He breathes in sharply and turns in my direction, though his eyes don’t quite reach me.
“Ah, you have a… visitor. Apologies, old chap.” In a loud whisper, he adds, “Didn’t you get into trouble a month ago for escorting another young lady into the museum after hours? At this rate, they’re not going to allow you to keep your post.”
In response, Bes kicks out at something near the stranger’s feet. When his shoe makes contact, I stifle a gasp.Did Bes actuallystrikehim?
The young man lurches forward—and catches himself with a wooden cane I didn’t notice clutched in his hand.
“Your lies are going to get me into trouble one day,” Bes tells him.
The stranger chuckles, unperturbed. “Wearecantankerous this evening. I take it the expedition to the Temple of Seti the First didn’t go as planned?”
Bes mutters, “That’s an understatement.” Louder, he says, “One of the God Men falsified his identity, claiming to be from the museum, and forced Miss Hawkins here to retrieve the Amulet of Amun at gunpoint.”
The stranger nods once. “That’ll do it.”
I move to stand, wariness of this new person settling heavily on my shoulders.At least Bes appears to know him well.Against my better judgement, I’m choosing to rely on him and his trust of this individual. But who is he to Bes? And how does he know about our expedition?
As I approach them, my mind tries to place the young man’s clothes, look, and accent, to deduce his allegiance. I didn’t make Claude out to be one of those fascist God Men until it was too late. Though I’ve given Bes the benefit of the doubt, I won’t make the same mistake again.
There’s some resemblance between the two of them, though I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. His skin is darker than mine, but not in the same way Bes’s is. His bears a warm, light-brown ocher, while the stranger’s is more olive-toned. Light freckles dust his nose and cheeks, like he’s been kissed by the sun far too many times. Hair lighter and thicker than Bes’s, it falls in slight curls around his face. A brown-and-white striped short-sleeve button-up hangs across his slight shoulders, tucked into olive-green pants and nearly matching his tan oxfords.
I hold out my hand for him to shake. “My name is Amelia Hawkins. And I can assure you, I’m nothing like Bes’s other visitors.”
He doesn’t reach out in response. And he won’t meet my gaze either, even as I’m standing right in front of him.Well, that’s rude.Although, I do notice a strange, milky film over his eyes…
He regards Bes. “She’s holding out her hand, isn’t she?”
Dumbfounded, I drop said hand to my side and shift my attention to Bes as well.
Sauntering back to his worn spot near the window, Bes laughs. “Well, you can’t blame her, mate; you’re extremely lifelike.”
The stranger takes a step forward with the tap of his cane and lets the door close behind him. “I can’t help it if I have the smooth, glowing complexion of a wax figure.”
A wax figure might not be far off.I get a better look at his eyes as he moves further into the lamplight: they may have been brown or hazel at one time, but they’re faded now, the milky film I noticed before sifting across them like sand caught in thedesert wind. I scrub at my eyes to clear them. Maybe I’m sleep-deprived, because the only logical explanation is—
“Wait, he’sblind?”
Bes raps his knuckles on the table, words dripping with sarcasm. “Brilliant deduction.”
Yet, I’m having trouble believing it. He noticed I was here when he first came in, and even knew I was a woman. He must’ve…smelledme. I flinch at the chill running up my back. I’ve read about how the other senses are heightened when one disappears, but this is sorcery.
“I’m blind, not deaf. And anyway, I take offense to that. I’m onlymostlyblind.” He squints at me. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a rather attractive blob?”
“Can’t say they have.” I turn on Bes. “And who is he to you?”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “He’s my cousin. My mother and I went to stay with relatives in Italy when I was a lad. Including Cecilio.” He gestures at the intruder, Cecilio. “From there, I left for London to finish my primary schooling, then studying at Oxford. I graduated a few years ago before starting my masters, and then I got the job here.”
“A masters atOxford?” I squeak out, taking my seat once more. “But you can’t be more than—”
“Twenty-five,” Cecilio cuts in. “He’s always been an obnoxious overachiever. You know the type: heart of gold, brilliant athlete, whole family praises him for his high marks. Meanwhile, I’m studying right alongside him, blind as a bloody bat—”
“And just as daft.” Bes shakes his head. “You have to let it go, Cec.”
“No.” He whacks the wooden chair at the other end of the table with his cane. “Shan’t. In fact, I think I’ll have it etched on my gravestone.” He clears his throat. “Here lies Cecilio Giudice, the chap who could never let it go.”
He lowers himself into the seat beside me with embellished grace, bringing a delicate hint of orange blossom with him as he crosses one leg over the other purposefully. A wide grin pulls at my lips. As if sensing my smile, he procures one of his own. It’s one of those bright, easy-going smiles, infectious to a fault.
At my eye level now, I’m able to get a better look at his cane. The head is fashioned out of dark blue agate, carved in the shape of a raven’s skull; an uneven line of the indigo gemstone flows down the black obsidian shaft like a river. When he shifts it in his lap, the lamplight reveals drops of sparkling golden amber in the raven’s eye sockets.
