“I see a little side terrace,” Whit said. “We’ll go in through there.”
Isadora walked alongside me as we followed Whit to the house. She had lost the pale cast to her skin, as if all the tension and worry she carriedhad melted off her. Her chin was lifted high, shoulders straight and sharp. When she met my concerned gaze, she nodded, a determined glint shining in her eyes.
This was the Isadora I knew. A girl who’d meet the world with a polite smile and a handgun.
Whit demonstrated another one of his many talents by picking the lock to the side door, swinging it open in mere seconds. Even my sister looked impressed.
“Can you teach me how to do that?” Isadora asked.
He ignored her and instead glanced at me, face grim, and I nodded, urging him to go inside. We followed after him, and I squinted, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. I wasn’t surprised to learn that Whit had brought a handful of supplies, and after rummaging through his leather knapsack, he pulled out short candles and matches.
He handed one to me and Isadora. I hurriedly lit both, desperate to find Mamá. The flame illuminated enough of the room for me to catalogue my surroundings: It was a small sitting area, with simple but comfortable-looking chairs upholstered in bright patterns. Under my feet were layered rugs, clean and well-made. The walls were bare, but the entryway had elaborate wooden casings. On the low coffee table sat a half-filled cup of tea, and judging by the swirls of steam drifting upward, it was still warm. I shot Whit a quick look—he was already moving out of the room, knife in hand.
“Don’t hurt her,” I whispered.
He ignored me, disappearing into the next room.
Isadora followed after him, nearly tripping over one of the seat cushions stacked on the floor. I was right behind her, checking the other rooms as we went. Whit found stairs leading to the second story, and he climbed them two at a time. I raced after him, and we checked the rooms on that level.
“I don’t think there’s anyone here,” Whit whispered. “Where’s Isadora?”
I turned around, frowning, surprised to notice her absence. “I thought she was right behind me.” My brow cleared. “She must be downstairs.”
He brushed past me, taking the stairs to the bottom floor. I let himsearch for her while I explored the first room next to the staircase. A made-up bed sat in the center, and in the corner of the room were several potted palms and ferns. This was the mother I knew, the one who could patiently tend to soil, or coax a dying flower back to life. On the opposite end of the room was a wooden dresser, a mirrored tray resting squarely in the middle. I walked to it, a loud rushing noise ringing in my ears. On the tray was a perfume I recognized. I lifted the glass bottle, sniffing delicately. It was from Paris, and it smelled like sweet vanilla. A scent that would forever remind me of my mother.
I hastily put the perfume down, my mind reeling.
She had made a home here.
Hurt bloomed under my skin. Mamá shared this bed with her lover. They had made a life together, complete with another child. A daughter to replace the one she’d abandoned. The enormity of what she had done to Papá and me weighed heavy, and I slumped onto the bed, trembling. My eyes fell on a wooden wardrobe, which was partially opened. Dresses like the ones I’d seen in Cairo overflowed from the tight space.
They were brighter, lower cut, more ruffled and girlish. My mother wasn’t that much older than me—only thirty-nine—and she seemed to be grasping at her youth, at the life she had yet to live. And this was how she chose to spend her days. Cheating on Papá for years and years, forbidding me from joining her in Egypt. Selling priceless historical objects of cultural significance to the highest bidder.
I hardly recognized her.
“Olivera!” Whit called from the bottom floor.
I stood on shaking knees, an ache piercing my heart. My family had fallen apart, and I had foolishly tried to create another with a man I’d known for a handful of months. I felt destabilized and so,soangry for what my mother had done.
And she didn’t have the courtesy to be here so I could yell at her.
I trudged down the stairs, fighting my emotions with every step. Crying wouldn’t help. Yelling wouldn’t save my uncle and Abdullah from the Cairo prison. The sound of Whit and Isadora arguing pierced the gloom of the empty house. Their voices drew me to their location like a peevishsiren. They were in a library, comfortable chairs grouped over plush rugs, small cylinder-shaped tables standing on either end.
Shelves laden with dozens of random objects covered the four walls: books; apothecary jars; bottles of ink; stationery; statuettes and figurines of various Egyptian gods and goddesses and animals; picture frames showcasing sketches and paintings of various monuments and temples; bits of mismatched jewelry; ribbons; pins; scarves; old journals and stacked books, some falling apart at the binding; ladies’ hats and various gloves. Curiously, there were chipped cups and rusted silverware and several teakettles. The amount of clutter taking over nearly every available inch astounded me.
“Tell me what you were doing in this room before I walked in,” Whit demanded.
“I was searching for clues,” Isadora snapped. “Isn’t that why we’re here? I’m becoming quite exhausted by your constant hounding and suspicion. Inez, won’t you please talk some sense into him?”
I rubbed at my sore temples, pressure building behind my eyes. “Have either of you found something useful? Or have you been arguing this whole time?”
Isadora had the good sense to appear sheepish, but Whit remained stone-faced. Finally, he muttered, “Most of the objects are magic touched. I don’t know how helpful they’ll be, however.”
My attention swerved back to the shelves. Mamá had been an avid collector of magic-touched items ever since I could remember. Wherever she traveled, she always found something to bring back home. Her favorite pieces came from Paris. She once told me the spells attached to the objects were mischievous in nature. It amused her greatly to find a music box that only sang lewd sea chanteys. But staring at the hundreds of items littering the shelves, I began to realize I’d severely underestimated her ability to hoard.
“Perhaps there’s something here that might point us to where else she could be? Or maybe what she’s doing here in Alexandria?” Isadora asked.
Whit met my gaze, raising his brow faintly. We both suspected my mother was looking for the Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra. If she somehowfigured out how to transform lead into gold… I shuddered to think what she’d do with that kind of wealth.
