Chapter Twelve
The journey to Giza was a necessary pilgrimage for any visitor to Egypt. Eden had insisted on it, wanting to see the monuments before they set out into the desert. Max arranged it two days after their arrival. Mrs. Carlisle, of course, declined the invitation to go with them.
She and Max left Cairo just after noon. Their carriage was a simple affair, a light two-wheeledkaleshpulled by a sturdy, patient horse. Max had secured a driver who seemed to know every shortcut and alleyway, navigating the donkey carts and early morning vendors with practiced ease.
The initial leg of the journey was a symphony of chaos and color. The air hummed with the cries of merchants and the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers. She watched the mud-brick houses and crowded tenements give way to more spacious villas and the occasional grand palace, a testament to the city’s dramatic contrasts. Soon, the suffocating density began to thin, and the cacophony gave way to a different kind of sound—the rhythmic clopping of hooves on packed earth and the steady whisper of the wind.
The transition was abrupt and breathtaking. One moment, they were surrounded by the green of the Nile’s fertile banks, fields of clover, and date palms stretching to the horizon. The next, the verdant landscape gave way to a sea of pale gold.The desert unspooled before them, an endless, sandy expanse broken only by the occasional scrub bush.
Max pointed out a distant, hazy ridge. “The Mokattam Hills,” he explained, “the edge of the desert proper.”
“I’ve imagined what the desert would look like a million times,” she told him, gazing out at the horizon. “But none of my fantasies did it justice.”
He glanced at her, his eyes filled with understanding. “Having grown up in England, there’s really no way to comprehend this until you actually see it.”
The ride took just over an hour. The sun was high in the sky, and the interior grew unbearably warm. Eden leaned forward in her seat, a knot of anticipation tightening in her stomach. The promised sight was still a shimmer on the horizon, a phantom on the edge of her vision. But then, as the carriage crested a slight rise, it came into focus.
At first, it was nothing more than faint, geometric silhouettes against the pale sky. It seemed like a mirage. But as they drew closer, the forms sharpened, solidifying from impossible shapes into the monumental reality of the Pyramids of Giza. They seemed to rise directly from the desert floor, their immense scale defying logic and perspective. Eden could not tear her eyes away, feeling as if she were traveling backward through time, toward something that had stood silent and watchful for millennia.
Eden shielded her eyes against the sun, letting her gaze drift to take it all in. The Sphinx, worn by wind and centuries, crouched in patient immortality.
“Well, what do you think?” Max asked from the seat opposite her. He looked out of place in the cramped space, his long legs folded awkwardly, his hands resting on knees that seemed too restless for the slow pace of the horse.
“I’m overwhelmed,” Eden murmured, unable to pull her eyes away from the shimmering limestone. “I’ve spent yearsmemorizing floor plans and height measurements, but I didn’t expect the... the weight of it. It’s seen every empire we’ve ever read about rise and crumble into the sand. It makes us look like a footnote.”
Max leaned forward, squinting through the dust kicked up by the carriage. “It’s a miracle of physics, I’ll give them that. But there’s something stubborn about it. It’s been sitting here for four thousand years, watching us try to guess its secrets, and it hasn’t given an inch.”
“Is that what bothers you?” she asked, a small smile playing on her lips. “That it won’t give up its secrets?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Max replied, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually meant he was overthinking a problem. “You can stand right at the base of that thing, close enough to touch the history of it, and still know absolutely nothing about what’s actually inside the core. I don’t believe the current theories of how it was built. I think it might be older than we think. It’s a locked door with no handle.”
Eden let the curtain fall back slightly, the interior of the carriage suddenly feeling very small and very intimate. She looked at Max, finding the same guarded expression on his face that he used when they discussed anything that couldn’t be solved with logic.
“I prefer the things that reveal themselves willingly,” she said, holding his gaze with a directness that made the air between them crackle. She sensed they weren’t talking about the monuments anymore. “The mysteries that actually want to be understood, Max. Not the ones that enjoy being a riddle.”
Max didn’t look away. For a moment, the rattle of the carriage and the shouting of the drivers faded into the background. “Then you’re in the wrong country, Eden,” he said quietly. “Nothing in this sand gives itself up without a struggle.”
She held his gaze for another long moment, wondering if that was a warning, and then looked back out the window.
At last, their carriage pulled up close, and they got out. Sand sighed beneath their feet, and their shadows stretched toward the pyramids.
They walked in silence for a time, each lost in their own thoughts. The air was thick with dust, settling into the fabric of their clothes and skin.
Eden paused to look at Max, finding a certain irony in the way he stood, like one of the very monuments that had captured her heart—unmovable and enigmatic. “Have you been here often?”
“A handful of times. Most of my clients have wanted to see it.” He scanned the horizon, his eyes coolly studying the scene before them. “Yet it never fails to take one’s breath away.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she agreed, though she wasn’t sure if she meant the view or the company.
Their guide led them closer, navigating the throng of tourists and camels. The Sphinx’s features, damaged yet magnificent, loomed above them. Max moved with ease, his manner both assured and reverent, and she could almost feel the years and distance slip away like sand through her fingers.
The pyramids rose in the distance, sharp and resolute against the relentless sun. They moved past vendors hawking trinkets and through groups of curious travelers, each in their own orbit of amazement and bewilderment. The enormity of their surroundings seemed to amplify the tension between them.
They circled back toward the Sphinx, its massive paws holding vigil over the sandy expanse. She marveled at Max’s ease here, the extent of his knowledge, and how he shared it so freely. His generosity tugged at her carefully guarded defenses.
“My father used to say this was a fool’s errand,” she said, her voice hollow. “He’d sit in his study in Kent, surrounded bydamp wool and fox-hunting trophies, and tell me that I had no business chasing Egyptian ghosts. He thought the past was something you buried, not something you lived for.”
She finally turned to look at Max. “I’ve waited so many years to see this with my own eyes. I’ve lived in libraries so long I thought I’d turn into parchment. To actually be here... It’s terrifying.”
