“You’re going to back down from a chance to give me a dare?”
He considered this for a moment. “Eat a bug,” Wyatt decreed.
I got to my feet unsteadily, bobbing along the half wall that lined the roof of the Dig House. I found something crawling along the railing and without thinking too hard about it, I plucked it off and popped it into my mouth. “Mmm. The crunchy kind.”
Wyatt gaped at me. “You just ate a fucking beetle.”
I shrugged. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“In addition to dancing, I can tell the difference between a dessert fork and an oyster fork and I know that you only pass to the left at a dinner table.” It hadn’t been an official question in the game, but I didn’t interrupt Wyatt as he answered me. “Eleanora DeBussy taught dance, and also etiquette. And she drummedDebrett’s Peerageinto my head.”
“What’s that?”
“A very archaic and bullshit book about the titled gentry in the United Kingdom.”
I remembered his friends calling him Mark, short formarquess. When I thought of titles, I pictured Jane Austen and gilded ballrooms and fat men in tails with quizzing glasses. Wyatt was frowning, lost somewhere inside himself, and he looked so miserable that I wanted to break him free. I felt an ache under my ribs, a shifting surprise at feeling more for him than just annoyance. “Hey,” I said. “Your turn. Truth.”
Wyatt cleared his throat. “Worst day ever?”
“My father was killed on duty. He was in the army.”
He scooted to sit beside me, so that our shoulders were bumping up against each other. “That’s truly terrible,” he said.
“That wasn’t actually the worst day,” I admitted. “It was like three years later, when I realized my mother was never going to get over it.”
I tilted my head back, because I didn’t think I could bear to see the pity in Wyatt’s eyes, and goddammit, I saw the rabbit constellation he had been talking about.
“My older brother died of Hodgkin’s lymphoma when I was twelve,” Wyatt said softly. “He was the Earl of Rawlings, not me. I was the bonus child and perfectly happy doing my own thing. It was the only time I’ve truly felt tied to anything noble. I mean, imagine being the child of a king who dies, and being named the new regent at the very moment all you want to do is burst into tears. My father has made it quite clear that I’m to get over this childish fascination I have with Egypt, to quit being Indiana Jones and come home and work in an investment bank and make gobs of money. But I never wanted that life. I want my own.” Wyatt huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. “My God,thattook a turn,” he said. “What was yourbestday?”
I was dimly aware that we had emptied the bottle of champagne. “Every summer my mom would take my brother and me to Newburyport for an afternoon. There’s a bird sanctuary out on Plum Island, and at the very tip of it is a beach. They only let a certain number of cars out there, so it always feels deserted. We’d watch the plovers nesting or walk along the water—it’s so cold there, you can’t feel your ankles after a few minutes. We’d collect the things that get thrown back from the sea—a boot, a fishing lure, once a whole plastic shipping container filled with canned tuna.” I hesitate. “It doesn’t sound so amazing, talking about it. But it was just the three of us, in a place where I only ever remember being happy, and I don’t have too many of those places.”
When I looked up, Wyatt was staring at me as if he’d never seen me before, and maybe that was true. Maybe I hadn’t let him. “Truth or dare,” he said. “Take the dare.”
My teeth sank into my bottom lip, and Wyatt flinched.
“Dare.” The word fell dry from my mouth like an autumn leaf.
“Forgive me, Olive.”
I felt a prickle of fear, the sixth sense you have when you know your life is about to be cleaved intobeforeandafter.“For what?”
“This,” Wyatt said, and he leaned forward and kissed me.
The night tightened around us, a noose. Wyatt’s hand slipped under my braid, curving around the nape of my neck. I tasted champagne and butterscotch and shock. Somehow, Wyatt was just as surprised as I was.
My hand settled over his heart, as if I could weigh it against a feather of truth.
Then I pushed him away, stumbled to my feet, and ran like hell.
—
BY THE TIMEwe break for tea at 10:00A.M. I feel like I’ve been awake for days. My muscles ache as I stretch them, leaving the shaded comfort of the tomb for the blaze of sun outside. Thegaffir,a painfully thin man with the face of an apple dried in the sun, brings us tea and pours it into small glasses. You would think that drinking a hot beverage in the desert is like striking a match on the surface of the sun—superfluous—but it turns out to be just the opposite. Somehow, the hotter the drink, the cooler your body becomes.“Shokran,”I say, as he hands me my glass, and he ducks his head and offers a smile missing multiple teeth.
Wyatt is the last one to the tent, accompanied by the inspector, Omar, whose motorbike has been fixed. “Ah,” the inspector says, his eyes lighting on me. “Thisis the one.” I wonder what Wyatt has told him. He gives a little bow. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He turns to Wyatt, resuming a discussion about how much longer it might be before they are ready to open the burial chamber. I try not to eavesdrop, but I realize Joe and Alberto are doing the same thing. When Wyatt says that they’ll likely be able to get into the burial chamber tomorrow, and that Mostafa Awad—the head of antiquities—is coming, a current of palpable excitement whips between us.
“We’ve been at this for weeks,” Joe murmurs to me. “Guess you’re the lucky charm.”
