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

Capítulo Siete

CAPíTULO SIETE

I splashed cold water on my face and avoided looking in the mirror. The wake of damage my mother had left behind overwhelmed me. This entire time, I had thought my mother had her affair with Mr. Burton—a man she later betrayed. But no. She had cheated on my father with Mr. Fincastle.

Mr. Fincastle, whose first name I never learned.

The brawny, rude, and domineering Englishman with a penchant for guns, who had managed every minute of Isadora’s day. The one who spoke down to the rest of the digging crew, who looked at everyone and everything with suspicion and disapproval.

I couldn’t believe my mother had been with such a man.

Surely she had better sense. Surely she had better taste. My father had been two decades older than her, but he had been kind and thoughtful and clearly supportive, he hadn’t minded her lifestyle while in Egypt, so different than his own. She had left his side for months at a time, when I believed them to be together. A sharp ache bloomed in my heart, and I knew that it’d never heal, no matter how much time went by, no matter the distance.

My mother had broken us.

And she knew the truth about my father. I knew Whit and Tío Ricardo believed him dead, and the longer Papá remained unaccounted for, the more I believed it, too. I leaned against the washbasin of the small water closet adjoining Whit’s room. My face felt warm still, despite the number of times I’d pressed a cool washcloth to my cheeks. I didn’t know how long I’d been inside, with Isadora still waiting on the bed where I’d left her.

My sister.

Hermana .

My emotions were all over the place: disbelief and confusion and heartache. And a surprising happiness that covered everything else. When Elvira had died, I’d lost someone fundamental, and the days since, I’d felt discordant and unsettled.

But now I had a sister.

Then it hit me. Isadora shared many of the same qualities Mamá had. Back in Philae, I had witnessed her moments of manipulation and cunning, her tendency to weigh her needs above others’, and a penchant for getting into trouble.

She and I had all those attributes in common.

I gripped the edge of the wooden counter, still unable to look in the mirror. Were we both doomed to become like our mother? Repeat her same mistakes? Hurt people without thought or consideration? The idea terrified me. Because I knew if I looked into the mirror, it wouldn’t be my face reflected back at me.

I’d see Elvira.

The door opened, and I glanced up from the porcelain bowl, gaze finally on the accursed mirror. My eyes crashed with Whit’s, his tall presence behind me. I spun around and threw myself into his arms. He made a noise of surprise and kicked the door shut behind him as his arms wrapped around my waist. His scent enveloped me, fresh air and the hint of sun-warmed citrus. He smelled like a long traveling day.

“You’re back,” I murmured against the soft linen of his shirt. Another blue hue that complemented his eyes.

“I’m back,” he confirmed. “Was that ever in question?”

“You didn’t write.”

“There wasn’t time,” he murmured. Whit pulled far enough away so that he could look down into my face, his own expression clouded. He studied me intently. “You’ve been crying.”

“A little.”

Tension gathered across his brow. “Right. I can handle this.”

I blinked, confused, but he’d stepped away and yanked open the door. Because he had only just returned from Philae, I knew what he must have discovered and how it had impacted not only him but Abdullah and my uncle. Still, when Whit raised his voice, I let out a startled gasp.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I rushed out of the water closet, gaping and carefully avoiding the tall stack of trunks. I’d never heard that tone from him. This wasn’t anger; it wasn’t cold—this was scathing contempt at its most profound capacity. I didn’t think him capable of it.

“Whitford Simon Hayes.”

My husband swung his head around to look at me. He appeared astonished to hear his full name out of my mouth. But when Isadora loudly cleared her throat, he fixed a glare at her. “I asked you a question. What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“What are you?” Isadora countered, her cool composure intact, but her words sounded threadbare. As if she’d been crying while I hid in the water closet. My heart gave a strong tug, as if she’d pulled on it herself. My protective instincts flared.

“This is my room,” Whit said.

“No, Inez sleeps here.”

There was a long silence. I could guess at Whit’s thoughts. The rueful twist of his lips gave him away. Neither of us had publicly announced our marriage to the people we knew here, and I hadn’t prepared myself to answer the complicated questions that came with the revelation. But the truth was bound to come out, even some of the staff at the hotel would have guessed. Many of them had helped me transfer rooms.

“She’s my wife.”

Isadora gasped. “Since when?”

“We married a few days ago,” I said. “Surprise.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Whit said, leaning against one of the towers of crates. “I’m still waiting for that answer, though.”

Isadora drew her shoulders back. “I came to Inez for help.”

“Look elsewhere,” Whit said through gritted teeth. “Maybe you can join your father wherever he is. No doubt sorting through all the stolen artifacts from Philae, the bastard.”

“She had nothing to do with it,” I said sharply.

“Of course she did,” Whit said.

“No,” I said calmly and then turned away from him. Isadora held herself stiffly, as if she didn’t quite believe that I’d take her side. “I’ve thought about it—you may stay with us,” I reassured her. I gestured to the small space. “It will be cramped, but we can make it work. Perhaps we can get—”

“Inez,” Whit growled.

“—a cot,” I finished loudly. I glanced at him. “You look tired.”

“I am,” Whit said. Then he pointed his index finger at Isadora. “She can’t stay here. In fact, I’m taking her to the consulate where she can be thrown into the dungeon.”

“The dungeon?” I gasped.

“Where she belongs.”

Isadora inhaled sharply. “How dare you condemn me. You were a soldier in the British military. Your hands aren’t clean.”

Whit clenched his fists, the blood draining from his face. His years as a lieutenant had left scars. He seemed to take up the space of the whole room. He looked worn down, shoulders hunched, eyes withdrawn and brooding. I tried to imagine what it must have been like, to arrive on Philae and see the total destruction, to see Cleopatra’s final resting place ransacked and looted. A horror I hadn’t experienced but had felt from a distance. It was enough to bring me to my knees.

Years of Abdullah’s and Tío Ricardo’s life had been taken away from them.

“And where were you?” he asked her icily. “While your father was attacking the camp?”

“He kept me locked up in one of the chambers in the temple when it became clear I wouldn’t support his decision,” she said. “I tricked one of his men and made my escape.”

“From an island on the Nile?” Whit didn’t hide his disbelief. “Did you fly? Ride on the back of a crocodile?”

Isadora straightened her spine, color flooding her cheeks. “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean that I’m helpless. I had my purse, and I can make do with the language.”

“Your being a girl has nothing to do with anything,” Whit said through gritted teeth. “Look at my wife—if she wanted, she could make it to Paris on the back of turtle.” He clenched his jaw. “Admit it—you were a part of your father’s schemes.”

“I believe her,” I said. If I were in her position, I would hate for anyone to paint me with the same brush as my thieving mother.

Whit fell silent, strung tight as a bow. “She’s trying to manipulate you.”

“Maybe that’s what it looks like to you right now.” I went to stand by her side, our shoulders brushing. “It’s you who doesn’t have all the information.”

Whit regarded me stonily.

“My mother had an affair with Mr. Fincastle. It’s been going on for nearly two decades, apparently.” I inhaled deeply, nervous energy making my fingers tingle. His clear dislike and mistrust of Isadora unsettled me. Not because he didn’t have due cause, but because he was married to me. In a matter of seconds, he’d learn that we were all family. “She’s my sister, Whit.”

If I’d told him that I planned to join the circus, he would not have been more surprised. “Bollocks.”

“It’s not,” Isadora said, her tone even and calm. “And I can prove it.” She wheeled around to face me. “I knew her as Mamá, but her close friends called her Lulis. She liked to stay up late and sleep away the morning. Mamá hated coffee but inexplicably liked dark chocolate. She preferred cats to dogs, sweets to salty foods, and liked her tea with milk, not lemon.”

Whit scoffed. “You could have learned this by asking around. Her old maid, perhaps.”

Isadora ignored him, her sole attention fixed on me. “She had a birthmark on her stomach, near her belly button.”

“Again, a maid could have told you that.”

“She was coloring her hair, because she hated the gray strands growing at her temples. But I always thought she looked beautiful.” Whit opened his mouth, but Isadora’s words came out rushed, her attention now on my husband. “When she was sixteen, she fell in love with the boy who brought the newspaper to the door. Feliciano was his name.”

Whit fell silent.

There was no way Isadora would know that unless Mamá had told her. I’d only learned by accident, listening in on one of the rare fights my parents had behind closed doors and when they thought I was sleeping. Father had accused her of keeping in touch with Feliciano, but she categorically denied it. And Mamá had kept a bottle of the dye in the nightstand next to her bed in our home in Argentina. For years, I watched her rid the evidence that she was aging.

“She loved perfume from Italy.” Isadora clasped her hands tight in front of her. A girl waiting to be sentenced and doomed. “She thought it smelled roman—”

“Romantic,” I cut in softly.

She met my eyes, her back straight, hands still clenched, pride demanding that she not lower her chin an inch. She waited for me to decide, but there was never any question. I would not cast her out. I reached forward and took a hold of her hand and gently tugged. We were the same height, had the same build. We were close in age. Emotion clogged my throat as I hugged her. I peered at Whit from over her shoulder, knowing I’d find disappointment.

Whit pressed his lips into a thin slash, his arms folded across his chest. But he remained silent.

“She stays,” I said to him.

He looked away. Well, he hadn’t said no. A small step in the right direction, at least.

Isadora pulled away from me, her chin trembling slightly. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t believed me.”

“Somehow, I think you would have figured something out.” We had that in common, too. I smoothed her hair from off her face. “Will you go down and order us a tea tray? I think we’ll need it. And perhaps a cot?”

She nodded and left the room, taking care to give Whit a wide birth. His frustration radiated off him in widening circles. For the first time in three days, I was alone with my husband.

“I don’t trust her,” Whit said, moving away from me.

“You’ve made that clear.”

He held himself at the other side of the bed, his gaze still averted from mine. Our first real disagreement as a married couple. I wondered how we’d weather it. My parents had rarely fought, had rarely even disagreed. I didn’t know how to navigate this territory. But I knew I cared enough to see it through to the end.

“Come here, Whit.”

His head jerked up. He came closer, warily, as if he thought I’d run if I had the chance. When he stood in front of me, I pressed the flats of my hands on his chest.

“I don’t have a lot of family,” I said softly. “And I believe Isadora, Whit.”

He covered one of my hands with his own, and his expression turned contemplative. He didn’t seem to agree with me, and I bristled. I tried pulling away, but he held on.

“I know I haven’t shown great judgment,” I said. “But it would mean a lot to me if you gave her a chance.”

“Are you talking about your mother?” Whit asked, squeezing my hand. “Are you still feeling guilty about what happened on Philae?”

“No matter how I look at it, it still feels like my fault. It was my naivete that ensured my mother’s success.”

“She was manipulating you,” Whit said. “And using your emotions and love for her against you. In no way should you blame yourself for wanting to believe your mother had your best interests at heart.”

I nodded slowly. “Fine, but then you can’t have it both ways.” I stepped forward, tilted my chin up to better meet his eyes. “Isadora was surprised and caught off guard. Just like I was. Her father’s actions don’t automatically make her complicit.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” Whit muttered. “Here, I was thinking I was comforting my wife while you were preparing an argument against me.”

“I’m not against you,” I said. “I’m only asking that you give her a chance.”

Whit stiffened, the line of his shoulders tightening. He let out a long, annoyed sigh.

I reached up and, with the tips of my fingers, brushed along his jaw. “She’s alone and needs help—”

“I don’t want to talk about Isadora,” he cut in. “I don’t want to talk at all.”

Then he dropped his hand to my waist and tugged me closer. I slipped my arms around his neck and I rose onto my tiptoes and kissed him. He groaned against my mouth. He swept his tongue across mine, and I shivered, my fingers playing with the hair at his nape. Whit lifted me off my feet and slanted his mouth, deepening the kiss. When we parted, both our breaths came out in ragged huffs.

Whit pressed his forehead against mine. “Did you think of me while I was gone?”

I breathed in his scent and nodded. “Did you?”

“You crossed my mind.”

I tugged hard on his hair, and he laughed before releasing me. He led me to the bed, the only place to sit, and we settled onto it, side by side. My feet barely reached the floor, while his long legs stretched out. His thighs were muscular, and I gulped, remembering how he’d looked hovering above me, soft shadows flickering across his face.

“Why are you blushing?” he asked, peering at me with a faint smile.

“No reason,” I said quickly.

“Tell me,” he coaxed, leaning forward, a warm glint shining from his blue eyes.

“I can’t believe you haven’t asked me what I found in my uncle’s room.”

Whit arched a brow. “What have you found?”

I jumped up, and his soft chuckle made me blush harder. But his smile faded when I handed him my mother’s journal.

“I’ve seen this before,” he murmured. “This belonged to Lourdes. I caught her writing in it right before they disappeared.” He flipped through the pages.

“It’s mostly all lies,” I said. “But curiously, my uncle kept it hidden in his pillowcase.”

Whit shrugged. “This journal could be damning in the wrong hands.”

“Then why keep it?” I persisted. “Why not burn it? Throw it in the Nile?”

“Because he’s not a fan of littering?”

“Be serious, Whitford.”

His lips twitched. “Well, what do you think?”

I took the journal and flipped the pages, desperate to find anything that might help us locate her.

Whit’s hand snapped forward. “Wait. What’s that?”

I looked toward where he pointed. My mother had filled up a page with drawings and scribbles.

It looked indecipherable. Random sketches next to drawings and tidbits about ancient Egyptians. I could just picture my mother, reading in Shepheard’s library, trying to understand my father’s fascination. Learning what she could, trying to keep up while in conversation with him. I flipped the page, and noticed another entry.

I received a letter from Cayo, another delay in returning from the excavation site. Most of my friends have moved on to see the sights. Perhaps I should have gone with them, but I had been expecting Cayo any day. That had been a mistake. Still, the library in the hotel has many interesting materials to read through. I found a few books about the last pharaoh of Egypt—Cleopatra the seventh. A fascinating woman by all accounts, with an even more interesting ancestry.

He took the journal from me, turning the page back again, and examined the doodles. I stared at him in bemusement. “What is it?”

“It might be nothing,” he admitted.

“ What might be nothing?”

He held up the page. “Does this look like a snake to you?”

“Maybe a little. It has an odd, wiggly edge.”

“Made by a snake.” Whit nodded. “This mark might be an eye.”

I squinted, trying to see it. Perhaps it was a snake, but it could also just have been a random mark.

“It looks like an Ouroboros.”

“So…?”

Whit tapped his bottom lip absently. “Remember how your mother was looking for something in particular on Philae?”

I nodded. “Go on.”

“In the ancient world, there were four women who were rumored to be able to produce the philosopher’s stone.”

I tilted my head, frowning slightly. “I’ve heard of it—one of the ancient spells that’s been lost.” The philosopher’s stone—where had I read about that before? It sounded incredibly familiar to me. It was an object of some significance.

“Right. These women were alchemists and Spellcasters. And one of them was named Cleopatra—remember I told you about her?” When I nodded, he continued, saying, “An ancestor of our Cleopatra who was buried secretly on Philae.” He tapped his finger against my mother’s entry. “Look here—she even talks about reading up on her ancestry.”

Excitement pulsed in my throat.

“Cleopatra the alchemist is rumored to have written down how to make the stone on a single sheet of parchment. This legendary sheet is called Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra, and on it, she had drawn an Ouroboros.”

I looked down at my mother’s drawing. “And it looked something like this?”

Whit nodded, grimacing slightly. “I know it’s a stretch. But if your mother didn’t find what she was hoping for on Philae, then she could still be looking.”

“Look at the date on the other page,” I said. “This is from years ago. It seems incredible that she stumbled upon a book, saw a drawing, and then randomly reproduced it in her journal. Then, over a decade later, she decides to search for the Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra?”

“It is rumored to have been buried with her descendant,” Whit said. “Do you understand what the philosopher’s stone is, Inez?”

I shook my head. “I’ve heard of it but can’t quite recall—”

“The Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra has instructions on how to turn lead into gold .”

When my father used to tell my mother stories about magic, it would always leave her breathless. With the gradual disappearance of magic-touched objects in Buenos Aires, it was easy to forget that it was once commonplace. That spells and the use of them were woven into the fabric of everyday life. Whenever I came across something that still held the heartbeat of a long-ago cast spell, it would hit me all over again, how we let something so extraordinary become endangered.

And one day in the near future, magic would cease to exist altogether, fading to the background and becoming a footnote in history.

I understood why anyone would hunt and kill for the Chrysopoeia.

“Whoever finds the sheet could sell it for an exorbitant sum,” I said.

Whit shook his head. “Think bigger. Imagine if the person understood alchemy and could create the stone. For centuries, people have been searching for this document. Like the Holy Grail,” he said. “Noah’s ark. The final resting place of Alexander the Great.”

“Or Cleopatra’s tomb.”

Whit nodded. “Exactly.”

A memory niggled at the back of my mind. I fought to hold on to the feeling, and a second later, I recalled a moment with my mother. We were inside my makeshift tent on Philae, and she asked me if I had encountered a single sheet of parchment.

“You’re right,” I said. “My mother asked me about a sheet of parchment—she is searching for the Chrysopoeia.” I tapped my finger against the page of the journal. “We have the proof written in ink that she knew of its existence over a decade ago.”

“Well, she wasn’t successful in finding it.” He twisted his lips. “I wish it made me feel slightly better.”

“My mother won’t give up,” I said. “She’s crossed too many lines. Now we all know her for who she is, and what she’s done. There’s no coming back from that. So where would she look for the sheet next?”

“I have multiple locations in mind,” he said. “She could be anywhere in Egypt that was of some importance to Cleopatra the alchemist—or her descendant, who was also rumored to be adept at magic.”

“She was,” I said, remembering the potent visions I’d stumbled across—the last pharaoh of Egypt hunched over a long table, herbs and elixirs at her elbow as she mixed and measured. “A potion maker, maybe even a Spellcaster herself.”

Whit lowered his chin. “How do you know?”

“The magic from the golden ring,” I said. “It linked me to some of Cleopatra’s memories. I saw her at work, muddling ingredients, recalibrating tools.”

“Well, that narrows down the places where your mother might be to a dozen temples, give or take.”

I groaned, burying my head in my hands. My voice came out muffled. “One too many.” A thought occurred to me, and I looked up. “Wait… Weren’t you searching for the same thing?”

Whit shifted, the corners of his lips turning downward. “Yes, and I made the mistake of telling your mother. Our conversation might have rekindled her interest. She might have remembered stumbling across this book she references in the journal entry.”

“And how did you discover it?”

He hesitated. “I learned about Cleopatra the alchemist from one of my books on chemistry.”

“Alchemy and chemistry are related subjects? Isn’t one predominately magical, the other scientific?”

“In some schools of thought, those two are one and the same. Alchemy was the precursor to chemistry. Invented right here in Egypt.”

“I had no idea.” My shoulders slumped. “I feel as if I’m still catching up, still falling behind my mother and what she knows. How can I find her when there are too many gaps in my education?”

Whit tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Don’t fret, Inez. We made progress, even if it was a tiny step.”

I smiled small. “Are you ready to talk about Isadora, yet?”

Whit groaned. “Absolutely not.”

“She asked for my help and I can’t turn her away.”

“There’s something off about her,” he said, playing with the ruffles on my skirt. “Isadora and her father were inseparable back in Philae. Have you forgotten?”

“She explained that. They were in the process of reconciling. From what she told me, her parents argued constantly, and they hated traveling around together. It doesn’t sound like she had a happy childhood, and the trip to Philae was her father’s attempt at making amends.”

Whit nudged a stack of books with the toe of his boot and stood up to pace the room, walking around the boxes and trunks and random objects strewn about. “How convenient.”

“All right,” I said, my eyes trailing after him. “Say she has a nefarious plan. What is it? Maybe she’s trying to overthrow the British monarchy.”

He glared at me. “Try to take this seriously.”

“I’m not used to seeing you so serious.”

“Me neither; it’s quite tiring.” Whit sighed, glancing away, brows rising. “What have you done with my bedroom?”

“I think you mean our bedroom.”

Whit opened his mouth but abruptly closed it when Isadora returned with the tea tray. We busied ourselves with the making of it. I wasn’t particularly hungry, and it seemed no one else was, either, but there was comfort in performing a ritual, even one as ordinary as pouring tea.

When the cot arrived, Whit moved as much of the mess around as he could to clear enough space for it. He piled the crates higher and higher until they formed a half wall around our bed. I hid my smile at his attempt to create privacy in such a small space. Isadora automatically went to the narrow bed instead of the cot, settling onto it. “I think there’s just enough room for the both of us, Inez.”

Whit froze in the act of tossing the extra blanket onto the cot. He shot me an exasperated look, and he pointedly cleared his throat. But Isadora was vulnerable, and if this was what she needed, then I’d give it to her.

“It’s only for a night or two,” I whispered. “Until we can get larger accommodations.”

He grunted and threw Isadora a scowl as he settled onto the cot he’d set up in the corner of the bedroom. Like I’d thought, it was a tight fit, but I couldn’t see what could be done about it. We hadn’t gone to the central bank in Cairo to retrieve funds from my account. For one thing, there hadn’t been enough time, and for another, I wasn’t sure if my uncle still maintained control of my fortune, despite my marrying Whit. But we clearly needed my funds, if only to request a larger room.

I settled onto the narrow bed next to my sister—when would I get used to the revelation?—and she automatically curled around me, her hair partially concealing her face. She looked impossibly young and vulnerable. A protective instinct rose, and it was so similar to the one I’d felt for Elvira that unshed tears burned at the backs of my eyes. I would do whatever I could to help her. I would do whatever I could to stop my mother and her deplorable lover, Mr. Fincastle.

But first things first.

Tomorrow, I would make Whit take me to the bank.

WHIT

I woke up early, the room dark and silent, save for the two women sleeping, their soft breaths mingling. The cot made a miserable bed, and I let out a foul curse under my breath as I stretched, trying to unknot my sore back.

God, take me now . This was not how I imagined my reunion with Inez. But this was the last night I’d spend on this poor excuse for a bed, even if I had to drag Isadora out of the room kicking and screaming. I sat up and glanced in her direction. She was wrapped around my wife like a barnacle. I wanted to pry her arms loose, shake her awake, and demand the truth from her.

Because the chit was lying .

I had no proof—only instinct. It was what kept me alive in the war; it was what prompted me to go back for General Gordon, even when it was forbidden. I wouldn’t ignore it now, whatever Inez believed. She had a soft spot for Isadora—that much was clear—while everything inside me screamed her sister was a viper.

Suspicion curled tight in my chest.

Isadora’s father had kept a close watch on her during our time in Philae. I remembered them pairing off, engaged in private conversation. He had been affectionate with her when he thought no one was looking. But I was always watching. It seemed inconceivable to me that he would have locked up his only child in the temple, that he would have put her in harm’s way at all. Abdullah had recounted all the violence that had happened—some of our crew were shot when they tried to resist; others were bound and left to die out in the desert. Mr. Fincastle had either sent his daughter away before he’d acted or Isadora was a part of the plan.

It had never occurred to me to ask Abdullah which one it was. But he was now in the hospital hundreds of miles away, recovering. I’d have to send a letter or telegram and hope that he felt well enough to answer sooner rather than later.

I slid off the cot and padded to the small water closet, performing my ablutions efficiently and quietly. A talent courtesy of the army. I was conscious of the mirror hanging above the washbasin, but I carefully avoided it. I hadn’t been able to look at myself in the mirror since I’d married Inez. I clutched the edge of the porcelain basin, my knuckles turning white. It took me several minutes to gather myself.

I had time. Plenty of time.

But even with the reminder, I still couldn’t look at myself in the mirror.

Morning light had finally dawned in the small room, illuminating my wife, curled on her side, her wild hair blooming around her like spilled ink. I left without another look in her direction. The corridor was empty, which I preferred. Mornings were my favorite part of the day. For a long time, I didn’t let myself enjoy them. Too much drink made sure of that.

The dawn had been tainted from my stint in the militia.

The terrace had many open tables, and I picked one closest to the balcony overlooking the gardens, my back to the wall. It was a cool morning, and when the server came to take my order, I requested my usual pot of coffee. While I waited, I meditated on the problem of Isadora and what the hell I was going to do about it. Abdullah would have to be questioned again. Ricardo wouldn’t trust Isadora, either, but I debated the wisdom in including him. Inez might feel ambushed and less inclined to trust my instincts if I was aligned with her uncle. Their relationship was already complicated enough.

To say nothing of what he thought of me.

The coffee came, and I took the first heavenly sip. Dark, nutty, no cream.

But then someone sat onto the wicker chair opposite mine, surprising me, and I was never surprised. He wore his clothing stiffly, as if he would have preferred something other than starchy cotton and pressed trousers. He smiled at me in greeting, and even though it had been years since I’d seen him, my words came out angry and accusing.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

Porter raised his hand, signaling to the waiter. “Are you hungry?”

I folded my arms across my chest, panic licking at my edges. But I refused to let him see. I shook my head. The server came and Porter ordered his breakfast: boiled eggs and two slices of toast. Plain, no butter. He never allowed himself any indulgences. Like Father.

Except when it came to playing cards. Father wasn’t so sanctimonious then.

“I’m here to collect,” Porter said in his damnably calm voice when we were once again alone.

“Collect—” I repeated.

Jesus. When I’d sent the telegram, I hadn’t thought my brother would act that quickly, or that he’d come to Cairo himself.

“You explained your new situation in the telegram before your last.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice hard. “But that wasn’t an invitation to come visit. I’m still working on it. The matter is quite delicate, and if I fuck up, we’ll be worse off. I’ve only just—”

“It has to be today.”

His words rushed around me, a furious bee storm.

“It can’t be today. It can’t be tomorrow. It can’t be this month, Porter.” I clenched my jaw. “They’ve lived in that crumbling house for years. Another year won’t kill them.”

“Another year ,” Porter repeated faintly.

“Tell them to sell my piano if they need the cash.”

“Already sold.”

Years of training kept me from flinching. “Fancy that.”

“Along with the rest of the paintings and copper cookware and brass candlesticks,” Porter said. “Before you ask, there’s no more money I can give them.”

I had been about to ask. Porter had been married off years earlier to an heiress when he was barely eighteen. He and his wife were estranged and living entirely separate lives. To my knowledge, Sophia didn’t even live in England.

Which I knew Porter preferred, even if our father had tried to cut him out of their life from the ensuing scandal.

“And need I remind you who else lives in that crumbling house?”

I flattened my mouth. “She’ll survive another year. She’ll have to.”

“The roof is leaking,” Porter went on. “They’ve let go of the staff. Only the cook remains.”

I had a plan, and I meant to stick to it. I tried to block out his words, but they seeped through.

“All the jewelry is gone,” Porter said. “Anything valuable. They reached the end of the road. They all have. It’s why I’m here.”

“This may come as a shock to you, but I do have a strategy.” I dragged a hand down the length of my face. Then I tossed some bills onto the table and stood up, my brother stumbling after me, awkwardly pushing back his chair. I was moving before I knew where I wanted to go. I only knew that I had to get inside.

“Well, what is it?” he called from behind me.

“Everyone will get what they want.” I shook my head, my blood rushing to my ears. “Porter, I need more time.”

He caught up and regarded me with his head tilted to the side. We were similar in appearance, like looking in the mirror. Same color hair, same pale eyes. But somehow, I took after my mother, and he took after my father. Porter had more hard lines to him than I did, and he was thinner.

“What have you been scheming?” Porter asked again.

I watched as all the pieces I’d lined up were moved around. My frustration mounted as I rearranged the puzzle and tried to come up with something that worked. But with my brother staring at me disapprovingly, the answer became hard to reach. We swept past the lobby, and I took the stairs two at a time, desperation making me pump my legs faster and faster.

“Tell me about your wife,” he said, panting. “I’ve been curious.”

“She cares for me,” I said hollowly.

“That’s unfortunate.”

When I made it onto our floor, I breathed easier. His words bounced around in my mind, giving me a headache. I was standing in front of our room before I had entirely realized what I was doing. I didn’t know why I’d come up, but even so, I pulled the key from out of my pocket and unlocked the door, pushed it open. “Wait here,” I said curtly.

“Whitford, what are you doing?”

I barely heard him. The room was empty. I thought she would still be sleeping.

Porter poked his head inside. “Is this a bedroom or a storage closet?”

Where could she have gone so early? She and her infernal sister. My brother stepped into the room, and I felt, rather than saw, how he assessed every inch.

“Good gad! Do you sleep on this cot?” Porter exclaimed. “It looks uncomfortable.”

“Let’s go,” I said, thinking hard. Inez could be out for a walk on the terrace. Wouldn’t I have seen her, though? She was hard to miss, with her wild hair and quick stride.

“You care for this girl,” my brother said in a marveling tone. “Your wife.”

“If I did,” I said, “I wouldn’t have married her.”

He studied me from the corner of his eye. I felt his judgment, his desperation. I understood why he came all this way. But I wouldn’t yield.

“Whitford.”

“I’m going to follow through with my promise,” I snapped. “I’m going to do my duty as their heir. Surely more time isn’t too much to ask?”

Porter’s stoic veneer cracked, and I took a step forward in alarm. “Arabella doesn’t have time. They’re signing the marriage contract at the end of the week. She’ll be married in two weeks —to Lord Fartherington.”

I froze, the full meaning of his words cutting through my defense. I’d held up a shield to counter him guilting me into action. One of his favorite tactics—that and telling me I had to fall in line because I was the younger son. But I had no armor against Arabella. I knew my parents were at their wits’ end. I knew Father’s collectors would come calling. I’d also known, for years, that my father was deplorable at poker. But I’d forgotten how desperation made monsters of men. “ Fartherington? He’s ancient. At least two decades older than Father.”

“Now that you understand the gravity of the situation, you have a choice to make.” Porter met my eyes. Instead of his usual poise, he let me see his raw fear for our sister.

There were many things I’d had to learn how to handle.

My parents’ disappointment.

An arranged marriage.

A career, bought and paid for.

A gun.

But when my older brother, as infuriating as he was, allowed me to see beneath his impenetrable veneer, I paid attention. It always meant that he was afraid. And never for himself.

It was this look on his face that made me think: time for a new plan. I pulled at my hair, my heart slamming against my ribs. I wanted a drink. I wanted oblivion. I didn’t want any of this to happen. “I hate you.”

Porter waited, one eyebrow raised. “Choose, brother.”