“—You’re a fool dressed up as an archaeologist,” Sir Evelyn said, his voice bellowing above my uncle’s.
Monsieur Maspero let out a noise of protest. Mr. Hayes narrowed his eyes into dangerous slits. His knuckles brushed the handle of the knife near his dinner plate. I shifted in my chair, my heart thundering wildly. I stared at my uncle, at the stubborn line of his jaw, his clenched hands. Despite my earlier frustration, despite him not wanting me in Egypt at all, my admiration of him grew. I agreed with his words, and even with the ones he hadn’t said.
Everyone deserved a living wage. No human ought to be treated as if their work didn’t matter, or their choices, or their dreams.
“You’re not a fool,” I whispered to him.
Tío Ricardo glanced down at me, partly in surprise, as if he’d forgotten I was sitting next to him, practically bumping elbows.
“A fool,” Sir Evelyn said again, and this time, his words were aimed at me.
I glared at him, my fingers reaching for my glass. I wanted to throw it in his face.
“Whitford,” Tío Ricardo warned in an urgent hush.
Mr. Hayes released his hold on the knife and instead lifted his drink and emptied it in one long swallow. He leaned back against his seat, hands folded calmly across his flat belly, a serene expression settling over his countenance, as if he hadn’t been contemplating murder one second ago.
Someone approached our table, an older Egyptian with a regal bearing and a shrewd gaze. My uncle noticed where I was looking and glanced over his shoulder, then immediately stood to greet the man. Mr. Hayes followed suit, but Sir Evelyn and Monsieur Maspero remained seated. I didn’t know the proper etiquette, and so I remained in my seat, too.
“Judge Youssef Pasha,” Tío Ricardo said smiling hugely. Then he lowered his voice and said something only the judge could hear. They exchanged more words and then my uncle and Mr. Hayes returned to their seats. The mood at the table soured further. Sir Evelyn’s face had turned tomato red.
“That man is a nationalist,” Sir Evelyn said stiffly.
“I’m aware,” Tío Ricardo said cheerfully. “He’s an avid reader of the newspaper run by Mostafa Pasha.”
“Those are the people you are spending time with?” Sir Evelyn asked. “I’d tread carefully, Ricardo. You don’t want to find yourself on the wrong side.”
“Are you talking of war, Sir Evelyn?” Mr. Hayes spat.
I blinked in astonishment. Until now, he had seemed content enough to let Tío Ricardo take the lead in the conversation. Fury radiated off Mr. Hayes’s tense shoulders.
My uncle reached across me and laid a hand on Mr. Hayes’s arm. “Sir Evelyn would prefer we all behave like Tewfiq Pasha, I’m sure.”
Tewfiq Pasha, the son of Ismail Pasha. I knew little of the present khedive, except that he supported Sir Evelyn’s atrocious policies, dismantling whatever progress his father had made in Egypt. I recalled Papá lamenting the man’s meek submission to British policy.
Sir Evelyn threw down his linen napkin and stood. “I’m done with this conversation. And if I were you, Mr. Marqués, I’d be careful with your ideas. You might not have permission to dig anywhere in Egypt, isn’t that right, Monsieur Maspero?”
“Well, I . . .” Monsieur Maspero floundered.
Sir Evelyn’s nostrils flared and then he strode off, back rigid. He didn’t look back as he left the dining room.
“There is much work that must be done,” Monsieur Maspero said quietly. “Not all is bad, I think.” The Frenchman sighed and stood, going after Sir Evelyn.
Judging by how the conversation went, this evening would have lasting repercussions. I hadn’t remembered earlier, but I recalled that it was Monsieur Maspero who allowed excavators to work in Egypt. He accorded licenses as he saw fit.
My uncle might not get another.
“That went well,” Mr. Hayes said dryly.
“Would you please—” my uncle began.
“Certainly,” Mr. Hayes murmured. He quickly made his way through the numerous tables and chairs, the hushed gossip, and rudely staring hotel guests, and disappeared through the arched entrance.
“Where is Mr. Hayes going?” I asked.
Tío Ricardo folded his arms across the breadth of his muscled chest and studied me. Any trace of his earlier politeness vanished in the space of a blink. We eyed each other warily. Whatever assumptions he’d made about me, I wasn’t leaving just because he told me to.
“Are you angry?” I asked in Spanish.
“Well, I would prefer you hadn’t disobeyed me,” he said. “When I think about the manner in which you traveled here, to a different continent . . . what do you think your mother would have said, Inez?”
“I’m here because of them.”
Something shifted in his expression, a subtle tug at the corners of his mouth. A faintly discomfited look. “They wouldn’t want you here, either.”
His words opened a yawning pit deep in my belly. The chatter surrounding us seemed distant. I struggled to find something to say, but my throat had tightened.
His expression turned ruthless. “In all the years that they’ve come to Egypt, have they ever extended an invitation?”
I could only stare. He knew the answer.
“No, they haven’t,” he continued. “Their will named me as your guardian, and as such, you are in my care and I mean to go on as they would have wished.”
“Your letter left me unsatisfied.”
His dark brows rose. “?Perdón?”
“I spoke quite clearly. What happened to them? Why were they traveling through the desert? Did they not have guards or assistance? A guide?”
“It was an unspeakable tragedy,” he said through stiffened lips. “But nothing can be done. The desert eats people alive and after a few days without water or shade or reliable transportation, survival is impossible.”
I leaned forward. “How do you know they didn’t have any of those things?”
“It’s simple, Inez,” he said quietly. “If they did, then they’d still be alive.”
Two waiters came to the table, laden with steaming dishes. They placed the food on the table, correctly remembering who ordered what, and then left us to enjoy the meal.
“Should we wait for Mr. Hayes?”
Tío Ricardo shook his head. “Eat your dinner while it’s still hot.”
I took several bites and though everything tasted divine, I hardly noticed. My uncle’s behavior cut deep into my skin. While traveling on the ship carrying me from Argentina to Africa, I had dreamed of a reunion in which he’d welcome me with open arms. He was family, after all. Together we’d work through what had happened and then he might take me under his wing in the same way he had my parents. His refusal had struck a nerve close to my heart. He wouldn’t talk to me, and he didn’t want me here. I took a sip of wine, thinking furiously. How could I persuade him to answer my questions about my parents?
I thought about the golden ring Papá had sent, and the way Mr. Sterling had ogled it as if it were a diamond. An idea struck, brilliant like a lit match against shadows.
“Mamá mentioned you have a boat.”
My uncle inclined his head. “A recent acquisition.”