I grimaced. “I accidentally helped her.”
“She manipulated you,” Isadora said, and I threw her a grateful smile. It was hard not to feel responsible, and no matter how many times I told myself that any other person might have done the same thing for their own mother—who they’d believed had died—it still didn’t signify. My guilt knew no reason.
“I can’t believe this of Lourdes,” Farida murmured. “She seemed so lovely, so considerate.” She sat up straighter, unclasping her hands. “I just remembered—I brought something for you.”
“For me?” I asked in surprise.
Farida nodded, scooting off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”
When the door shut, Isadora half turned in my direction. Only her expression revealed the merest hint of her distress. Her brows knitted together in a frown as she said, “And so, if we don’t find my parents, two people will be charged with a crime they didn’t commit. Though, both ought to have reported their discovery as is mandated by the department of antiquities.”
“It’s complicated,” I said, my hackles up in defense of Tío Ricardo and Abdullah. She didn’t know of their lifelong mission, how they meticulously recorded their findings and did their best to leave their discoveries as undisturbed as possible. I made a promise never to reveal their practices, and I meant to keep my word. “If you had the full picture, you might think differently.”
“What is the full picture, then?” she demanded.
“I cannot say.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well then, my judgment stands.”
“They had their reasons,” I insisted. “And I believe they are doing the best they can in a tough situation.”
“But had they been forthright, had they worked with the department,” Isadora countered, raising her voice slightly, “then Maspero could instead concentrate on finding the actual culprits. But all of his energies will involve interrogating the wrong people while attempting to locate the stolen artifacts. Not to mention Cleopatra herself.”
“What ifwefound the actual culprits?” Farida asked. She stood within the doorframe, holding a small bundle of photographs in one hand, her portable camera in the other. Isadora and I both jumped; we hadn’t noticed her return. Farida closed the door behind her and resumed her place on the bed, spreading everything on the dark green coverlet. “I’ve been practicing taking pictures, and I have several of your parents, Inez, from my time in Philae.” She lifted the bundle. “These were taken before they disappeared.”
I looked down, unable to speak.
Farida reached forward and lightly placed her hand on my arm. “I brought them because, well, I thought you might like keepsakes of your parents. But now I’m wondering if I ought to look through every photo I’ve taken while on Philae. Perhaps there might be something that could help us build a case against your mother?” She fanned the photographs on the bed. “I’ve taken hundreds, and I’m still waiting for Kodak to develop the rest. They should arrive any day now from their facility.”
“That’s very clever, Farida,” Isadora said approvingly.
My eyes burned and I looked away, inhaling sharply to fight the tears threatening to spill. When I felt in control of my emotions, I gazed at the pictures. There were at least a dozen images of the campsite, the temple, and in each one, Mamá and Papá could be found within the frame. Sometimesit was the two of them, sometimes they were each alone. None of the photographs were posed—all of them seemed to be taken when my parents were in a flurry of motion. Their edges were soft and blurry, their faces looking smeared, as if someone had skimmed over their features with a large paint brush.
But it was easy to identify them. Mamá’s neat dark hair, high-collared shirts, and long skirt, Papá in his button-down shirt and gray trousers, his slim build hunched at the shoulders, as if readying to read a book. His spectacles caught the sunshine, and a bright flare covered his face in nearly all of the photos.
There was one photo in particular that drew my eye. It seemed to be of a room, but the lighting made the image hard to grasp. The picture wasn’t blurry, but something about it was odd. It was clearly someone’s bedroom on Philae, one that looked incredibly familiar to my eye. I leaned in closer. In fact, I had seen this room before.
“It is your parents’ accommodations while at the campsite,” Farida said quietly.
Isadora turned the photo upside down and then right again. “I don’t understand. Where is the wall? It looks blown through, but when I was there, the rooms were all intact.”
Farida inhaled deeply and pulled out her Kodak from a leather carrying case. “After I bought my camera, I made an incredible discovery of my own.”
I’d seen it before when I had first met her in Aswan. It was ordinary looking, a wooden box with a brass wind-up key at the top, a round hole for viewing, and a small button placed on the side.
“This camera is magic touched.”
I let out a low whistle, while Isadora bent her head to examine it more closely.
“There’s something that was used in the making of this camera that allows me to take photos that reveal what’s on the other side of a wall. An unusual but useful spell. My hunch is that it’s the brass key at the top that’s used to roll the film to the next slide. The magic doesn’t work on clothingor metal or anything like that. Only certain kinds of walls. Stone, rock, clay, granite, limestone.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Anything that might have been used in antiquity, I suppose.”
“Interesting,” Isadora said. “So we’re essentially seeing our mother’s room and all of her things.” She held up the picture. “Everything looks ordinary. Plenty of books and linens, her trunk and extra candles, matches. One mirror.”
“Mamá carried around her journal frequently,” I said, studying another photograph. I recalled the curious doodles Whit had pointed out. His face appeared in my mind, and I winced slightly, forcing him far from my thoughts. Ihatedhow often he cropped up in my head. Especially in the quiet moments when I was still, my thoughts unguarded.
I gave myself a mental shake, and reached into my canvas bag for my journal and charcoal pencils. Flipping to a blank page, I searched for something to sketch. Drawing always brought me back into focus, smoothed away my worries. It helped me redirect my thoughts in a proper direction.
My gaze landed on Farida’s camera, and as if by their own accord, my fingers tightened their hold on the pencil and began to move.
