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“You have apistol?” Miss Corbyn hissed. “Why haven’t you been using it?”
His jaw tightened. “Have you not seen the crowd in the bazaar?” he bit out. Indeed, there were far too many people—too many women and children—to risk firing his own weapon. He’d pulled the gun back in the alley, but Miss Corbyn had been too close to her assailant to risk taking the shot, so he’d settled for his fists and knife.
Her brows dipped as she considered his words. He thought she might argue, but she simply nodded. “You make a valid point,” she said as she crouched next to him to study the street beyond the window.
The market crowd continued to mill about outside. Rhys spied the man whose nose he’d bloodied, craning his neck to peer over the crowd. Far worse than their current predicament, though, was the awful truth of the day’s events: Rhys had missed any opportunity to follow the amulet to his sister. He swallowed, eyes closed, and his heart thumped heavily. He wondered if it would ever recover its normal pace.
“What are we to do?” Miss Corbyn whispered into the stillness.
He opened his eyes. The sooner he returned Miss Corbyn to her boat, the better. He’d have a better chance of evading his pursuers alone, and then he’d go to Cairo. He’d find the Collector.
“We’ll return to the canal,” he replied with more confidence than he felt. “TheTamarisk, you said?”
Miss Corbyn nodded.
The proprietor of the spice shop watched them, a curious expression on his face as he gazed at Miss Corbyn’s auburn tresses. Rhys guessed he’d never seen hair the color of old copper before. Although, given the man’s vocation, perhaps dried chilies or ground cinnamon was a more apt description. Rhys acknowledged the man in broken Arabic before ushering Miss Corbyn through the small building to a door at the back.
Easing it open a crack, he studied the alley. There was no sign of their pursuers. Miss Corbyn’s sigh of relief was audible. They slowly left the cool shadows of the shop, and she turned, her skirts swinging as she strode purposefully away from him.
“Miss Corbyn,” he called. “The canal is this way.”
She stopped, frowning at him over her shoulder. “You’re certain?”
“Quite.”
The sun had traveled some distance across the sky by the time they reached the canal, only to find theTamarisk’sberth empty.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Helen stared at the vacant mooring where theTamariskhad been docked, and her stomach twisted with fear. She glanced around then, thinking to find the Tyndales waiting for her onshore with their baggage, but there was no one. They’d gone. She could hardly comprehend it, but the evidence lay before her in theTamarisk’sempty berth.
Still in a fog of disbelief, she thought perhaps she’d returned to the wrong place. Her sense of direction had never been good, and maybe Mr. Evelyn’s was just as poor. She surveyed the canal hopefully, but her shoulders quickly dropped when she recognized the Italian boat with its noisy revelers departing the bank.
She looked up at Mr. Evelyn, unsurprised to see a frown pitching his brows low. His dismay mirrored her own. What must he think, to know that her companions had sailed without her? She thought back to her last exchange with the Tyndales, when she’d told Mrs. Tyndale she meant to have a nap.
That was it! They must think her asleep in her cabin. It was all an unfortunate misunderstanding. As soon as they realized she’d been left behind, they’d return for her. She exhaled her relief.
“It’s a simple misunderstanding,” she said brightly. The words sounded desperate even to her own ears. Mr. Evelyn eyed her with something akin to pity, and she forced starch into her spine. “They’ll return as soon as they realize I’m not aboard.”
“Was no one aware you’d left the boat?”
Helen’s smile froze as she recalled her last conversation with Lydia. Lydia, who knew she’d left the deck of theTamarisk. She frowned but refused to allow the ugly suspicion purchase in her mind. No one, not even the selfish Lydia, could be so cruel.
But, Helen thought with dismay, her absence might go unnoticed for some time. She’d spent long hours in her cabin aboard theOriental, nursing her poor stomach. It would be easy enough for the Tyndales to believe she’d taken to her quarters again.
The question of what to do next pressed on her thoughts. Part of her wished to sit on the bank of the canal and wait for the Tyndales to come for her, no matter how long that might be. Another, more rational part considered taking a room in a respectable hotel while she waited, but there was no telling what dangers a single female might encounter in the meantime. If only the consul-general were in residence, she could entreat him to wire ahead to Cairo on her behalf.
She was not foolish enough to undertake the trip to Cairo on her own, even with Wilkinson’s book to guide her. She clenched her fists and tightened her lips against a bubble of hysteria. She was a person who preferred action to waiting, and shehatedfeeling helpless.
“Kafr Abu Homs,” Mr. Evelyn said softly.
She tilted her head in question. “Pardon?”
“The canal flows for about fifty miles until it meets the Nile at Atfa, but theTamariskwill have to stop and change horses before that, at Kafr Abu Homs. If we follow the canal, we can overtake it and reunite you with your friends.”
Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of that? TheTamariskwould take some hours to navigate the canal. Pulled along by the canal company’s horses, its passage would be slow and ponderous. She needn’t wait for the Tyndales to return, nor must she travel all the way to Cairo. With luck, she could be back aboard theTamariskin time for supper.
Her relief had her clutching her hands in excitement. Then, picturing her map of the delta, she frowned. “Wouldn’t it be better to cross Lake Edku and wait for them at Atfa, rather than follow the canal? Surely, that would be a more certain route to intercept theTamarisk.”
