He tugged me forward, and I tried to look over my shoulder. But I didn’t need to—I knew who had come for me.
Whitford Simon Hayes.
A wave of emotions struck me. Relief, because I wasn’t alone anymore, followed quickly by terror.
I wanted to yell at him.
I wanted to kiss him.
Since I could do neither, I stayed silent and focused, my thoughts whirring on how to get us out of here. I knew Papá would use me as leverage until he learned where Mamá had hidden away Cleopatra and the artifacts. I also knew that Mr. Fincastle had most likely brought an entire armory to serve as their defense should they be discovered.
I trembled at the thought of a gunfight erupting in such an unstable environment, surrounded by the water below and that which was coming down from the frequent spouts. Dread formed a knot deep in my belly.
Death would find me down here—I was sure of it.
We marched until we came to a tall statue of a man in billowing robes, his hand resting lightly on a three-headed dog. He had been placed infront of an ornate arch, depicting rolls of parchment. Greek letters were engraved following the curve.
“Serapis,” Papá whispered. “Astonishing.”
My father’s face was a frozen mask of triumphant joy. Only his eyes moved, flickering from one thing to another, desperately reading every inch of the entrance. But then he straightened his shoulders and looked to Mr. Graves.
“We take them by surprise,” he said. “How many are within?”
“Obviously the two of them,” Mr. Graves said. “And three workers and one guard. My impression is they hoped to keep their discovery a secret.”
“Excellent,” Papá said. “Secure the area, and Inez and I will follow.”
Mr. Graves nodded and motioned for the men to walk through. He pointed to the man behind me and said, “You I want with me.” Terror scored my heart. I felt, rather than saw, Whit’s hesitation. I knew he didn’t want to leave, but with my father’s armed men surrounding us, he would not risk me.
Finally, he brushed past me, his cap sitting low across his brow. His finger found mine for one fleeting second, hooking around my pinky for one breath. I felt his desperation, his fury in that single point of contact. He released me, and together with Mr. Graves, they walked through the arch.
“It will only be a moment,” Papá said.
I tore my gaze from Whit’s retreating back. It was then that I realized my father had a pistol pointed at me. My entire focus narrowed to the gun in his hand. That same hand had held me as a child. I lifted my eyes and met his, expecting to see some flicker of emotion. Regret, maybe. Grief. But there was neither. He looked back at me with a mixture of resignation and determination; there was nothing soft about his expression. Perhaps he knew we would always come to this moment.
A father threatening the life of his daughter.
We stared at each other for an interval of time. I didn’t dare make any sudden movement; I instinctively knew he would not hesitate to pull the trigger if I became difficult.
“Why?” I asked finally. It felt as if I’d lived several lifetimes.
“You are my leverage,” he explained. “If your mother cares more for you than her treasure, I believe you will survive this night.”
A shot rang out. Then another. And another. The sound crashed around us, louder than the Nile. My pulse thrummed in my veins, and I snapped around.
My father grasped my arm, tugging me close to his side. “Let’s see if we can stop the shooting, shall we, querida?”
Papá lodged the barrel of the gun under my chin, and we walked beneath the arch, passing more columns placed in the same checkerboard pattern. These held guttering torches, illuminating our way. Whole sections of floor were rotting under my feet. Soon, we came to a place where the spaces between the pillars were filled with shelves that held hundreds of rolls of parchment stacked on top of one another. Incredibly, my father ignored every single one, half dragging me along, the barrel pressed hard against the underside of my jaw. Because we still followed the checkerboard pattern, we passed square-shaped rooms through narrow doorways that allowed passage from one to another. The deeper we went, the walls became more sporadically placed, forming larger square rooms, and then eventually, rectangular-shaped ones. I imagined it looked like a veritable maze from up above.
“Each room is labeled by topic,” Papá breathed. “We’ve passed poetry, law, history, tragedy, and medicine. This isastonishing.”
“Not for me it isn’t,” I hissed.
“Quiet,” Papá said. “I think I hear… Yes, that’s Mr. Graves.”
“Take a left and you’ll find us,” Mr. Graves called out.
Papá pulled me into the room, the pistol’s barrel cold against my skin. Another bruise would bloom tomorrow from Papá’s constant jabbing.
