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

Capítulo Veintidós

CAPíTULO VEINTIDóS

Morning light seeped into the room and I blinked, hazy from sleep. I yawned, stretching my legs, and discovered Whit was alert. He lay curled on his side, his arm having served as a makeshift pillow for my head. He played with my hair, tucking strands behind my ear.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Have a look.” Whit lifted the corner of his shirt. The wound had closed up, and the angry-looking veins spreading outward had faded. He’d have a scar for the rest of his life, but he had stayed and lived. I let out an incredulous laugh and then promptly burst into tears.

“You must be so hungry,” I said, mopping up my eyes.

“I want a banquet table to suddenly appear in this room,” he said. “I want a mile-long buffet table. I want—”

“Understood,” I said, laughing again as I immediately got to my feet and walked out of the hotel room, fighting to keep my erratic emotions under control. One of the hotel attendants was coming down the hall with a tea tray, and I gave him a tremulous smile.

“He’s feeling much better,” I explained at the sudden alarm on his face. He must have assumed my puffy eyes had meant something different. Had I not used the ink bottle, that might have been the case. “May we have hot water sent up, along with fresh sheets? And he’d like breakfast. Boiled eggs, pita bread, that delicious stewed fava-bean dish. Maybe some rice? Oh, and he loves pan-fried eggplants with lots of honey. Actually, please also bring a bowl of honey. And a pot of coffee!”

He nodded and doubled back down the hallway.

“Food is on its way,” I said, closing the hotel room door behind me.

“Let me ask you something,” Whit said. “Who in Egypt would know about the underground water passageways beneath Alexandria?”

I blinked at the abrupt subject change. I was still in a Whit-had-almost-died headspace. “I left the room for one minute.”

“I don’t have a pocket watch, so I’ll take your word for it.”

“Whit.”

“Inez.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“We don’t have time for me to have a proper convalescence,” Whit retorted. “Abdullah and Ricardo are wasting away in prison, while Mr. Sterling is tracking our every move. Lourdes is one step ahead of us, probably this close”—he brought his index finger and thumb nearly together, almost touching—“to finding the alchemical sheet, and if your father is alive, he’s probably being kept in some damp hovel somewhere.”

“Wait,” I said, shaking my head. At the lighthouse, I’d had the strongest feeling that he was gone. “You think there’s a chance Papá might be alive?”

“I don’t know,” Whit said softly. “But if he’s alive, then the only reason he hasn’t reached out to you is because he physically can’t. He might be locked up somewhere…”

“I’ve thought that, too,” I breathed, hardly daring to hope.

“I know you have,” Whit said. “But I also want you to at least think it’s possible that he’s gone, Inez.”

“You’ve made your point,” I said absently, my mind stuck on what he’d said earlier. He loved me, but he clearly still wanted the Chrysopoeia, though I didn’t understand why. “Talk to me about the alchemical sheet, Whit.”

He blinked. “ Now? ”

“Now. Please.”

Whit shifted, getting slowly to a sitting position. His gaze dropped to his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. “I was never given a choice about who I’d marry. She was always going to be wealthy, an heiress, someone to pull my family out of the hole my parents had dug for themselves.”

I went to sit by him. “Go on.”

“After I was discharged, I spent a lot of time out at night.” He flushed. “I’m not proud of that season of my life, but I did happen to learn of an extraordinary rumor. A single sheet with instructions on how to turn lead into gold, written down centuries earlier by none other than Cleopatra the alchemist.” He unclasped his hands, his fingers twisting the bedding, and I reached forward to take his hand in mine. “I became obsessed with discovering where it was.”

“Why?”

Whit slowly lifted his face, his eyes meeting mine. “Inez, at first I wanted to find the sheet to get out of a marriage I didn’t want. Now, more than anything, I want to find the Chrysopoeia to save a marriage I desperately want.”

“The money doesn’t matter to me anymore,” I said. “It wasn’t about that—”

Whit arched a brow.

“Not entirely about that,” I amended. “It hurt that you’d lied, that you’d betrayed me. I wanted a family with you, a life together, and you destroyed us before we really got to begin.”

“I’m sorry.” Whit lifted my palm and kissed it. “I will never derail us again. It’s you and me, darling. Forever.”

“I believe you,” I whispered, suddenly feeling shy.

Whit leaned forward and pressed his lips to my cheek, the softest brush of his mouth against my skin. Then he leaned back and asked, “Any more questions?”

I shook my head. “You were onto something earlier.”

“What was it?” Whit tugged at his hair and then snapped his fingers. “Oh, right. The lighthouse. When we were there, you were just coming out of one of Cleopatra’s memories,” Whit said. “And you were telling me what you’d seen. At some point, Isadora snapped. She heard something that made her break character and fire her gun at you. I think we were on the brink of making a discovery.”

I rubbed my temples, fighting to remember exactly what I’d seen. “Let me think,” I murmured. “Cleopatra was in a rowboat accompanied by one guard, and he was rowing while she sat behind him, dressed in a dark robe with a hood. Her hands were on the railing—no, wait. That’s not true. She was carrying something. It was… it was the roll of parchment!”

“The Chrysopoeia,” Whit said. “She had it on her, which makes sense. Her brother is trying to reclaim the throne, and he has his sights set on Alexandria. And who knows? He might have been looking for the sheet, too. He was also a descendant of the famous alchemist.”

Another part of the memory surfaced in my mind. “Whit, by the time Cleopatra arrives at the Roman tower, she’s no longer carrying the parchment roll. Cleopatra had made a turn before arriving at the palace where she could beg Julius Caesar’s help against her brother. That’s the moment I remember before Isadora started firing at us.”

“Exactly what I remember,” Whit said. “Which brings me back to my original question. Who do we know that could help us with the underground passageways in Alexandria?” His expression turned to excitement at the same moment a name popped into my mind.

We said it together: “Abdullah.”

A knock sounded as my stomach grumbled. “Hurrah, our food is here. Whit, why don’t you fill up the teacup—”

He was already up and moving toward the water basin, albeit very slowly. I went to the door, permitting entry to two waiters who brought in a tray laden with covered dishes, a small round table, and an extra wooden chair. The table was placed in front of the bed, the chair on the opposite side, tucked underneath. Together we arranged the dishes, uncovering the array, the savory aroma wafting through the room making my mouth water. Whit tipped the waiters, and they left us to enjoy our meal.

“How long before they answer?” I asked, eyeing the magical cup.

Whit fixed a plate and handed it to me and then piled the second with a truly spectacular amount of food. “I would think soon. There, see?” Whit pointed to the cup with his fork. “It’s already working.”

Sure enough, the water within the cup was shimmering silver, and when I brought it closer to me, Tío Ricardo’s face appeared, distorted from the constant rippling of the surface.

“Finally,” my uncle snarled. “It’s been days, Inez. And don’t think I don’t know where you went. Lorena told me everything. Why the hell are you in Alexandria?”

“You’ve flooded the carpet twice,” I remarked dryly. “We had to walk around the room in our shoes or risk sodden stockings.”

“No less than you deserve for making me worry,” he snapped. “I’m stuck in this room, and you’re a hundred miles away, getting into all kinds of trouble, I’m sure . And there’s been no word. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

I squirmed, absolutely ashamed of myself.

“We’ve been busy,” Whit said between chewing. Somehow, he’d managed to clear half of his plate of food.

“Is that Whitford ?” Tío Ricardo asked. “Tell that scoundrel he ought to know better— What is it, Abdullah?” My uncle turned his face away, and I heard someone speaking in a muffled voice. Tío Ricardo returned to the cup, rolling his eyes. “Abdullah thinks I’m being too hard on you both. And he sends his greetings and congratulations and I don’t know what else. Health for all eternity or some such.”

I laughed. “Can we speak to him, por favor?”

“Am I not worth a few more minutes?” Tío Ricardo demanded.

Whit paused in his eating and came to sit next to me on the bed. He pressed his temple close to mine and peered into the cup. “It’s important, Ricardo.”

“Humph,” he said, but disappeared. Abdullah appeared in the cup a moment later, looking tired, his face thinner, beard overtaking the bottom half of his face.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, anxious.

“Much better now that I’m seeing you two,” Abdullah said. “I am so happy for you both. You make a great pair. Now, if only there was someone I could introduce Farida to. I’d love to see her settled down with the right person—”

“Abdullah,” Whit broke in firmly. “We have something we need to speak to you about.”

“Oh?”

Quickly, we relayed each of the memories I’d seen, skipping over the events at the lighthouse. My uncle didn’t need to hear about Isadora or Whit getting shot. He’d have questions, and neither Whit nor I had time to reassure him.

And anyway, it would be a lie.

I didn’t know if either of us would make it out of our present peril alive—a truth that turned my stomach into tight knots. I shoved the worry aside, concentrating on what Abdullah was saying.

“Underground canals?” Abdullah asked. “You must be talking about the ancient cisterns of Alexandria.”

“Cisterns?” Whit asked.

“From the days of Alexander the Great when he founded the city, naming it after himself, of course. He was heavily involved in the planning of the city, which included making sure the inhabitants would have access to water. There are hundreds of cisterns that provided the water supply for Alexandrians, and they were connected by a series of canals fed by the Nile. But the canals weren’t just used for water—I believe it was Julius Caesar who sent his soldiers below to keep their movements secret when he was quelling the rebellion of Cleopatra’s brother Ptolemy the thirteenth.”

Whit and I glanced at each other, and I could sense we had been struck by the same thought. It was Cleopatra who had told Caesar about the underground waterways.

“So the underground canals run throughout the city,” Whit remarked.

“Yes,” Abdullah said. “By the way, everything I know about this underground network of canals I know because of the tremendous work of Mahmoud el-Falaki, a man of many talents: the court astronomer, an excavator, a physicist, and a mapmaker. He was tasked with creating a map of ancient Alexandria, and he was able to correctly place ancient buildings where they were situated in antiquity. Of course, no one in the English-speaking world believes him or has given him the credit he deserves,” Abdullah said sadly, shaking his head. His face blurred from the movement, the water rippling sharply.

While all of the information was fascinating, it didn’t help us pinpoint where Cleopatra could have hidden the alchemical sheet on her way to the royal palace to request an audience with Julius Caesar. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else hidden down there,” I said.

“Well, now that you mention it,” Abdullah said slowly, “there’s a story repeated among some archaeologists. But it’s just a rumor and not founded on any evidence—only a few scraps of ancient written history.”

I leaned forward, excitement pulsing in my throat. “What rumor?”

“The Great Library of Alexandria was one of the most famous libraries of antiquity. It was dedicated to the nine muses of the arts and was a center of learning. It housed thousands of scrolls from not just Egyptian history, but the histories of dozens of countries. Unfortunately, Julius Caesar set fire to Egyptian ships in the harbor, hoping to block Ptolemy’s fleet, but the fire spread to a warehouse affiliated with the Library where thousands of scrolls were stored,” Abdullah said. “Some historians estimate around forty thousand scrolls were lost.”

“That’s terrible,” I exclaimed, thinking of Cleopatra and how she must have felt to see parts of her city catching fire.

“Well, because of that event, more priceless documents went to the daughter library at the Serapeum, an ancient temple dedicated to Serapis,” Abdullah said. “Many of the scrolls from the Great Library were moved there for safekeeping, but here’s the interesting thing—there’s rumor of a secret library where some of the most treasured papyruses were hidden.”

“A secret library?” Whit repeated.

Abdullah smiled. “The lore says it’s somehow connected to the Serapeum.”

“Serapis and his loyal companion, Cerberus,” I said, my gaze dropping to the box of my mother’s things. I knew I’d find a map of the ancient city of Alexandria tucked inside, where on a little side street, someone had drawn the figure of the three-headed dog.

“Yes, the two are often connected,” Abdullah said. “In fact, I believe there is a carving of Cerberus somewhere at the lighthouse. Interestingly, visitors to Alexandria first had to pay a toll to enter the harbor. Any scrolls or papyruses they brought with them had to be sent to the library in order to be copied. This was how the Great Library became what it was.”

“And some of those scrolls moved to the secret library,” Whit said. “Could it be underground?”

Abdullah tilted his head, shrugging. “Who knows where the library hides?”

Whit immediately wanted to visit the Serapeum, but the physician arrived, determined to see his patient. I think he believed to find Whit at death’s door and was quite astonished to see me yelling at him to stop putting on his boots.

The physician ordered me from the room, since I was apparently aggravating his patient.

I stood in the hallway, hearing the heated back-and-forth between the two, even with the door shut. I knew I ought to go back inside, but something held me back. Instead, I went to the lobby, my steps slow and meandering. Whit would live, and now I didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do next. Sometime during the night, when he held on to my hand in a death grip, I had forgiven him for what he had done. It seemed he would always do the extreme to help the people in his life. Steal a fortune to save his sister. Jump in front of a bullet to save me. Fight crocodiles.

The lobby was silent; it was too early for guests to venture out to see the sights. I slumped into one of the available low chairs and stared blankly around me, overwhelmed. One of the attendants took pity on me and brought over a pot of tea, which I sipped as my thoughts whirred.

Isadora was gone, and at some point Mamá and her lover would find out what I had done. They would come after me, seeking revenge, no doubt. I didn’t know what my mother would do, and again I thought of Mr. Fincastle and his wide assortment of weapons.

The truth of my situation stared me in the face. Elvira was murdered. Isadora was on that staircase because of me. During the long hours of the night, despair had kept me wide awake at the thought of Whit dying from the hole in his stomach.

Death followed after me no matter what I did.

Terror gripped me so fully my body quaked from it. Because in my heart, I knew if I persisted down this path, someone else would die.

I would not risk Whit’s life ever again. He was recovering and on the mend, and he was the only one I had left who would stubbornly stay by my side. Even if it killed him.

Everything inside me rebelled at the idea of going after my mother. Except, my uncle and Abdullah would rot in prison for the rest of their lives if I didn’t pursue her.

But why did it have to be me ?

There was someone else who could do that for me. Slowly, I pulled out Mr. Sterling’s card and looked at it, contemplating my options. Whit would not want me to contact him. But if I gave Mr. Sterling the means to find my mother, then I created a real chance for Whit and me to get out of this horrible, messy situation alive. I would do anything to not go another day wondering if Whit would live to see tomorrow.

But the idea of turning to Mr. Sterling for help disgusted me.

My whole life, I worked to earn my parents’ love and approval. I contorted myself into who they wanted me to be, sure that if they saw the real me, they’d try to change me. It was exhausting constantly pretending, constantly biting back my words, silencing my opinions. When I came to Egypt, I had made my own decisions, and sometimes they had been disastrous, but they were my mistakes.

But I fell into the same pattern I always did. I blamed myself for what my mother had done with those artifacts. No grace, no quarter, no understanding. I was done trying to be perfect, done trying to be someone I wasn’t. I had instincts that I needed to learn how to trust. And if I took a wrong turn, I was smart enough to look for a better way to go.

Which brought me back to this annoying crossroad. I still didn’t know how to save everyone I loved in my life.

“Excuse me,” one of the hotel workers said. “Your husband is asking for you.”

I looked to the hotel entrance, gripping the card. Then I deliberately tore it in half.

With a shaky breath, I stood and gave the employee the torn halves. “Will you throw this away for me?”

“Of course,” he said.

Then I turned my feet in the direction of where Whit waited, and I began to walk.

Whit was sitting up on the bed in clean sheets, drinking coffee, hair damp from his quick bath. When I closed the door behind me, his hands tightened on the handle of the cup almost imperceptibly. He seemed nervous. My watery eyes blurred as Whit patted the space next to him. I went to him, sinking onto the bed, and then leaned against his shoulder. Whit used his sleeve to wipe my face, murmuring soft words, somehow tugging me closer so that I sat across his lap. He smoothed the hair from off my face and leaned down to brush his lips against mine.

Need flared between us.

“Come here,” he said, voice hoarse with want.

I glanced at our position, my legs draped over his thighs. “How can I be any closer?”

Whit leveled me with a demanding, impatient look.

That look shot fiery sparks to every corner of my body. It felt like it had been so long since our first time together. That night, he’d taken off his jacket and his boots, laid his gun on the nightstand, and removed his hidden knife. He’d made a handsome armory. This time, he wore only his trousers and a shirt already mostly unbuttoned. There were no weapons between us.

I missed every moment with him more than I had wanted to admit when I’d been so angry at him.

I raised my hand and wrapped it around his neck as he deftly lifted me so that I could straddle him. His mouth moved against mine, kissing me deeply, hungrily, as if he wanted to show me that he really was all right, that he had truly escaped death. I sank my fingers into his hair while his hands drifted down my back until he cupped my bottom and moved me closer. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses up and down my neck, and I shivered.

“I love you,” he whispered against my skin.

I leaned backward, far enough so that I could stare into his eyes but close enough to still be in the circle of his arms. His hand slid to my thigh, and he tugged my skirt over my knee. Slowly, I unbuttoned the tiny row of buttons on my shirt. Whit fixated on every inch I revealed. He leaned forward and pressed soft kisses on my skin while his fingers drifted higher and higher. A gasp worked itself out of my mouth as my forehead dropped onto his shoulder. I reached for his trousers, and he helped me shift clothing aside before positioning me right where he wanted.

He lifted his head, a silent question in the depths of his blue gaze, and I nodded, breathless. Our wedding night felt like forever ago; I had been nervous, on a mission to outwit my uncle. But tonight was about me and Whit, and the rest of our lives, or however long we had left. I was safe, I was loved. He cupped my cheek and brought my face close to his, kissing me with a tenderness that felt raw and vulnerable. I sank onto him, and his lips moved to brush the shell of my ear as he whispered, “Good girl.” Then we were moving together, that last bit of distance between us gone forever.

Whit was my husband, my best friend.

He murmured soothing words against my hair, his hands drifting once again behind me, rocking me slowly. “ Inez ,” he said, and my name was a whispered prayer in his mouth. He kissed me deeply, feverishly.

I forgave him, again and again.

He splayed his hands tight against my lower back, and every thought skittered out of reach. I only knew the tender way he stared up at me, the way he kept me close, and the inescapable feeling of losing control as my body took over. I let it, giving in to him freely.

Nothing else mattered except this moment.

I wanted a million more, and I would do anything to have them.

We gave ourselves one day together.

One day for Whit to recover fully, for his wound to heal as much as possible, for me to grapple with Isadora’s death, and what it meant. We spent most of the day in bed, sleeping and sometimes not sleeping, and somewhere in between, making plans for what came next.

The next morning, the sharp sunlight illuminating our room woke me. I blinked, my cheek pressed against Whit’s bare chest, which was rising and falling steadily. He was still resting. Carefully, I shifted away from him so I could look at his wound. It was puckered, the skin less irritated, less of an angry shade of red. The magic had worked, aided by a full day of rest. His soft snoring diverted my attention from his chest and up to his face. Auburn eyelashes fluttered above high cheekbones. His mouth was soft, his wavy hair tumbling across his forehead.

He’d wake up hungry, wanting a full ration of breakfast and black coffee. I could easily arrange that, and with my own stomach growling, the sooner the better. I moved off the bed gingerly, not wanting to wake him. I pulled on the first shirt I could get a hold of and my long linen skirt, which was an olive-green shade that I particularly loved. Stocking and boots came on next, but I left my hair unbound and wild.

Quietly, I collected my purse for the tip and then I opened the door a crack and slipped out of our room. The corridor was empty and still as I made my way downstairs, but the lobby had a few guests dressed for the day. Some stood next to their trunks; others held printed guides for sightseeing.

When all of this was over, I would make Whit take me to every single country I’d been dreaming about visiting since I was a little girl. There were so many cities and ruins I wanted to explore, different foods I wanted to try.

We only had to survive what came next.

I hailed down a hotel worker, another German, who took my order on a slip of paper. “Scrambled eggs, two—no, three —portions. Pita bread, honey, butter,” I said. “Coffee, black, please, and I’d love any fruit you have that’s in season.”

“Very good, miss.”

“Mrs.,” I corrected, smiling.

“Is that all?”

“Room two hundred and six,” I said. “Thank you.”

He nodded and strode off to the kitchens. I turned toward the grand staircase, but a soft voice in my ear stopped me cold. Something dug into my lower back.

“Hello, Inez,” a man whispered. “What you feel is my pistol. Cry for help, and I’ll shoot you. Make eye contact with anyone, and I’ll shoot you.”

I tried to turn, but he pressed his weapon into me farther, and I gasped.

“Not another sound,” he said. “We’re going to walk out of the hotel without any fuss. Understand?” He jabbed the barrel of his gun into me again. “Or I’ll walk up to room two hundred and six and shoot your husband.” He leaned closer, his breath skating across my skin, making it crawl. “That was your room number, wasn’t it?”

I swallowed hard, unable to rid my mind of the image of Whit bleeding, his hands stained red, gasping for breath, his face turning pale and cold.

“Are you going to cooperate, Inez?”

I nodded.

“Then let’s go,” the stranger said. He came to stand next to me, placing his free hand around me, the gun hidden underneath his jacket but still pressed tight against my side. I recognized him—he was one of the men who had been with Mr. Sterling. It was then I understood the trouble I was in.

“One foot in front of the other.”

Trembling, knees shaking, and palms damp with sweat, I did as he ordered, my only thought on saving the one person who mattered most to me in the world.

Whit. Whit. Whit.