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I returned to my sketching and the drawings came to life as the minutes went by, detail by detail. I worked with a confident hand, my lines coming out straight, thanks to the efforts of my drawing instructor.
This moment always enraptured me, the slow creation of something that hadn’t existed before. It was part of the reason why I felt such an affinity to the temple, to the art plastered on ancient walls. Art should outlive its creator. As I painted, I tried to imagine the artists who had labored in the heat, painstakingly painting every flower petal and face.
I admired their dedication. I was in awe of their talent. I didn’t want the artifacts to cross Egypt’s borders, never to be seen again.
My reproduction paled in comparison, but I was reasonably proud that I could capture something so beautiful at all. When I completed the first painting, I stood, stretching my sore limbs.
“I think it’s lovely,” Isadora offered. She must have noticed my critical eye lingering over every detail. “Much better than I would have done. In my hands it would have looked like an infant had somehow found a paintbrush.” She stood up, stretching. “I think I’ll return to camp if you’re all right here on your own?”
She turned away but then paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Inez.”
“Hmm?”
“I can find out why your uncle is in a rush. Perhaps he thinks the crew is about to make a big discovery.”
My mouth went dry as I silently cursed my foolishness. The search for Cleopatra wasn’t common knowledge among the team. It was why I didn’t want to tell her about the magic that had latched on to me. “Maybe.”
She gave a little wave and set out.
I returned to my work, though every time I heard the slightest sound I expected to see my mother emerge from out of the darkness. But no one came as I painted the rest of the portico. I guessed they were all hard at work unearthing another entrance. Or what theyhopedwould be another entrance into a new chamber under Trajan’s Kiosk.
If Whit kept his word, then they were looking in the wrong place. The thought sparked an idea. Maybe there was a way to keep my uncle from finding Cleopatra’s tomb. I could lead them in the wrong direction—
“There you are.”
I startled, and barely caught my brush from splattering all over the page.
Whit prowled closer, carrying the lit sandal engulfed in his rough hands.
“Some warning would have been courteous,” I said dryly.
He stopped in front of me, his toes brushing up against my boots. “We need to talk, Olivera.”
His tone was gravelly and impatient, a layer of frustration building up every word until it loomed like a fortress.
“About?”
He glared at me. “Last night.”
“Last night,” I echoed. He folded his arms across his chest. I stood, thinking it was perhaps better I had the conversation on my feet. “What about last night?”
Had he heard my mother in my room? Or did he want to yell at me for kissing him?
I hoped it was the latter. That, at least, I could talk about.
He glowered at me. “You know what about. Quit being evasive, I don’t like it.”
“I don’t need any more clarification on your marital status,” I said.
“That’s wonderful,” he said. “But that’s not what I was referring to.”
“Oh.” I swallowed hard. “It wasn’t?”
He slowly shook his head, a dangerous gleam shining back at me from the depth of his cold eyes. “Who the hell was in your room last night?”
The blood drained from my face. We’d been careful, talking so low that even I had had trouble hearing her, despite being less than a foot away from her.
Mamá was right. Whit was a light sleeper. I frowned. How would she know that?
