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“Actually, no.”
“What? Why not?”
He sat back on his haunches. “Ever since your parents’ deaths, your uncle has only allowed Abdullah with him at the start of each day. He only lets everyone else inside after the tunnel has been opened.”
“But not you. Doesn’t he trust you?”
“Problem with authority, remember?” he said wryly.
“What about Mr. Fincastle?”
“To a certain degree, I would think. Imagine not trusting the man hired to protect the team,” he replied. “It’s unlikely he’ll involve him unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Speaking of security, where is it? Shouldn’t this place be guarded? I expected it to be so.”
“And you still came out here alone?”
“Just answer my question, Whit.”
“Mr. Hayes.”
“No. I’ve earned the right to call you by your name.”
His brow quirked. “You think so?”
I ticked off the reasons using my fingers. “I’ve outsmarted you at leasttwice. You showed me around Cairo, I know about your family and your secret—”
“Hardly a secret,” he muttered.
“You saved my life in the river. We survived the near sinking of theElephantine—”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“And now we’re defying my uncle. It’s nice to have a companion on that score.”
“Happy to be here to suit your needs,” he said with some degree of sarcasm, but I read the humor in his gaze regardless. “It’s not guarded because that would immediately telegraph the kiosk’s importance.”
“Oh, I suppose that makes sense.” Some of what he’d mentioned earlier finally registered. I looked down. “Wait, there’s a tunnel?”
“Yes. Which we’ll find presently.” Whit looked down and ran his hands across the stone. “I wonder if you press down…” He did, but nothing happened.
I placed a light hand on his arm. “Can you lift it? There’s a significant gap around the stone in comparison to the ones surrounding it.”
He complied, lifting and tugging, until the stone cleared the others fully.
I looked underneath. “Well, what do you know?”
Whit gently placed the top stone on the ground and joined in on my examination. A raised circle rose up from the ground, no more than a few inches. I reached forward and tried turning it, but the cylinder remained firmly in place. At the top, there was an inscription faintly carved into the surface.
“How’s your knowledge of hieroglyphs?”
“Fair,” Whit said, squinting. “Careful not to drip the wax.”
I righted the candle. “Can you read it?”
“Some,” he muttered. “Not nearly as well as Abdullah or your uncle, however. I think it’s another cartouche of Isis, but she’s surrounded by other figures I don’t recognize.”
“Interesting. Her guardians perhaps?”
