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I struck a nerve. The sharp line of his jaw hardened. “We seem to have strayed off topic,” he said. “I was telling you about Cleopatra. Unless you’d like to ask me any more invasive questions?”
I’d learned enough. Mr. Hayes was the spare in his family, probably twice over if the wary bitterness that had crept in his eyes were any indication. He had quit the army—to the displeasure of the people who counted on him to uphold reputation and duty.
“According to the ancient historians Herodotus and Plutarch, she spent most of her time in the palace of Alexandria—”
“I didn’t know there was one,” I interrupted.
“No one knows where it is,” he said. He threw me a sly look. “Cleopatra might very well be buried there. But she claimed a kinship with the Egyptian goddess Isis, wife to Osiris and mistress of the sky. There are a few temples still standing today that venerate her. My point is that Mr. Sterling won’t have to searcheveryknown site.”
Realization dawned. “You’re saying there is only a handful of places she might be.”
He nodded grimly. “He might very well find her, and with the ring he stole, his way was made that much easier. That’sifthe magic latched on to him.”
The carriage slowed and I leaned forward to look out the window. The driver pulled up in front of Shepheard’s grand entrance, its terrace occupied by several dozens of hotel guests drinking afternoon tea. Plenty of shade from the palms provided respite from the glaring sun.
“On the bright side,” Mr. Hayes murmured near my ear, “this is not your problem.”
I turned my head, met his eyes. “But it is, and my uncle is doing me a huge disservice by sending me away.”
Our faces were close. Sunlight dappled his auburn hair, crisscrossed over his aristocratic nose. The blue in his gaze was the palest shade of cornflower. I couldn’t discern the peculiar expression on his face. Ourbreaths shared the smallest space between his mouth and mine. His smelled like whiskey. I wondered what drove him to keep the liquor on him at all times.
Then he drew away, opened the door, and stepped out. He turned and helped me out of the brougham, his hand holding mine for a beat too long.
“I’ll pay the driver and collect your purchases for you. I’ll have them sent up to your room.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada,” he said so politely that I blinked.
He released me and I went up to the terrace. The carriage pulled away, and I took a long look at the wide avenue. Assembled in my sight were hundreds of people of all classes and nationalities, in pursuit of amusement, work, something to eat, something to buy. Men dressed in their finest tailored suits and polished leather shoes, wealthy Egyptian women covered in Turkish veils, children chasing dogs, workers on horseback heading toward the stables attached to the hotel used by Napoleon himself.
This might be my last view of Cairo.
The thought made my insides pinch. I had accomplished close to nothing, nothing except finding a magic-touched trinket box.
Mr. Hayes joined me up on the terrace. The palms rustled from the breeze sweeping across the city, a soft song. Overhead, the sky darkened to a bruised purple, and the calls to prayer rose in the dying light. With great reluctance, I turned away from the street. Mr. Hayes stood close to me, his wavy hair tousled, the color a mix of brown and red, as if unsure of what it wanted to be. Much like the man himself.
He stuck out his hand. “Well, Señorita Olivera, it’s been a delight to squire your loveliness all around Cairo.”
I took his palm, his callouses rough against my skin, but I didn’t mind. “Someday, your compliments are going to get you in trouble.”
“Not today,” he said with a slight smile.
I returned his smile, despite myself. A peculiar expression swept across his face. Impossible to decipher. His eyes darkened, and then he swooped down and brushed his mouth against my cheek. It was over and done with before I could say a word, before I could blink.
Mr. Hayes stepped backward and gestured for me to walk through the hotel’s grand entrance.
“Still don’t trust me?” I ought to be annoyed, but I had to keep my lips from stretching into a grin.
His own lips twitched and I suspected he, too, was fighting a grin. “Not even a little bit.”
We walked inside together with several feet of distance between us. One of the hotel attendants came forward, as if he had been waiting for us.
“Sir?”
Mr. Hayes raised his brows. “Yes, what is it?”
“You have another letter,” he said with a German accent. “I have it here.”
