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I slumped onto the bed and flopped backward with unladylike abandon, hearing Tía Lorena’s admonishing tone ringing in my ear.A lady must always be a lady, even when no one is watching. That means no slouching or cursing, Inez.I shut my eyes, pushing away the guilt I’d felt ever since leaving the estate. It was a hardy companion, and no matter how far I traveled, it couldn’t be squashed or smothered. Neither Tía Lorena nor my cousins had known of my plans to abandon Argentina. I could imagine their faces as they read the note I’d left behind in my bedroom.
My uncle’s letter had shattered my heart. I’m sure mine had broken theirs.
No chaperone. Barely nineteen—I’d celebrated in my bedroom by crying inconsolably until Amaranta knocked against the wall loudly—voyaging on my own without a guide or any experience, or even a personal maid to handle the more troublesome aspects of my wardrobe. I’d really done it now. But that didn’t matter. I was here to learn the details surrounding my parents’ disappearance. I was here to learn why my uncle hadn’t protected them, and why they had been out in the desert alone. My father was absentminded, true, but he knew better than to take my mother out for an adventure without necessary supplies.
I pulled at my bottom lip with my teeth. That wasn’t quite true, however. He could be thoughtless, especially when rushing from one place to another. Regardless, there were gaps in what I knew, and I hated the unanswered questions. They were an open door I wanted to close behind me.
I hoped my plan would work.
Traveling alone was an education. I discovered I didn’t like to eat alone, reading on boats made me ill, and I was terrible at cards. But I learned that I had a knack for making friends. Most of them were older couples,voyaging to Egypt because of the agreeable climate. At first, they balked at my being alone, but I was prepared for that.
I pretended to be a widow and had dressed accordingly.
My backstory grew more elaborate with each passing day. Married off far too young to an older caballero who could have been my grandfather. By the first week, I had most of the women’s sympathy, and the gentlemen approved of my desire to widen my horizons by vacationing abroad.
I glanced at the window and scowled. With an impatient shake of my head, I pulled my cabin door open and peered up and down the corridor. Still no progress on disembarking. I shut the door and resumed pacing.
My thoughts turned to my uncle.
I’d mailed a hastily written letter to him after purchasing my ticket. No doubt he waited for me on the dock, impatient to see me. In a matter of hours, we’d be reunited after ten years. A decade without speaking. Oh, I had included drawings to him in my letters to my parents every now and then, but I was only being polite. Besides, heneversent anything to me. Not one letter or birthday card or some small trinket tucked into my parents’ luggage. We were strangers, family in name and blood only. I barely remembered his visit to Buenos Aires, but that didn’t matter because my mother had made sure I never forgot her favorite brother, never mind that he was the only one she had.
Mamá and Papá were fantastic storytellers, spinning words into tales, creating woven masterpieces that were immersive and unforgettable. Tío Ricardo seemed larger than life. A mountain of a man, always carting around books, and adjusting his thin, wire-framed glasses, his hazel eyes pinned to the horizon, and wearing down yet another pair of boots. He was tall and brawny, at odds with his academic passions and scholarly pursuits. He thrived in academia, quite at home in a library, but was scrappy enough to survive a bar fight.
Not that I personally knew anything about bar fights or how to survive them.
My uncle lived for archaeology, his obsession beginning at Quilmes in northern Argentina, digging with the crew and wielding a shovel when he was my age. After he’d learned all that he could, he left for Egypt. It washere he fell in love and married an Egyptian woman named Zazi, but after only three years together, she and their infant daughter died during childbirth. He never remarried or came back to Argentina, except for that one visit. What I didn’t understand was what he actuallydid.Was he a treasure hunter? A student of Egyptian history? A lover of sand and blistering days out in the sun?
Maybe he was a little of everything.
All I really had was this letter. Twice he wrote that if I ever needed anything, I only had to let him know.
Well, I did need something, Tío Ricardo.
Answers.
Tío Ricardo was late.
I stood on the dock, my nose full of briny sea air. Overhead, the sun bore down in a fiery assault, the heat snatching my breath. My pocket watch told me I’d been waiting for two hours. My trunks were piled precariously next to me as I searched for a face that closely resembled my mother’s. Mamá told me her brother’s beard had gotten out of hand, bushy and streaked with gray, too long for polite society.
People crowded around me, having just disembarked, chattering loudly, excited to be in the land of majestic pyramids and the great Nile River bisecting Egypt. But I felt none of it, too focused on my sore feet, too worried about my situation.
A fissure of panic curled around my edges.
I couldn’t stay out here much longer. The temperature was turning cool as the sun marched across the sky, the breeze coming from the water had teeth to it, and I still had miles to go yet. From what I could remember, my parents would board a train in Alexandria, and around four hours later, they’d reach Cairo. From there they’d hire transport to Shepheard’s Hotel.
My gaze dropped to my luggage. I contemplated what I could and couldn’t leave behind. Lamentably, I wasn’t strong enough to carry everything with me. Perhaps I could find someone to help, but I didn’t know the language beyond a few conversational phrases, none of which amounted toHello, can you please assist me with all of my belongings?
Sweat beaded at my hairline, and nervous energy made me fidget needlessly. My navy traveling dress had several layers to it, along with a double-breasted jacket, and it felt like an iron fist around my rib cage. I dared to unbutton my jacket, knowing my mother would have borne her worry in quiet fortitude. The noise around me rose: people chattering, greeting family and friends, the sound of the sea crashing against the coast, the ship’s horn blaring. Through the cacophony of sounds, someone called my name.
The voice cut through the pandemonium, a deep baritone.
A young man approached in long, easy strides. He came to a stop in front of me, his hands deep in his khaki pockets, giving an air of someone who’d been strolling along the dock, admiring the view of the sea and probably whistling. His pale blue shirt was tucked and slightly wrinkled underneath leather-edged suspenders. The man’s boots laced up to midcalf, and I could tell they’d traversed miles, and they were dusty, the once brown leather turned gray.
The stranger met my gaze, the lines flanking his mouth drawn tight. His posture was loose, his manner carefree, but with more careful observation, I noted the tension he carried in his clenched jaw. Something bothered him, but he didn’t want anyone to see.
I catalogued the rest of his features. An aristocratic nose that sat under straight brows and blue eyes the same color as his shirt. Full lips featuring a perfect bow that stretched into a crooked smile, a counterpoint to the sharp line of his jaw. His hair was thick and tousled, walking the line between red and brown. He impatiently brushed it aside.
“Hello, are you Señorita Olivera? The niece of Ricardo Marqués?”
