RICARDO AND GRANDFATHER ARE BEING TREATED ABOMINABLY IN PRISON STOP
My voice cracked and I valiantly pushed on, reading the line again, as if the letters would magically rearrange themselves into something that didn’t make me imagine the worst. My uncle and Abdullah covered in scrapes and bruises. Frequently beaten and left to starve. It was enough to send me into a despairing spiral. A curious numbness settled over me, stifling and heavy. I squeezed my eyes shut.
A soft hand touched my arm.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and stared blankly at Whit.
He withdrew, his jaw locked. He kept his expression impassive, but I sensed his turmoil, his raw frustration about what was happening to them and not being able to do a thing to stop it.
“What else does it say?” Isadora asked quietly. “Or would you prefer me to read it for you?”
I licked my lips, shaking my head. “I can do it.”
A soft laugh escaped me as I quickly scanned the rest of the text. Then I read the rest of the message out loud.
AMARANTA HAS YELLED AT MONSIEUR MASPERO COMMA I THINK HE IS AFRAID OF HER BECAUSE HE HAS MOVED THEM INTO A LARGER ROOM STOP
KAREEM IS IN CAIRO AND HAS FOUND A WAY INTO THE PRISON STOP HE HAS SNUCK RICARDO AND GRANDFATHER BASKETS OF FOOD AND CANTEENS OF WATER DO NOT ASK ME HOW STOP KODAK IS TAKING TOO LONG COMMA WILL FIGURE OUT HOW TO DEVELOP PHOTOGRAPHS AT SHEPHEARDS STOP THE STAFF ARE HELPING ME LOCATE WHAT I NEED STOP BE SAFE COMMA FARIDA
I lowered the telegram, and stared blankly ahead, feeling profoundly grateful for Kareem and Farida. A part of me wished I was there with them, helping in some way. In Alexandria, I could do nothing. Well, actually, that wasn’t quite true.
We had Mamá’s things, her private papers, her ideas written down, clues to where she might be or where she might have hidden all the artifacts. We had her journal.
“Let’s start our search,” I said. “Again. There might have been something we missed.”
“Food first,” Whit said sternly. He uncovered the trays and I groaned, my stomach rumbling loudly. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. Whit had brought a feast of warm pita bread, minced meat spiced with cumin and garlic, fresh cucumber and tomatoes, creamy fava beans, and a bowl of hummus with a generous drizzle of olive oil.
“Gracias,” I murmured.
“You’re welcome,” he said with a small smile.
I forced myself to keep my face blank.
His smile faded, and I busily grabbed one of the falafels, dipping it into the hummus. It tasted creamy and delicious, and while the falafel was cold, it still had a great herby flavor. I felt Whit watching me, but I refused to glance at him. The tone of his voice had sent a warm shiver through me, and I couldn’t afford to be foolish again. I had fallen in love with him without the slightest resistance, a gullible little idiot, attracted by the sense of danger he oozed, charmed by his roguish personality, and taken in by his heroics.
For the millionth time, I held on to one reality: he did not love me. It was a curse written on my heart, and every time I thought of it, I felt as if I bled from an open wound. It had all been an act. He was only here out of some misguided sense of responsibility and guilt. That, and he wanted to find the alchemical sheet before my mother did. I would repeat those truths until I said them in my sleep. Until they were stitched across my skin.
“There are no glasses,” Isadora remarked.
Whit handed her the pitcher. “I beg your pardon. The fine china wouldn’t fit on the tray.”
Isadora sniffed but took the drink from him. We all began to eat in earnest while we looked through stacks of papers and journals.
“Are you going to tell us where you went?” I asked Whit.
“I followed Sterling back to his headquarters in Turkish Town,” Whit said. “He has a man named Graves working for him, one of the men who searched me in your mother’s home. Not a nice fellow.” He tore a chunk of the bread and piled it high with hummus and slices of cucumber and tomato, and the whole thing disappeared into his mouth. After he was done chewing, his face took on a grim expression. “I watched him murder a young man in cold blood on Sterling’s orders.”
I set down the pitcher of lemonade, my stomach roiling. Just like that, I lost my appetite. We had come so close to death earlier. All it would have taken was one nod from Mr. Sterling.
“Why did Mr. Sterling let us live?” Isadora asked.
“I suspect because he still needs Inez in some way,” Whit said. “What did he say to you when he took you to a different room?”
“He wants me to help him find Mamá,” I said absently, reading through the papers Whit had stolen back from Mr. Sterling. “He keeps asking me to join his side.”
“Did he have a gun on you?” Whit asked, his voice quietly lethal.
I paused in my reading. “He did. But it didn’t change my answer.”
