“Marvelous,” he said. “Now, Inez, I can see that you have many questions, but they’ll have to wait. What I’d like to do is collect what you’ve discovered… Ah, here they are,” he said, stepping aside to let several men inside. “I’d like everything boxed up.” Mr. Sterling’s thorough gaze missed nothing, roaming over the shelves, assessing the stacks of books and journals; all the while, his gun remained steady and aimed at the level of my heart. He would shoot me without hesitation. I was, as he said, the daughter of his enemy. An agent of his who had gone rogue. What better way to hurt my mother than to murder me? My throat went dry, and I suddenly wished I had never come to Egypt. Elvira would still be alive. I would have never fallen in love with a thief. Abdullah and Tío Ricardo wouldn’t be detained in prison. But if I hadn’t come… I would have never known that I had a sister.
My attention swerved to Isadora.
No matter the cost, my sister would leave this house alive. I would do anything to keep her safe.
“I suppose I owe you my gratitude,” Mr. Sterling said, as his men packed up the room. “I would have found Lourdes’s hiding place eventually, but it would have taken me longer without your assistance.”
“My assistance,” I repeated, speaking carefully around the bottle of ink under my tongue. “I haven’t helped you; I never would or will.”
Mr. Sterling stared at me, faintly smiling as a parent would to a willful child with foolish ideas. “I believe it was Henry James who said, ‘Never say you know the last word about any human heart.’ Inez, you are far too young to speak in absolutes.”
His admonishment chafed against my skin.
“I did not help you,” I said through gritted teeth.
Mr. Sterling smiled wider. “You led me straight here.”
I furrowed my brow in confusion, glancing quickly at Whit. His fury radiated off him in strong waves. “You’ve been following me?” I asked.
The repercussions slammed into me. Did he know where we stayed? Had he been at the bank?
That meant Mamá had eluded not only me and Whit, but Basil Sterling.
“Every step of the journey,” he said in his oily voice. “Now, I’d like everyone searched,” Mr. Sterling ordered. “No doubt you’ll find several things in miniature tucked in pockets and in their bags.”
I gaped at him. How would he have known about Mamá’s scarf? The answer came a second later. They worked together, and knowing my mother, she must have used the magic at some point when collecting artifacts.
The men advanced, three on Whit, and two on Isadora, and the last on me. He was tall, and his breath stank of tobacco. He forced me to empty my pockets, and he grabbed all of the little ink bottles and charcoal pencils and the single earring. Anger detonated inside me, potent enough to make me want to scream until I had nothing left.
“Why don’t you and I have a private chat?” Mr. Sterling said. With his free hand, he crooked his finger at me, and the other still maintained a firm grip on his weapon. “Hurry along, my dear.”
“I’m not your dear,” I said. “I’m not your anything.”
“Well,” Mr. Sterling said in a hard voice, “you’ve certainly been useful.”
I glanced at Whit, unsure of what to do. He was already watching me, his face hard, rage burning in his blue eyes, that wave of fury envelopingme tightly. Each of the men surrounding him had a gun pointed at him. My mouth went dry at the sight.
“That’s right,” Mr. Sterling said from the doorway. “If you don’t cooperate, your husband”—Whit let out a snarl—“won’t come out of this situation alive.”
I clenched my jaw and mouthed goodbye to my sister and then to Whit. No part of me had forgiven him for what he had done, but this wasn’t the farewell I thought we’d have. He regarded me silently, frustration etched in every taut line of his body. Then I turned and followed Mr. Sterling to the front of the house. As quietly as I could, I snuck the ink bottle from under my tongue and tucked it under the high collar of my dress. It was as big as a nib, and I barely felt it touching my skin.
That was at least one thing he couldn’t take from me.
Mr. Sterling led us to the little sitting room we had initially passed through when we entered the house. Somehow, he seemed to lord over whatever situation he was in. The memory of when he and I shared a cabin during the rattling train ride from Alexandria to Cairo still haunted me. He had condescendingly dismissed my every word, as if I were an ignorant nobody—or worse, an ignorant woman. To him, I was a grievous offense.
“Have you given any thought to our last conversation?”
His question robbed me of speech for several seconds. That he would honestly believe I’d consider his suggestion that we work together to find my mother was outrageous. There were one hundred other things I’d rather do, like, say, swallow one of Mr. Edison’s lightbulbs.
“I have not,” I said. “I’d rather never think of you at all.”
Mr. Sterling studied me in an assessing way. His eyes never drifted lower than my face, but I felt as if his perusal had left me dirty. Like he was looking into my soul to find anything that resembled his own black heart.
“My answer isno.” I folded my arms, my gaze flicking toward the pistol in his steady hand. “An emphatic no. I suppose now you’re going to threaten my companions again if I don’t cooperate,” I added bitterly. “It’s aweak and unimaginative human being who resorts to violence to get what they want.”
“And what would you suggest?” he asked softly.
“You only have to look backward to see that most people who governed by fear and malice didn’t last long in their position of influence,” I said. “They faced revolutions, rebellions, skirmishes, wars, and assassination attempts. But leaders who inspired their subjects were beloved and championed and protected.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Trust me that you will meet a disastrous end. I don’t agree with my mother on many things—maybe all things, actually—save for one. I understand why she double-crossed you.”
