With a sigh, I flipped through the pages of her journal, reading bits at a time as I went. There were many entries of her day-to-day life, things she did or saw, places she visited, and people she met. I took notice of a pattern emerging with every turn of the page. At first, my mother wrote in the journal almost daily, but then the entries were spaced out by months and then, curiously, years.
The most recent pages switched back to daily writings that were filled with her worries about my uncle. Which I knew to be lies. At some point, this diary had turned into a deliberate and curated way to damn my uncle. An asset she could use against him.
It was clever and so calculating it made my stomach turn. How could she have planned to ruin her own brother’s life?
My brow furrowed as I flipped back to the earlier entries, dated seventeen years ago, and picked a page at random to read.
Back again in Egypt so soon after our last visit, at Cayo’s insistence. And now he tells me that he wants to stay even longer. Possibly over a year. Cayo insists Inez will never feel our absence throughout her infancy, but I’m not so sure. It’s as chaotic as always, the hotel filled with people from all over. I’ve run into old friends, at least, which has kept my days full of conversation that doesn’t revolve around excavating, thank goodness.
Cayo is demanding we leave for the site earlier than planned, and I’m dreading it. Once he has an idea in his mind, there’s no changing it. But I’d rather enjoy the comforts of the hotel and the little rituals that make the time spent here bearable.
I wonder if it would be so terrible if Cayo went on without me?
That way, I wouldn’t slow him down, or bother him with my boredom and complaints. Even Abdullah sees how miserable I am out in the desert.
Perhaps I’ll ask him. It would be better for everyone if I stayed behind. I could draw and paint, visit with the various ladies and gentlemen I’ve befriended. Read to my heart’s content. The hotel has scores of books and material that I might enjoy.
Mamá’s words and the depth of feeling she hid between the lines fully struck me. She had been miserable returning to Egypt. She had searched for ways to occupy her time, anything to make her days bearable. Meanwhile, Papá’s enthusiasm was abundantly clear, and perhaps he was oblivious to my mother’s apparent misery. I had no idea they had abandoned me for longer stretches of time when I was baby. Why didn’t they care to be with me? I inhaled, my breath shaky, and fought to keep the rising emotion I felt under control. It hurt too much, and it made it impossible to think.
I turned the page and encountered the first of her many sketches. It wasdated the next morning after the entry I had just read, and a chill skittered down my spine when I recognized her magic-touched scarf. She’d found it right here at Shepheard’s.
A rap on the door interrupted my thoughts. I stood, my knees popping—I hadn’t realized that much time had gone by—and hobbled to the door. I must have ordered tea and forgotten all about it. But when I opened it, a tea tray wasn’t on the other side.
A young woman stared back at me, her honey-colored hair pinned at the crown of her head, thick curls framing a hollowed-out face. Her skin looked pale, ghostlike, as she stood in the candlelit corridor, and her blue walking dress first appeared respectable for company, but on a second look, I noticed the dirty hem.
I almost didn’t recognize her.
“Isadora!” We’d met weeks ago when I had snuck about my uncle’s dahabeeyah. I hadn’t known what to think of her at first. She was well brought up with pretty manners, but I sensed there was much she tucked away out of reach. But then, within days of meeting her, she had helped in saving my life, deftly handling a sleek pistol while she shot at a crocodile.
My admiration and respect for her soared.
Isadora lifted her chin, and despite the deep cavern under her eyes, she held herself regally, back straight, hands demurely clutching a cottontraveling bag. It, too, looked the worse for wear, covered in dust, the leather handle bent out of shape.
“Are you all right?” I demanded. “You look… like you’ve been through an ordeal.”
“Do you still consider me a friend?” Isadora asked without preamble.
“Of course,” I replied instantly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Her stiff expression relaxed into a tentative, relieved smile. “Then will you let me come in?”
I stepped aside quickly and repeated, “Of course.”
Isadora brushed past and abruptly stopped, almost crashing into the tower of wooden crates, but steadied herself in time. She looked over her shoulder, raising a delicate brow, before skirting around the boxes and examining the rest of Whit’s—our—room. “What on earth?”
“I’ve been trying to tackle it for three days,” I said. “But it only seems to be getting worse.”
She let out a low whistle. “There’s more in the bathroom! Where did all of these things come from?”
I sighed, shut the door, and followed the sound of her voice as she looked through the tall rolled-up rugs propped against the wall. “Everything belongs to my parents. Well, mostly everything. I have my own trunks in here somewhere.”
Isadora glanced around, her blue eyes flickering over every corner. “I imagined your room would be bigger.”
“How did you know which one was mine?”
“The front desk,” she replied absently. “Good God, this is really small.”
“It’ll do for now.”
