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

Capítulo Diecisiete

CAPíTULO DIECISIETE

“I’m telling you,” Whit seethed. “Isadora was here! She followed us and warned off your mother.”

I huffed along his ground-eating strides. We still hadn’t managed to secure a carriage back to the hotel, though it hardly mattered since Whit would get us there in minutes, given his quick walking.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said in between deep breaths. “She would have had to have found another carriage to follow after us and then pay for it, but with what money? Her father never gave her any.”

“According to her ,” Whit scoffed. “Consider the source, Olivera.”

I took hold of the crook of his elbow. Enough was enough. I pulled hard and stopped, swinging him around. He was devoid of any perspiration, his breathing even and steady, while I’m sure my face glowed with dripping sweat.

“You would have noticed if she was following us,” I said. He opened his mouth, but I beat him to it. “And say she went by foot, don’t forget—she doesn’t know the city well.”

“Again, according to her .” He leveled me with a pointed look. “Her mother lived here for half the year. Wouldn’t she know the area?”

I exhaled, frustrated. “Women don’t have the freedom to explore cities like men do.”

Whit pulled his arm free gently and continued his brisk walk to the hotel. We were only a block away at this point, if my memory served. “So you think what, exactly? That she’s with us to report back to Mamá?”

“She could be reporting to your mother, yes,” Whit said. “She could be trying to sabotage our search for her.”

“But she’s been helpful,” I protested. “Recall, also, how she shot the man who was about to attack me.”

Whit had no reply for this.

I poked his back. “Listen to me, Mr. Hayes—”

“Stop calling me that,” he said tiredly. “I can’t stand to hear it from you.” I blinked at the broad expanse of his shoulders. His bleak tone caught me off guard. We crossed a street, our hotel coming into view. Guests mingled out front, skirting around horses and donkey-pulled carts.

“I only want to say that I need you to stop bickering with my sister, to trust her as much as you can, because the alternative is stressful for me.”

“Do you agree with me about what we just witnessed? Your mother was warned off from entering that bank.”

“I do,” I said softly. “But don’t you think—”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that your mother was warned at a location only your sister knew we were visiting?”

“The hotel clerk also knew,” I pointed out.

Whit threw me a disgruntled look over his shoulder. “So your mother is having our hotel watched? We only just decided on that particular one. How would she have known?”

“I admit it’s unlikely,” I said. “But what if there’s a more plausible option? Someone we keep forgetting about?”

Whit was silent, still moving quickly. My skirt dragged behind me as I fought to keep up.

“You’re talking about Fincastle,” Whit said finally.

“Exactly.”

He muttered something under his breath.

“Admit it,” I said. “My idea is more probable than your far-fetched one.”

“Olivera,” Whit said. “We are about to reach the hotel. If she’s in the room, with the trunks unpacked, then I might possibly agree with you. Maybe it was Fincastle warning Lourdes outside the bank. But I’m telling you, Isadora won’t be there. I would bet my health that she’s racing to intercept us even now.”

I had never wanted anyone to be more wrong. “Well, if that’s true, I suppose we better hurry.”

Together we bolted inside the hotel, startling the few people milling within the lobby. Whit was faster up the stairs, confound my corset, but I managed to catch up to him by the time he was outside our bedroom door. He looked at me grimly. “Ready?” he whispered.

I nodded, breathing hard. I was sure I looked like a street urchin.

He swung the door open.

Inside, Isadora was bending over a nearly empty trunk. She pulled out one of my dresses and began shaking out the wrinkles. Her hair was perfectly styled, her clothing neat and dust-free. My sister looked over at us and raised her brows.

“The damn teacup overflowed again,” Isadora remarked. “I had to mop up some of the water, but not before it soaked your bag again, Mr. Hayes.”

“Oh no ,” I said. “I hate that I missed his call. Again . What if something happened?”

“Well, I couldn’t answer, since he wouldn’t want to speak with me,” Isadora said. “But he sounded more annoyed than in actual duress. He kept calling and calling… The only real danger was the carpet became soaked in the process.”

Whit glared at her. “And my knapsack. Which I left on the bed .”

Isadora tilted her head. “You are mistaken. It was on the floor, right by the nightstand.” She pointed to said nightstand where the teacup, now empty, stood. “The water dripped right onto it, I’m afraid.”

Then she turned to me and asked, “Well? How did it go?”

To Whit’s credit, when he recounted our adventure at the bank, he didn’t accuse her of warning our mother away from going inside.

“What happens now that we have the address?” Isadora asked.

“We head there directly,” I said. “Now, if possible. Because someone alerted Mamá to our presence earlier, she might take refuge at this address, hiding herself away, thinking she’s safe.”

“Then we are to confront her,” Isadora said, her face pale and miserable. “Today.”

“Before she disappears again,” Whit said.

I reached for her hand, hoping the gesture might give her courage and comfort.

We dressed for the outing; Isadora borrowed a darker-hued dress from me, and I put on my widow disguise. Whit donned a gray shirt, the smudgy color reminding me of one of my charcoal pencils. My stomach rumbled, and I realized it had been hours since I’d last eaten. I looked longingly toward the hotel’s dining room entrance as we exited the lobby. But there was no time—I sensed my mother wouldn’t stay in one place for long.

Whit hired a carriage, and the three of us climbed inside, Isadora and I squished on one side, him on the other. Pressure gathered along my shoulders, and I tried to steady my breathing. The last time I’d seen my mother, she was in a small boat, sailing away from Philae with all of the artifacts I had personally given her for safekeeping.

Those same artifacts would pass through the gate, never to be seen in Egypt again, if we didn’t locate where she had hidden them.

“Are we knocking on the front door?” Isadora asked suddenly, breaking the quiet. “What exactly is the plan?”

“We break in,” Whit and I said at the exact same time.

He shot me a smile, which I ignored, and then addressed Isadora. “If we knock, we alert her to our presence, and she has time to make her escape.”

“Of course,” Isadora said, flushing. “I wasn’t thinking.”

My sister fidgeted in her seat, clasping and unclasping her hands. It occurred to me that she’d be dreading this moment, when I was looking forward it. She had only recently learned of our mother’s involvement, while I had experienced it firsthand. Her composure had completely deserted her.

“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked gently.

“Back home in London, right before Papa and I left for Egypt. She sent us off,” Isadora breathed. “I never thought I’d see her here . She would pick us up at the docks, like she promised.”

“You said they’re always in each other’s company,” Whit said softly.

I looked at him, furrowing my brow. I hadn’t heard her say such a thing. I was about to object to his pointed question when Isadora beat me to it.

“Of course they don’t spend every waking moment together,” she said, exasperated. “I was trying to make a point about the depth of their commitment.”

Whit flattened his mouth and looked away. He sat the rest of the way in contemplative silence. No one else spoke; I was locked inside my own thoughts, my nerves governing the slam of my pulse against my throat.

I was so close to finding her.

While inside her accommodations, we’d find everything needed to complete our case against her. There would be some trail of her trying to fence the relics, addresses and phone numbers of potential buyers, and damning correspondence from her subordinates.

Soon, I’d have the truth about my father and what she did to him.

I hadn’t lost hope that he was alive somewhere in Egypt. Holding on to survival by a thread, locked up somewhere.

If he was alive, I would rescue him.

If he was dead, I would bury him.

Either way, I would know the truth.

The driver pulled up to a plain residence, its only adornment an iron gate that opened up to a narrow path. At the end were steps leading up to an equally plain wooden door. It did not seem like the kind of place my mother would live in. Where was the garden? Potted flowers? She loved all things green, but this place reminded me of the desert. Tawny-colored stone, austere but functional design. There was no elaborate knocker to greet us. Not that we would have used it, but I kept remembering the golden lion we had at home, roaring at anyone who dared to visit. Mamá loved her luxuries. Even on Philae, she insisted on bringing rugs and furniture, mirrors, porcelain washbasins, and the finest bedding made of Egyptian cotton.

“I see a little side terrace,” Whit said. “We’ll go in through there.”

Isadora walked alongside me as we followed Whit to the house. She had lost the pale cast to her skin, as if all the tension and worry she carried had melted off her. Her chin was lifted high, shoulders straight and sharp. When she met my concerned gaze, she nodded, a determined glint shining in her eyes.

This was the Isadora I knew. A girl who’d meet the world with a polite smile and a handgun.

Whit demonstrated another one of his many talents by picking the lock to the side door, swinging it open in mere seconds. Even my sister looked impressed.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” Isadora asked.

He ignored her and instead glanced at me, face grim, and I nodded, urging him to go inside. We followed after him, and I squinted, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. I wasn’t surprised to learn that Whit had brought a handful of supplies, and after rummaging through his leather knapsack, he pulled out short candles and matches.

He handed one to me and Isadora. I hurriedly lit both, desperate to find Mamá. The flame illuminated enough of the room for me to catalogue my surroundings: It was a small sitting area, with simple but comfortable-looking chairs upholstered in bright patterns. Under my feet were layered rugs, clean and well-made. The walls were bare, but the entryway had elaborate wooden casings. On the low coffee table sat a half-filled cup of tea, and judging by the swirls of steam drifting upward, it was still warm. I shot Whit a quick look—he was already moving out of the room, knife in hand.

“Don’t hurt her,” I whispered.

He ignored me, disappearing into the next room.

Isadora followed after him, nearly tripping over one of the seat cushions stacked on the floor. I was right behind her, checking the other rooms as we went. Whit found stairs leading to the second story, and he climbed them two at a time. I raced after him, and we checked the rooms on that level.

“I don’t think there’s anyone here,” Whit whispered. “Where’s Isadora?”

I turned around, frowning, surprised to notice her absence. “I thought she was right behind me.” My brow cleared. “She must be downstairs.”

He brushed past me, taking the stairs to the bottom floor. I let him search for her while I explored the first room next to the staircase. A made-up bed sat in the center, and in the corner of the room were several potted palms and ferns. This was the mother I knew, the one who could patiently tend to soil, or coax a dying flower back to life. On the opposite end of the room was a wooden dresser, a mirrored tray resting squarely in the middle. I walked to it, a loud rushing noise ringing in my ears. On the tray was a perfume I recognized. I lifted the glass bottle, sniffing delicately. It was from Paris, and it smelled like sweet vanilla. A scent that would forever remind me of my mother.

I hastily put the perfume down, my mind reeling.

She had made a home here.

Hurt bloomed under my skin. Mamá shared this bed with her lover. They had made a life together, complete with another child. A daughter to replace the one she’d abandoned. The enormity of what she had done to Papá and me weighed heavy, and I slumped onto the bed, trembling. My eyes fell on a wooden wardrobe, which was partially opened. Dresses like the ones I’d seen in Cairo overflowed from the tight space.

They were brighter, lower cut, more ruffled and girlish. My mother wasn’t that much older than me—only thirty-nine—and she seemed to be grasping at her youth, at the life she had yet to live. And this was how she chose to spend her days. Cheating on Papá for years and years, forbidding me from joining her in Egypt. Selling priceless historical objects of cultural significance to the highest bidder.

I hardly recognized her.

“Olivera!” Whit called from the bottom floor.

I stood on shaking knees, an ache piercing my heart. My family had fallen apart, and I had foolishly tried to create another with a man I’d known for a handful of months. I felt destabilized and so, so angry for what my mother had done.

And she didn’t have the courtesy to be here so I could yell at her.

I trudged down the stairs, fighting my emotions with every step. Crying wouldn’t help. Yelling wouldn’t save my uncle and Abdullah from the Cairo prison. The sound of Whit and Isadora arguing pierced the gloom of the empty house. Their voices drew me to their location like a peevish siren. They were in a library, comfortable chairs grouped over plush rugs, small cylinder-shaped tables standing on either end.

Shelves laden with dozens of random objects covered the four walls: books; apothecary jars; bottles of ink; stationery; statuettes and figurines of various Egyptian gods and goddesses and animals; picture frames showcasing sketches and paintings of various monuments and temples; bits of mismatched jewelry; ribbons; pins; scarves; old journals and stacked books, some falling apart at the binding; ladies’ hats and various gloves. Curiously, there were chipped cups and rusted silverware and several teakettles. The amount of clutter taking over nearly every available inch astounded me.

“Tell me what you were doing in this room before I walked in,” Whit demanded.

“I was searching for clues,” Isadora snapped. “Isn’t that why we’re here? I’m becoming quite exhausted by your constant hounding and suspicion. Inez, won’t you please talk some sense into him?”

I rubbed at my sore temples, pressure building behind my eyes. “Have either of you found something useful? Or have you been arguing this whole time?”

Isadora had the good sense to appear sheepish, but Whit remained stone-faced. Finally, he muttered, “Most of the objects are magic touched. I don’t know how helpful they’ll be, however.”

My attention swerved back to the shelves. Mamá had been an avid collector of magic-touched items ever since I could remember. Wherever she traveled, she always found something to bring back home. Her favorite pieces came from Paris. She once told me the spells attached to the objects were mischievous in nature. It amused her greatly to find a music box that only sang lewd sea chanteys. But staring at the hundreds of items littering the shelves, I began to realize I’d severely underestimated her ability to hoard.

“Perhaps there’s something here that might point us to where else she could be? Or maybe what she’s doing here in Alexandria?” Isadora asked.

Whit met my gaze, raising his brow faintly. We both suspected my mother was looking for the Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra. If she somehow figured out how to transform lead into gold… I shuddered to think what she’d do with that kind of wealth.

That kind of power.

“There are more journals piled over here on the chairs,” Whit commented. “Why don’t we take our time and look through everything? Olivera, if you see anything worth keeping, shrink it.”

Reflexively, my hand went to the scarf around my neck.

“We’re just going to stay here all night?” Isadora asked. “What happens if Mother comes back?”

“We’ll all take tea together,” Whit said.

Isadora glared at him. Whit dropped to the floor and began thumbing through the journals and old books. Isadora read through letters, and I perused the shelves slowly. This turned out to be a messy task. The teakettle whistled flames when I touched the handle; various figurines loudly sang lewd songs, reminding me of that old music box; most of the scarves behaved like chameleons, changing color and shape based on what they touched; the bottles of ink were actually medicine, and I shrunk them all down, recalling a story my uncle had told me back on Philae. Mamá constantly worried about getting sick, but then she had found a cache of ink bottles that held the remnants of healing spells. Now she could cure anything: broken bones, heat rashes, fevers, chills, stomach pains.

I felt no qualms in taking the stash.

There was also an earring that seemed to magnify the noise in the room (Whit quietly reading to himself sounded like he was bellowing right in my ear), a bracelet that warmed up my body temperature, and several charcoal pencils that were tied up in a ribbon. I didn’t know what they did, but I could always use more of them.

I turned away from the shelf and went to one of the chairs, moving the large stacks of paper to make room. An icy claw of dread pierced me. Somewhere in Alexandria, Mamá was hiding with hundreds and hundreds of artifacts, preparing for them to be sold.

“Where could she be?” I fumed.

“That,” came a voice from the doorway, “is a very good question.”

Fear pricked my skin. I knew that voice, the greasy quality to it, as if every word was dipped in a vat of oil. Slowly, I lifted my gaze.

Leaning against the frame nonchalantly was Mr. Basil Sterling.

His hand held a pistol pointed at my heart.