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

Capítulo Diez

CAPíTULO DIEZ

There are only a few sounds in the world that make me quake in fear. The scrape of rock against the entrance of a tomb. The hiss of gunpowder before the inevitable explosion. A bullet fired, followed by the telltale whistling noise of impending death.

And one other.

Tía Lorena’s voice.

I heard it distinctly, and I sat up straight in the wicker chair out front on the terrace of Shepheard’s, where my sister and I were having our morning tea. Isadora glanced at me, her brow crinkled in puzzlement. Loud footsteps approached from behind, the echo of my aunt’s exclamations roaring in my ear. I turned in my seat with trepidation to find a familiar face gazing down at me.

My aunt.

And behind her, the cold face of my cousin Amaranta.

I jumped to my feet, swaying sharply, tears clouding my vision. I knew this day would arrive eventually—the inevitable confrontation with Elvira’s grief-stricken mother and sister—but I hadn’t expected it so soon. But of course they would come.

Come to collect Elvira’s body.

“Inez,” Tía Lorena murmured. She gazed at me in confusion, hands trembling as she reached for me. “You look so different.”

Words left me, stolen by the sense of despair rising in me. I could only stand in front of them both and wait for their judgment—I deserved nothing less than total condemnation.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasped. “Lo siento—”

My aunt stumbled forward and embraced me, arms tight around my waist, her wet cheek pressed to my own. She sobbed quietly, her body shaking. I couldn’t stop my own tears, and together we clung on to each other for dear life, right there in the middle of the terrace, with dozens of people staring at the scene in confused astonishment.

I hardly cared, but it was when my vision cleared enough to catch sight of Amaranta that I finally tried to get a hold of my overwrought emotions. She wouldn’t appreciate my tears. She hadn’t come for that.

If I knew my cousin at all, then she had traveled all this way for retribution.

It was Isadora who managed to herd us indoors from the prying eyes of the other hotel guests. Somehow, she’d figured out my aunt’s room number and led us all to the second floor. Amaranta took charge then, using a brass key to unlock the door to their suite. My aunt was inconsolable, stumbling as we all helped her inside. I barely took in the surroundings, dimly registering the suite resembled the one I’d just vacated. It, too, had a comfortable seating area that led into two bedrooms.

“Please tell us what happened,” Tía Lorena said in a watery voice, mopping up her streaming eyes. “I haven’t been able to sleep or eat since I found out.”

I glanced at Amaranta, who had remained coldly silent, arms folded tightly across her chest. I knew her well enough to know that anger made her quiet. From her pale face and lips, her drawn eyes, and the black she wore from head to foot, I knew she was raging on the inside.

Isadora reached for my hand and squeezed and then murmured, “I’ll be right outside.” Without another word, she left, closing the door behind her.

I licked my lips, unsure. I couldn’t tell them what I dreamt of every night—Elvira’s blown-up face, the blood staining the gold sand underneath her head. “She was murdered,” I whispered finally. “By one of my mother’s associates.”

My aunt—who hated wrinkles in her clothing and untidy hair, and who always carried a handkerchief—slumped to the carpeted floor in a heap of black cotton. I didn’t know how to help her, what I could say to lessen her grief, and when I took a step forward, Amaranta snatched my arm, tight, her fingernails digging into the sleeves of my shirt.

“Don’t,” she seethed. “Don’t you touch her again.” She released me, recoiling sharply, and then swooped down to help her mother stand. In a hushed voice, she coaxed her mother into one of the bedrooms. My cousin reappeared a moment later and sat in one of the high-backed chairs, her hands tightly laced in her lap.

“Sit down, Inez,” she said through gritted teeth. “And tell me everything.”

So I did, in fits and starts. Amaranta never interrupted me, listening intently, a frown pulling her dark brows into a straight line across her forehead. Her expression only changed when I came to the part about Elvira’s kidnapping. All the blood drained from her face.

“Your mother sacrificed my sister?” she asked in a flat voice. “To save your life?”

Mutely, I nodded.

Her voice remained emotionless. “Continue.”

I got through the rest, a hard knot at the back of my throat. Once again, I sensed that she wouldn’t appreciate any display of emotion. When I finished, Amaranta was silent for a long time. Then she speared me with her dark eyes, a sharp contrast to her pale, drawn face.

“Your mother needs to die.”

My lips parted in surprise.

“She has to pay for what she’s done.” Amaranta leaned forward, the iron line of her spine finally bending. “Do you hear me, Inez? What are you going to do to make this right?”

I flinched, my guilt creating a yawning pit deep in my belly. “I’m going to find her.”

“And then?”

“You and I want the same thing,” I whispered. “I want my mother gone.”

Amaranta studied me, running a critical eye over every line and curve of my face. “This is your fault, and I will never forgive you. But if you do this, my mother might be able to tolerate the sight of you one day.” She stood up. “I want you to leave now.”

Shakily, I got to my feet, leaving without looking in her direction. I understood then that I could never go back to Argentina until I made things right. My aunt wouldn’t want to see me, and Amaranta would make it very clear that I was unwelcome in my own home.

I couldn’t blame her.

Isadora waited for me in the corridor, rigidly composed. She had been looking better in my care, but now she resembled the withdrawn figure from a few days ago. I hated that.

“They aren’t happy with me,” I said. “With good reason. Amaranta wants—”

“Our mother dead,” she said. “I know.”

Her face rippled with an expression I couldn’t read. We stared at each other silently, and I wished I knew her well enough to ask how she felt. My cousin’s words had shocked me, and I could only imagine Isadora having mixed feelings as well. Her words from an earlier conversation swept through my mind—and I realized that she’d rather her mother be in prison than buried underground.

The feeling was mutual.

I hated my mother, but I didn’t want her to die. She loved me, in her twisted way, and I couldn’t stand how that meant something to me when it shouldn’t matter at all. But it did, and so I wouldn’t kill my mother.

I wasn’t a murderer like she was.

“What are you going to do now?” Isadora asked.

“Finalize our plans.”

Tío Ricardo shoved away the steaming cup filled with black tea. “No more. I need something stronger.”

I sighed, sitting down in the chair next to his unmade bed. “I suppose I shouldn’t bother telling you to rest?”

“You ought to be groveling. Begging for my forgiveness is what you ought to be doing,” my uncle snapped as he settled against the pillows. “Where is your bastard of a husband, anyway? He hasn’t checked in with me since we came back from Philae.”

“He’s out running errands,” I lied. I hadn’t seen him, either. This morning, I’d woken to find him gone. I doubt he knew my aunt and cousin were also staying at the hotel. Not that I cared what he did. But since he wanted to supposedly help me, I would have thought he’d make himself more available.

“Whit still works for me,” he said. “He knows better than to disappear without telling me.”

I frowned. “Are you worried about him?”

My uncle scowled. “Wherever Whit goes, trouble seems to find him.”

That was certainly true, though the same could be said of me. “What do you need him to do? Perhaps I can do it instead?”

“I suppose you could,” my uncle said thoughtfully. “Abdullah checked in at the hotel, and a physician has been tending to him. Perhaps you can pay him a visit? I believe he’s on the same floor.”

“Certainly,” I said. I couldn’t imagine what he was going through. The find of the century and it had been taken away from him. “How is he?”

“No lo sé,” Tío Ricardo said testily. “Hence why I’d like you to pay him a visit.”

“You are grouchy this morning,” I observed.

“My ward got married in secret to a man with questionable ethics and morals,” he said. “The work I’d done at Philae, alongside my brother-in-law, has been destroyed. Cleopatra’s mummy will be pulverized and used for wealthy aristocrats to heal, I don’t know, a mild headache. Her life’s possessions will be sold off to the highest bidder in an illegal market, which my sister is a known member of. Your aunt, a woman I cannot stand, has lost one of her daughters thanks to me and is now hysterical two bedrooms over—shall I keep going? I have cause to be grouchy.”

Privately, I added, Isadora is my sister and the daughter of the man who pillaged Philae. Oh, and Whit stole my inheritance.

But perhaps I ought to save that bit of news for another time.

“Let me know how my friend is doing,” Tío Ricardo said. “Perhaps you should make him drink this awful tea.”

“I will, as soon as you finish your break—”

Loud and insistent knocking broke through our conversation. My uncle sat upright, intent on getting out of bed, but I held up a hand and said sharply, “I’ll answer.”

My uncle glared at me, but I was already on my feet and opening the bedroom door, fully expecting to find my errant husband on the other side. Instead, a short, balding man stood before me, flanked by somber-looking men dressed in dour clothing and displaying equally dour expressions.

“Mademoiselle,” Monsieur Maspero said in surprise. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Is that Maspero?” my uncle called out. “Hold on a minute, and I’ll get dressed.”

“ Please don’t get out of bed,” I shouted in return. “I’m sorry, monsieur, but I fear your business will have to wait. My uncle is ill and recovering from a gunshot wound. He recently pushed himself too far—”

A strangled oath reverberated in the sitting room. My uncle appeared, hair unkempt, his beard overtaking more than half of his face. He tucked in his shirt and looked around for his shoes.

“You’ll tire yourself,” I protested.

“I believe I gave you something to do, didn’t I, sobrina?” He dropped onto the chair and began lacing up his work boots.

I let out a long sigh and turned to Monsieur Maspero. “I don’t have any refreshments to offer, but if you’d like, I’d be happy to send for tea.”

“No, thank you,” Monsieur Maspero replied, stepping aside to give the other two men space to enter my uncle’s hotel room. “These men have come to arrest your uncle and his business partner, Abdullah.”

“ What? ” I gasped.

My uncle jumped to his feet, his face turning a mottled red. “On what grounds?”

“For the discovery of Cleopatra, which you never reported, and whose mummy and artifacts are now missing.” He inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing in distaste. “We are holding you and your associate responsible for losing Egypt a national treasure.”

“Now, wait a minute.” My uncle took a step away from the two men intent on grabbing a hold of him. “I can explain our intention.”

“What’s clear to me is that neither of you intended on registering the discovery,” Monsieur Maspero exclaimed. “And now I must deal with hunting Cleopatra down in the black market. I have been far too accommodating with you in the past, Ricardo, and it ends now. You and Abdullah have much to answer for.”

“You can’t take them,” I cried, throwing myself in front of Tío Ricardo. “Please, sir, you don’t have all the information.”

“ Inez .”

“Calm yourself, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Maspero said. He used his chin to point in my direction, and one of his comrades took a hold of my arm and shoved me toward the couch. He pushed on my shoulders, forcing me to drop onto the cushion. “You’re becoming hysterical.”

“Don’t touch her,” Tío Ricardo growled.

Monsieur Maspero snapped his fingers. “Arrest him.”

“It wasn’t their fault,” I yelled over my uncle’s roar of outrage, jumping to my feet. “It was my mother who stole everything. Her and Mr. Fincastle!”

The room fell silent as everyone’s faces snapped in my direction. Monsieur Maspero’s impervious expression softened to one of profound pity. As if I were spouting nonsense, as if I’d just declared I lived in a castle on the moon.

“Mademoiselle,” Monsieur Maspero said gently. “Your mother is deceased. She is no more.”

“No, she’s alive . She’s—”

“Come now,” Monsieur Maspero said in a brisker tone. “I will not hear such talk. Your uncle and his business associate must be held accountable for their actions.”

“But—”

One of the men tried to snatch my uncle’s wrist, but he pivoted out of reach, snarling. The other man, short with long sideburns, managed to grip Tío Ricardo’s shoulder.

My uncle threw a punch and then groaned, clutching at his arm. Blood seeped through his shirt.

“The stitches,” I exclaimed.

“Don’t make things worse for yourself,” Monsieur Maspero told my uncle coldly.

“You turn a blind eye to other archaeologists and their findings,” Tío Ricardo fumed. “Don’t pretend to run a clean enterprise. Your hands are just as dirty as the rest of theirs. Think, Maspero! There are no systems or practices in place to protect any discovery from greedy collectors and dealers. This is to say nothing of the subversive agents running rampant in the antiquities department. Don’t look at me like that—you know it’s true! Abdullah wanted to record our findings so that when someone else found Cleopatra—and inevitably destroyed the site of her tomb—there would still be some record of what it originally looked like!”

“How dare you,” Monsieur Maspero seethed. “You’ll be held in the Cairo prison throughout your questioning. And trust me when I tell you that I will be thorough.” He looked in my direction. “Good day, mademoiselle.”

I gaped at him as the two men dragged my uncle out of the room. I flew after them, wishing I had the power to stop them from arresting Tío Ricardo. But what power did I have in this situation? I had no influence, no helpful connections. My voice was a whisper against theirs. Frustration burned a path straight to my hands, and I curled them into fists, my mind racing.

What could I do? Who could I—

“ Inez! Find Whitford and tell him what’s happened,” Tío Ricardo shouted as they hauled him down the corridor. “He’ll know what to do!”

Another door opened, and two men walked through, leading a tired-looking Abdullah, his skin gray. He was still so unwell, and fury detonated in my chest. My uncle let out a stream of curses at the sight of his friend, whose shoulders were slumped, his feet dragging.

I trailed after them, my heart thundering hard against my ribs. Other hotel guests opened their own doors, jaws dropping, as they stared at the parade of people walking past. My uncle didn’t let up his enraged shouting, while Abdullah stayed silent.

We reached the stairs, and they hauled both of them through the lobby, in front of scores of people milling about, enjoying the hotel amenities, booking rooms. It was then that I saw Whit near Shepheard’s entrance, standing close to a familiar figure. His arms were crossed tight against his chest, as if he was having to physically restrain himself from attacking Maspero’s men. The figure next to him threw up her hands, and I squinted as I approached, still in a furious daze.

“Can’t you do something?” the young woman cried. “Anything at all?”

I finally recognized Abdullah’s granddaughter, Farida. Her lips twisted in a grimace as Monsieur Maspero’s men forced Abdullah and my uncle into a waiting hackney cab.

Whit watched the scene with a narrowed gaze. His anger radiated off him, a fire crackling, spewing embers. “We can’t make a scene here,” he said grimly. “It’s exactly what they’d hope for.”

“But what can be done?” Farida repeated, despair edging into her voice.

Whit turned his head and met my gaze. I read his expression clearly, heard his voice as if he’d spoken out loud.

Only finding my mother would save them now.