Farida nodded, already fiddling with her camera as she walked back the way we came. She tried the knob at the first door and found it locked, but she centered herself in front of it and snapped a picture. Then she moved a few paces to the right, angling herself in a different direction, and snapped another picture, this time of the wall. Her expression was determined, thoughtful, and I hoped that room was filled with enough evidence to damn the whole black market enterprise. Farida tried the next door, found it unlocked and presumably empty, then she flashed a quick, triumphant grin before disappearing inside.
We were alone, the tension crackling between us.
“Isadora is waiting,” I said, turning.
Whit reached for me but then seemed to change his mind. His hand dropped to his side. “Be careful.”
I bristled. After what he had done to me, I hardly believed he had any concern over my welfare. “Don’t pretend to care.”
“But I do,” he said quietly. “If you’re caught, the rest of us will have a harder time making it out of this building.”
It made perfect sense; the people who ran the auction would search the place from top to bottom, looking for anyone who had come with me. I ignored my sudden feeling of disappointment that he wasn’t, in fact, worried aboutmepersonally.
“I’ll be careful,” I muttered. Before he could say anything else, I went to the empty seat adjacent to Isadora. She stared fixedly to the front of the darkened room where a wooden stage stood. An older gentleman with graying hair and a wide smile stood behind a creaky podium. He leaned against it casually, one elbow bent as his eyes moved over the room. To his right was a stand illuminated by dozens of squat candles that hovered in the air, as if on strings.
At first, I marveled at the magic. And then my attention shifted to the object resting on the platform. I squinted, trying to identify what it could be. It looked to be a golden amulet in the shape of a scarab with a long chain, and when the auctioneer carefully picked it up, he showed the underside to the crowd.
“Just a little preview of the item before we begin,” he said with a grin. His cheeks creased, reminding me of a wrinkled sheet of paper. “I’m very excited for this evening’s lot.”
There were probably close to fifty people in this room alone. The majority of people, gentlemen and ladies both, were notably from Europe, with hair color ranging from pale blond and gray to sable. Several were dressed in fashionable, well-tailored clothing, outshining the drab surroundings. They were all wearing black satin masks, simple and austere, which covered the majority of their faces. Everyone sat in the same wooden chairs, and most had a paddle gripped in one hand.
“We don’t have one,” I said, nudging Isadora’s side.
She looked at me in alarm. “Were you planning on buying something?”
“Of course not,” I said. “But we’d fit in more if we had one as well.”
“No one is looking at us,” Isadora said with a dainty shrug.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tradesman’s Gate,” the older gentleman suddenly called out. “I’m Phillip Barnes, and I’ll be your host for the evening. I’d like to thank our founder,” he said, gesturing to a man sitting in the front row, “who, for obvious reasons, will remain nameless.”
The founder stood and turned around, inclining his head. So, this was the man who was responsible for so much damage and destruction up and down the Nile River. His callous attitude toward Egypt and its people, its history, struck a raw nerve.
Part of me wanted to jump to my feet, just so I could scream at him, for my anger to fill up the entire room so that he might feel it in his bones. But I clutched the edge of my seat to keep myself in line and focused on cataloguing his appearance instead. My description could be useful for Monsieur Maspero, and I tried to remember as many details as possible: He had a round belly, and while his head was covered by a hat, his face covered by a mask, I could see that he had dark hair. His clothing was nondescript: black trousers, crisp light shirt, and the customary vest under a dark jacket. The founder shifted to resume his seat, but his face turned in our direction, and he paused, half-seated, half-standing. He righted himself and then motioned to someone standing off to the side.
The man nodded, looking in our direction.
Isadora inhaled sharply. “What do we do?”
Cold sweat beaded at the back of my neck. I forced myself not to fidget, not to run from the room. “Don’t panic and stay still,” I whispered. “It might be nothing.”
“Ineverpanic,” Isadora said, frowning. “An utter waste of time. They could have noticed that we aren’t wearing masks,” she said. “We ought to go now, before—”
But it was too late. The man was already walking toward us, and my stomach swooped. I drew my feet closer together, readying to jump. If need be, I’d scream for Whit. He’d come running. Guilt was a powerful motivator.
“Don’t shoot him,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.
“I don’t like this,” Isadora said, and she leaned forward slightly. While her jacket covered the gun she’d picked up downstairs, I caught glimpses of it every time she so much as twitched.
I was uncomfortably aware of the several attendees who had turned in their seats to watch, openly curious.
The man reached us. I could hardly breathe. Was he about to escort us from the room? Shoot us himself? Call for someone to question us?
“Our founder noticed you are without paddles,” he said, reaching into his coat’s inner pocket. He handed us the slim boards, cracker thin. Then he dug into his pockets and produced two black masks. “We also require everyone to wear these.”
Isadora took both and wordlessly handed me one.
“Gracias,” I said. “I mean, thank you.”
