeyah. I hadn’t known what to think of her at first. She was well brought up with pretty manners, but I sensed there was much she tucked away out of reach. But then, within days of meeting her, she had helped in saving my life, deftly handling a sleek pistol while she shot at a crocodile.

My admiration and respect for her soared.

Isadora lifted her chin, and despite the deep cavern under her eyes, she held herself regally, back straight, hands demurely clutching a cotton traveling bag. It, too, looked the worse for wear, covered in dust, the leather handle bent out of shape.

“Are you all right?” I demanded. “You look… like you’ve been through an ordeal.”

“Do you still consider me a friend?” Isadora asked without preamble.

“Of course,” I replied instantly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Her stiff expression relaxed into a tentative, relieved smile. “Then will you let me come in?”

I stepped aside quickly and repeated, “Of course.”

Isadora brushed past and abruptly stopped, almost crashing into the tower of wooden crates, but steadied herself in time. She looked over her shoulder, raising a delicate brow, before skirting around the boxes and examining the rest of Whit’s— our —room. “What on earth?”

“I’ve been trying to tackle it for three days,” I said. “But it only seems to be getting worse.”

She let out a low whistle. “There’s more in the bathroom! Where did all of these things come from?”

I sighed, shut the door, and followed the sound of her voice as she looked through the tall rolled-up rugs propped against the wall. “Everything belongs to my parents. Well, mostly everything. I have my own trunks in here somewhere.”

Isadora glanced around, her blue eyes flickering over every corner. “I imagined your room would be bigger.”

“How did you know which one was mine?”

“The front desk,” she replied absently. “Good God, this is really small.”

“It’ll do for now.”

Isadora nodded, her face partly turned away from mine, and I finally caught what she was trying so desperately to hide. Her hands shook, and her breathing came out in soft, shallow huffs. She swayed, and alarm flared in my chest. I motioned for her to sit on the bed.

“Are you all right?” I asked again.

She sat, still coolly composed. “I’m fine. Only a little light-headed.”

Once again, I observed the state of her wardrobe, the tired lines across her brow. Her posture was perfect, but she seemed to be struggling to keep her eyes open.

“When was the last time you drank anything?” I demanded. “Have you eaten? Where is your father?”

Isadora blinked. “I managed to have a cup of tea this morning. I haven’t eaten in a couple of days. And as for my father…” Her voice trailed off, and her composure cracked. “I have no idea.”

I sank down next to her. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve had a trying few days,” she admitted softly. “I came here because… well, because I need your assistance.”

“You need my help?” I asked, raising my brows.

She winced, looking away, attempting to compose herself. “Sorry, this is hard to talk about.”

The polite thing to do would be not to press her for more information. I knew that, except that familiar flare of curiosity burned in my throat. Questions bubbled to the surface. Isadora never complained in the days we spent underground, working together to record the wondrous artifacts we’d found in Cleopatra’s tomb. She bore the heat and toil and her father’s constant supervision with a steady hand and a calm precision. If she was telling me she had had a trying few days, then it really meant that she’d been through hell and back.

I would have to be blunt. “You look ill and exhausted. What has happened?”

She shifted, met my eyes squarely. “Can I trust you?”

I blinked, taken aback. “In what sense? With a secret? Yes. If you’re asking me to help you cover up a murder, then no. I don’t know you well enough for that, and I hope you’ll agree.” I blanched. “Not that I’d ever help cover up a murder, but I do hope you know what I meant, don’t you?”

She laughed, and the hot tension she carried on her shoulders cooled by several degrees. “I think I feel a bit better. An hour ago, I would have thought it impossible.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’m slowly going mad with curiosity.”

I had thought to make her laugh again, but all the mirth bled from her face. “Once I say this aloud, it’s done. It’s real. I won’t be able to unsay it. There’s no coming back from it.” Her bottom lip wobbled, and I almost leapt to my feet from the shock of seeing her so discomposed. But I forced myself still, forced myself to remain calm even as my body waged war. I wanted to shake her senseless.

“It will be all right,” I said. “Tell me. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Isadora inhaled, clearly trying to calm herself. “You’ll think differently of me.”

We were friends, but only recently. I couldn’t imagine why it would matter to her what I thought of her. Isadora watched me with a shrewd expression on her face.

“I do care what you believe of me,” she whispered. “Which is why I don’t want to tell you that my father is a thief of the worst kind. He’s not the man I thought him to be.”

“A thief,” I repeated.

I barely heard her hushed reply. “Yes.”

A sense of unease rose within, like weeds poking through an orderly garden. Dread curled deep in my belly. I was afraid to ask, somehow already anticipating the answer. The last time I’d seen Mr. Fincastle, her father, I was leaving him behind on Philae—where we’d found Cleopatra’s tomb. Surely she wasn’t speaking of… of…

But she confirmed the fear building inside me.

“Yes,” she said softly, reaching for me. “You understand me perfectly, I see.” She inhaled one long, shuddering breath. “He and a party of six men, maybe seven, attacked the camp and took everything on Philae.”

The room spun. I pulled free from her grasp and wrapped my arms around my stomach, desperately trying to keep myself from falling apart. I covered my face with my hands and let out a muffled shriek. This was why Abdullah had sent his urgent telegram to Tío Ricardo. By now, they would have made it to Philae and discovered Mr. Fincastle’s treachery. Isadora’s words penetrated my wild panic and the sense of despair crawling across my skin. Her father had attacked the camp . Used his guns to overtake the team. Dios mío .

I prayed no one had been hurt.

I ought to be there, and I raged against the miles between Cairo and Philae. I’d never felt so helpless.

“Anything valuable, anything made of gold was hauled away. Even… even—” Isadora broke off.

I wished she would stop talking, even as her words came from far away. As if they’d been buried under sand. I had to dig deep to finally understand her meaning.

“Even what ?”

“Her mummy. My father took her, too.”

Horror gripped me. “You mean…”

Isadora nodded, acute misery twisting her features.

Mr. Fincastle had stolen Cleopatra.

“This trip was supposed to be about our relationship,” she said, her voice louder, more like herself. “It was meant to bring us back together after what happened.”

“What happened?” I asked through numb lips.

“Here it is,” Isadora whispered. “The reason why I care so much about what you think of me.” And then she took my hand and held on, as if for dear life. “My parents had been lying to me for most of my life, until I found out the truth. Father had an affair with a married woman.” She inhaled deeply, visibly fighting tears. “It explained so much—why my mother was gone for half the year, every year, for some mysterious job in South America.”

“South America?” I repeated dumbly.

“In Argentina.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, the darkness a pit yawning wide, and I wanted to throw myself into its depths. Again, I knew what she was going to say before she said it. I bowled over, having to put my head between my knees.

She reached for my hand, held on tight. I barely felt her touch. Instead, I braced myself for what was coming next. But there was no preparing for the depth of my mother’s deception and how badly she had betrayed Papá and me. And when Isadora spoke again, I felt her words like a kick to the teeth.

“I’m your sister.”