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Whit gave me the grand tour around the table. “The pastries are called feteer, and it’s delicious slathered in honey. But you can pair it with eggs and salty white cheese.” He pointed to a bowl that held round-shaped food, packed tightly into medium-sized balls. “These are called falafels, my personal favorite. Made of fava beans, and quite savory. Have you tried feta cheese? It’s also delicious with honey.” He paused, throwing me a rueful look. “If you’re thinking that I adore honey, you’d be correct. The rest you ought to recognize,” he finished in sly amusement.
I did; it was the fava bean stew I’d helped make the day before with disastrous results. To my astonishment, Whit took my plate and served me a little of everything. Isadora watched him with keen interest. Everyone else at the table remained motionless. I could feel the subtle note of disapproval.
“Just how well do you two know each other?” Mr. Fincastle asked.
“We met a few days ago,” Whit said with his imperturbable English accent. “So not well.”
“I see,” Mr. Fincastle said. “Why did you sneak on board theElephantine,Miss Olivera?”
I gestured vaguely with my fork, deciding to be honest. “I don’t like being left behind. And I really am excited about all of the sightseeing.”
“Sightseeing?” Mr. Fincastle repeated faintly. “My dear, if you wanted to explore the land of the pyramids, might I suggest you pay for the services provided by Thomas Cook? You can join the hundreds of travelers littering the Nile.” He shifted his bulky upper body and addressed my uncle. “Or are we adding tourist attractions on our journey, and you didn’t tell me?”
“Of course not,” Tío Ricardo said. “We are heading directly to Philae.”
I perked up at this information. The island was famous for its legendary beauty and history. Excitement pulsed under my skin. “How far away are we, Tío?”
“It’s close to Aswan, where we’ll be stopping for supplies before arriving.”
Since I didn’t know where exactly that city was, his explanation didn’thelp. Ever accommodating, or perhaps picking up on my confusion, Mr. Hayes came to my rescue.
“Aswan is near the first cataract,” he said. “And the location of several archaeological sites.”
“Cataract?”
“Good God,” Mr. Fincastle muttered.
“Inez,” my uncle said, exasperated. “I thought you’d been educated on Egypt. What do you know of the Nile?”
“It’s my first visit and myeducationdidn’t extensively cover Egyptian geography,” I said in prickly mortification. I calmed myself by finally reveling in a piece of information I hadn’t known before. I had been given a destination. Another place where my parents frequented, lived, explored.
Another piece of the puzzle finally revealed.
Was the island the last place they were seen alive?
Once again, it was Mr. Hayes who answered me. “The Nile is divided by six cataracts, the majority of which are found in Egypt. Passing one is very dangerous, as the water level could be too low, the boulders become visible, and the current moves rapidly. In order to get to our destination, we have to successfully cross the first one. Fortunately, we’ll stop there and proceed no farther.”
“Hidden sandbanks and large, sunken rocks are often an issue,” Mr. Fincastle added. “Depending on the current’s movement, they might shift. This is what makes navigation tricky by day, and dangerous by night.”
No one had ever told me. Until now, our journey upstream had been downright sluggish save for yesterday’s near catastrophe. But that had been my fault.
“Last year, we heard the news that a dahabeeyah had been shipwrecked. The passengers had to crawl out through the windows in their night dresses,” Isadora said, and I startled. I don’t know why I had assumed it was her first time to Egypt, too. It made me feel as if I had even more ground to cover, more catching up to do. “A dangerous undertaking, considering what else fills the Nile.”
“I’m aware,” I said dryly, recalling my brush with death from the day before.
“Are you still glad you came along?” Tío Ricardo asked wryly.
I lifted my chin. “Of course! It will be an adventure. Just think of the drawings that will fill my sketchbook.”
Mr. Fincastle regarded me with keen interest. “You’re an artist?”
“Iliketo draw, I’m not sure if that makes me an artist.”
“Of course it does,” my uncle barked.
My surprise robbed me of speech. It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me. My cheeks warmed and I hid them behind a long sip of bitter coffee.
“Oh, I see what you’re about,” Mr. Fincastle said. “I understand you completely, Ricardo. You couldn’t secure a photographer after you lost the previous one, and so instead we’ll have your niece to keep proper record. Fortunate indeed that she decided to include herself in your plans.”
