Whit shrugged. “This journal could be damning in the wrong hands.”
“Then why keep it?” I persisted. “Why not burn it? Throw it in the Nile?”
“Because he’s not a fan of littering?”
“Be serious, Whitford.”
His lips twitched. “Well, what doyouthink?”
I took the journal and flipped the pages, desperate to find anything that might help us locate her.
Whit’s hand snapped forward. “Wait. What’s that?”
I looked toward where he pointed. My mother had filled up a page with drawings and scribbles.
It looked indecipherable. Random sketches next to drawings and tidbits about ancient Egyptians. I could just picture my mother, reading in Shepheard’s library, trying to understand my father’s fascination. Learning what she could, trying to keep up while in conversation with him. I flipped the page, and noticed another entry.
I received a letter from Cayo, another delay in returning from the excavation site. Most of my friends have moved on to see the sights. Perhaps I should have gone with them, but I had been expecting Cayo any day. That had been a mistake. Still, the library in the hotel has many interesting materials to read through. I found a few books about the last pharaoh of Egypt—Cleopatra the seventh. A fascinating woman by all accounts, with an even more interesting ancestry.
He took the journal from me, turning the page back again, and examined the doodles. I stared at him in bemusement. “What is it?”
“It might be nothing,” he admitted.
“Whatmight be nothing?”
He held up the page. “Does this look like a snake to you?”
“Maybe a little. It has an odd, wiggly edge.”
“Made by a snake.” Whit nodded. “This mark might be an eye.”
I squinted, trying to see it. Perhaps it was a snake, but it could also just have been a random mark.
“It looks like an Ouroboros.”
“So…?”
Whit tapped his bottom lip absently. “Remember how your mother was looking for something in particular on Philae?”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“In the ancient world, there were four women who were rumored to be able to produce the philosopher’s stone.”
I tilted my head, frowning slightly. “I’ve heard of it—one of the ancient spells that’s been lost.” The philosopher’s stone—where had I read about that before? It sounded incredibly familiar to me. It was an object of some significance.
“Right. These women were alchemists and Spellcasters. And one of them was named Cleopatra—remember I told you about her?” When I nodded, he continued, saying, “An ancestor ofourCleopatra who was buried secretly on Philae.” He tapped his finger against my mother’s entry. “Look here—she even talks about reading up on her ancestry.”
Excitement pulsed in my throat.
“Cleopatra the alchemist is rumored to have written down how to make the stone on a single sheet of parchment. This legendary sheet is called Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra, and on it, she had drawn an Ouroboros.”
I looked down at my mother’s drawing. “And it looked something like this?”
Whit nodded, grimacing slightly. “I know it’s a stretch. But if your mother didn’t find what she was hoping for on Philae, then she could still be looking.”
“Look at the date on the other page,” I said. “This is from years ago. It seems incredible that she stumbled upon a book, saw a drawing, and then randomly reproduced it in her journal. Then, over a decade later, she decides to search for the Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra?”
“Itisrumored to have been buried with her descendant,” Whit said. “Do you understand what the philosopher’s stone is, Inez?”
