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For fuck’s sake.
I stared after the silly chit, my frustration mounting. I didn’t have time for wayward nieces, even if they were related to my employer. My employer who would be none too pleased when he found out I hadn’t been able to manage one teenage girl. I dragged an unsteady hand through my hair, my attention dropping to the sizable trunks stacked high on the cart. She’d left without any of her belongings.
Bold move, Olivera. Bold move.
I considered leaving all of it on the dock but when my conscience protested, I let out a rueful sigh. My mother raised me better than that, unfortunately. I had to hand it to Olivera. She won the point, but I wouldn’t let her win again. That would be annoying. I didn’t like losing, as much as I didn’t like being told what to do.
Those days were long behind me.
And yet.
She had the gall to dress like awidow.Crossed oceans unchaperoned. Told me off with a firm hand on her hip. A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I studied the brass button I’d nicked from her jacket. It gleamed in the sunlight, an alloy of copper and zinc and first cousins with bronze. Her outraged expression had made me want to laugh for the first time in months.
The girl had personality, I’d give her that much.
My fingers curled around the button, even as I knew it would be better to toss the damn thing into the Mediterranean Sea. Instead, I tucked the keepsake deep into my pocket. I rolled the cart back to the road where my hired carriage waited, knowing I’d made a mistake.
But the button remained safe from my good judgment.
A severe headache pressed hard on my temples and with my free hand, I took out the flask I’d stolen from my older brother and took a long drag of whiskey, the burn a soothing flame down my throat. What time had I gotten in last night?
I couldn’t remember. I’d been down at the bar in Shepheard’s for hours, smiling and laughing hollowly, pretending to have a good time. God, Ihatedantiquities officers.
But some four inches of bourbon later, I’d found out what I needed to know.
No one knew who Abdullah and Ricardo were searching for.
Not one whisper.
Now all I had to do was deal with the silly chit.
CAPÍTULO TRES
Exhaustion dragged at my edges, sucking me down like mud. By the time the carriage pulled in front of Shepheard’s, my smart linen dress no longer looked smart or clean. The pressed shirt bore signs of dust and wrinkles, and somehow, I’d lost a button from my jacket. Anger had followed me every part of the journey, simmering under my skin as if my blood were boiling. The driver opened the carriage door, and I stumbled on the steps. He swung an arm in my direction to help me from toppling over.
“Gracias,” I said hoarsely. “Sorry, I meant shokran.” My throat was raw from arguing. No one had listened to me about my stolen ring. Not the conductor or other attendants or even other passengers. I’d asked everyone I could think to help me, sure that our argument was heard by the cabins on either side of us.
I paid the driver and focused on my surroundings. The style of architecture was so similar to the wide avenues of Paris, I could literally have been in France. Gilded carriages rushed up and down Ibrahim Pasha Street, and lush palms lined the thoroughfare. The buildings were of the same height, four stories high, and studded with arched windows, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. It was familiar when it ought not to have been. Exactly like in Buenos Aires, where streets ran wide like in the paved avenues of Europe. Ismail Pasha had wanted to modernize Cairo, and to him that had meant working with a French architect and fashioning parts of the city to look like a Parisian street.
Shepheard’s took up nearly the length of one block. Steps led to the grand entrance covered by a thin metal roof with delicate openings, allowing patches of twilight to kiss the stone floor below it. A long terrace filled with dozens of tables and wicker chairs, adorned by various trees and plants, stood adjacent to the wooden double doors. The hotel was more elegant and ornate than I could have ever imagined, and the people coming out of the front entryway, dressed in expensive clothing and gowns, matched the surrounding opulence.
I walked up the front steps, trying to ignore my disheveled state. The doormen, dressed in kaftans that reached their shins, smiled broadly and together they welcomed me inside. I pushed my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and rearranged my features to look serene, the picture of decorum.
The effect was immediately lost when I let out a loud gasp. “Oh, cielos.”
The lobby boasted the grandeur of the most luxurious palaces across Europe, places I’d only heard about. Granite pillars stretched high to the ceilings, resembling the entrances of ancient temples I’d only ever seen in books. Comfortable chairs in a variety of materials—leather, rattan, and wood—sat on opulent Persian rugs. Chandeliers crafted of metal in dark bronze featuring floral trelliswork and a scalloped skirt illuminated the dim interior, washing everything in a haze of warmth. The lobby opened up to another room, equally ornate with tiled flooring and dark alcoves where several people sat reading the paper.
I could picture my parents in this room, rushing in from their day out in the desert, wanting tea and dinner.
This might have been the last place they were seen.
I swallowed the lump at the back of my throat, and blinked away the sudden burning in my eyes. I looked around, surrounded from all sides by people of all nationalities, ages, and ranks. They spoke in different languages, the noise dimmed by the large rugs that had been thrown over the tiled floor. Elderly Englishwomen lamented the horrors of finding an adequate boat for the journey up the Nile as they sipped cold hibiscus tea, unmistakable for its dark purple color. British officers strode up and down the corridor, dressed in their red uniforms, sabers strapped to their waists, and with a start I recalled the hotel also served as the militia’s headquarters. Frowning, I turned away from the sight of them.
In the alcove, a group of Egyptian businessmen was gathered around atable, smoking their pipes and engaged in an intense discussion, the tassels from their fez hats brushing against their cheeks. As I walked past, snippets of their conversation regarding cotton prices reached my ears. My mother often returned to Buenos Aires with brand-new bedding, the fabric thick and looking nearly like silk. The plant grew along the Nile, and the production of it was a highly lucrative endeavor for Egyptian landowners.
I spun around, looking for the main desk, as a foppish American with his stalwart briefcase and booming voice bumbled into others, marveling at the decor. Someone yelled, “Burton! Over here!” and the American gave a great start and joined the rest of his party, where he was received with claps on the back. I watched the reunion wistfully.
The number of people who would welcome me home from a long journey had dwindled.
