Mr. Hayes smirked. “Told you.”
We were surrounded by a thick, moving crowd, dappled in sunlight from the overhead rafters that occasionally permitted rays of light to pass through. The owners of the various establishments watched the people coursing through the unpaved path, sometimes calling out prices for their wares, sometimes silently smoking. The tourists spoke mostly in English; American or British, and occasionally snippets of German, French, and Dutch reached my ears. We were in the height of an Egyptian season, and it seemed everyone from the known world had gathered onto this same road.
Mr. Hayes led the way through the throng, careful to keep us from getting squashed by the noisy and restless crowd who wandered on foot or on horseback. Women took hold of their children, guiding them while also somehow managing to shop and barter and carry on conversations with their companions at the same time. British officers in their formidable livery marched through the cramped space, keeping order.
To my surprise, Mr. Hayes eyed them with the same level of distrust as I did.
I made him stop every few feet, first to buy lemonade from a seller carrying a tin jar. He filled a brass cup to the brim and handed it to me. The first taste of the tart liquid exploded on my tongue. I immediately bought one for Mr. Hayes.
He lifted his brow questioningly.
“For taking me here,” I explained. “Gracias.”
“Now your manners are polite.”
“I’m always polite.”
He quietly said “ha” under his breath. Mr. Hayes drank the lemonade wordlessly and handed the cup back to the seller. It was then I noticed a man eyeing me openly. He wore an expensive suit and in his left hand, he clutched a cane. Mr. Hayes followed my line of sight and glared. The man took a step in my direction, his smile leering.
“How would you like a boot to the stomach?” Mr. Hayes asked.
His mild tone didn’t deceive me. Mr. Hayes was built like an explosive weapon. He towered over everyone, broad in shoulder with lean muscle. The businessman paused, glancing warily at Mr. Hayes. With a regretful quirk of his brow, he moved on.
I looked around the public street filled with shoppers. “What would you have done to him?”
“I would have kicked him,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s keep going.”
“There’s never any need for violence.”
He shot me a baleful glance over his shoulder.
We proceeded down the road again, and he slid closer to me as we went on. It had been a long time since I’d been this happy, this free. Far from Tía Lorena’s well-meaning lectures, far from a daily routine that left me yawning. Far from Amaranta’s cold aloofness. My cousin Elvira would adore the bazaar’s offerings, loving every nook and cranny. I missed her with an ache, and I suddenly wished that I’d included her on my journey.
But Tía Lorena and Amaranta would never have forgiven me.
Everyone knew Mr. Hayes, and as he passed: shoppers, vendors, and even children shouted greetings. I silently stood off to the side as some of them rushed up to him. He emptied his pockets, handing out piastres and candy. In this part of the city, he was someone else entirely. I tried to pin down the difference.
For one thing, he hadn’t tried to flirt with me. For another, he wasn’t ordering me around. But it was more than that. He seemed lighter, and the hard edge in his eyes had softened. And instead of trying to trick me, he had led me exactly where I wanted to go.
Nice of him—which wasn’t a word that I thought I’d ever think in conjunction with Mr. Hayes.
He caught me staring. “Do I have something on my face?”
I tapped my finger against my mouth. “I’m thinking.”
Mr. Hayes waited.
At last, it came to me. “You’ve dropped the cynicism.”
“What?” He looked at me warily. “I’m not cynical.”
I stepped closer to him, and he stiffened at my deliberate approach. “You’re not fooling me. Not even for a minute.”
Mr. Hayes straightened away from me, and his demeanor changed with every subtle correction. Retreating behind the wall he used to keep the demons at bay. His tanned hand reached for his flask and pulled a long sip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling,” he drawled. A smirk pulled at his mouth, his blue gaze became several degrees cooler.
I pointed to his mouth. “That smile is as empty as your endearments.”
Mr. Hayes laughed, and it sounded hollow, a bit forced.
“You know,” I said softly. “Somewhere in what I said earlier, there was a compliment.”
He arched a brow. “Was there?”
I nodded.
He rolled his eyes and pulled me to a vendor wearing a turban and a long kaftan that reached his sandaled feet. His outer robe made me itch for my paintbrush; the braided cloth was gorgeous and incredibly detailed. A sash, tied neatly around his waist, completed his ensemble. He sold gorgeous little stools and cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Another vendor sold basins and copper drinking vessels, trays, and incense holders. I wanted one of everything but kept my purchases to a minimum; for Elvira and Tía Lorena, slippers embroidered with glimmering beads and golden thread I found from a seller carrying several pairs dangling from one end of a long pole. For Amaranta, I bought a ruby-hued sash, even though I knew she’d never wear it.
But nowhere did I see anyone selling jewelry like the piece that was stolen from me. I took care to look through the shops carefully, but nothing jumped out at me. Frustration curled in my belly. Maybe it was foolish to even try looking. My uncle might have made a throwaway comment that I ought not to have taken seriously. He did say Papá could have found the golden ring under a pot, for God’s sake.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Mr. Hayes asked, studying my face.
“I thought perhaps to buy myself something to replace the ring I lost. It was the last thing Papá gave me.”
The hard line of his jaw softened. “I understand, but it’s unlikely you’ll find another like it.” He pulled at his lower lip, brow furrowed. It cleared when a thought struck him. “Follow me, there might be something else.”
We took several turns, revealing a network of alleys opening to more shops, more people, more donkeys laden with tourists. A line of camels walked past, ill-mannered and lodging the occasional spitball at their owners. It soon became clear to me that Khan el-Khalili was divided into quarters, and each place sold similar items. If you wanted hardware, there was a specific section for that. A rug? Try the next street over.