“London,” she said. “We divided our time between England and Alexandria. We have an apartment there, and a house in Grosvenor Square.”
It hardly seemed believable, the lengths my mother went to to secure a new existence for herself. She must have hated my father. Had she been planning on leaving Papá and me altogether? “Isadora, our mother trades in the black market here in Cairo.”
She stood up, tucked her chair neatly under the table. “You’re lying to me.”
“Please sit down.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. No emotion warbled her voice, and she held herself tall, chin tilted upward. She was frighteningly composed while I wished I knew how to keep myself from shattering. Talking about my mother always unsettled me—I was either angry or hurt or terrified.
“It’s the truth,” I said. “Please sit down.”
She gazed toward the exit and I waited, breath caught in my chest. I didn’t know what I’d do if she walked out of this room and out of my life.
“Where will you go?” I asked.
Isadora slowly turned her head. Her face remained expressionless, but her hands were shaking. “I have friends in the city.”
I nodded, heart sinking. At least she wouldn’t be alone. “I’m glad. Please keep in touch.”
She remained standing, but she didn’t make a move toward the dining room entrance. She must have expected me to argue with her, but I’d hadplenty of experience in begging people to stay. It never went well. My parents always left, even when they knew I would have given anything for them to take me along or for them to stay home with me.
“Do you have proof of Mother’s involvement?”
“I do,” I whispered.
Isadora pulled out her chair, and slowly sat down, watching me warily. Then she drew her plate closer and took a delicate bite of the cold pita.
“We’ve both gone through a shock—”
“Like realizing one’s father is a criminal?”
I played with the fork on my empty plate. “Yes—that would certainly constitute a trying time. Did you really have no idea?”
Isadora pulled at her lip, remaining quiet for so long I thought she wouldn’t answer. When she did speak, her words came out haltingly.
“I’ve gone over and over it in my head… and the truth is there was always… some question I had at the back of my mind.”
“Go on,” I prodded.
Isadora took a sip from her teacup. “I suppose a part of me thought itwasstrange that they’d be gone all hours of the night several times a week. And I never questioned them when they hosted scores of people in the drawing room, even if they appeared to be… suspicious.”
“Suspicious how?”
Her lips twisted in a grimace. On her, it looked like she’d just sucked on a lemon. “They weren’t part of gentle society. Mother never served them anything to drink or eat. Some of them looked quite rough, and they stayed over long into the night.”
I didn’t know how much to tell her of the truth. My instincts were to shield her. It was likely the people Lourdes and Mr. Fincastle were meeting dealt with the illegal-artifact trade, too. But if it were me in her position, I wouldn’t want to be coddled.
“What is it?”
I grimaced. Isadora was perceptive, and hiding something from her would take considerable effort. I deliberated, and for some reason, Elvira’s face clouded in my mind. I had tried to shield her, too, often giving her only half truths. And look where that had gotten her.
“Have you heard of Tradesman’s Gate?”
“No,” Isadora said. “It sounds like something Wilkie Collins might have written.”
I furrowed my brow.
“He writes mystery novels,” Isadora explained.
