“Where have you been? Never mind,” Tía Lorena said as I began to answer. “Your dress is dirty, did you know?”
The yellow linen bore wrinkles and frightful stains, but it was one of my favorites. The design allowed me to dress without the help of a maid. I’d secretly ordered several garments with buttons easy to access, which Tía Lorena detested. She thought it made the gowns scandalous. My poor aunt tried her hardest to keep me looking presentable but unfortunately for her, I had a singular ability to ruin hemlines and crush ruffles. I did love my dresses, but did they have to be so delicate?
I noticed her empty hands and smothered a flare of impatience. “I was in the garden.”
Elvira tightened her hold on my arm with her free one, and rushed to my defense. “She was practicing her art, Mamá, that’s all.”
My aunt and Elvira loved my illustrations (Amaranta said they were too juvenile), and always made sure I had enough supplies to paint and sketch. Tía Lorena thought I was talented enough to sell my work in the many galleries popping up in the city. She and my mother had quite the life planned out for me. Along with countless tutors from the artistic sphere, I had been schooled in French and English, the general sciences, and histories with a particular emphasis, of course, on Egypt.
Papá made sure I read the same books on that subject as he did, and also that I read his favorite plays. Shakespeare was a particular favorite of his, and we quoted the lines to each other back and forth, a game only we knew how to play. Sometimes we put on performances for the staff, using the ballroom as our own home theater. Since he was a patron of the opera house, he constantly received a steady supply of costumes and wigs and theater makeup, and some of my favorite memories were of us trying on new ensembles, planning for our next show.
My aunt’s face cleared. “Well, come along, Inez. You have a visitor.”
I shot a questioning look at Elvira. “I thought you said I had a letter?”
“Your visitor has brought a letter from your parents,” Tía Lorena clarified. “He must have run into them during his travels. I can’t think of who else might be writing to you. Unless there’s a secret caballero I don’t know about . . .” She raised her brows expectantly.
“You ran off the last two.”
“Miscreants, the both of them. Neither could identify a salad fork.”
“I don’t know why you bother rounding them up,” I said. “Mamá has her mind made up. She thinks Ernesto would make me a suitable husband.”
Tía Lorena’s lips turned downward. “There’s nothing wrong with having options.”
I stared at her in amusement. My aunt would oppose a prince if my mother suggested it. They’d never gotten along. Both were too headstrong, too opinionated. Sometimes I thought my aunt was the reason my mother chose to leave me behind. She couldn’t stand sharing space with my father’s sister.
“I’m sure his family’s wealth is a point in his favor,” Amaranta said in her dry voice. I recognized that tone. She resented being married off, more than I did. “That’s the most important thing, correct?”
Her mother glared at her eldest daughter. “It is not, just because . . .”
I tuned out the rest of the conversation, closed my eyes, my breath lodged at the back of my throat. My parents’ letter was here, and I’d finally have an answer. Tonight I could be planning my wardrobe, packing my trunks, maybe even convincing Elvira to accompany me on the long journey. I opened my eyes in time to catch the little line appear between my cousin’s eyebrows.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from them,” I explained.
She frowned. “Aren’t you always waiting to hear from them?”
A fantastic point. “I asked them if I could join them in Egypt,” I admitted, darting a nervous glance toward my aunt.
“But . . . but, why?” Tía Lorena sputtered.
I linked my arms through hers and propelled them into the house. We were charmingly grouped, traversing the long stretch of the tiled hall, the three of us arm in arm, my aunt leading us like a tour guide.
The house boasted nine bedrooms, a breakfast parlor, two living rooms, and a kitchen rivaling the most elegant hotel in the city. We even had a smoking room but ever since Papá had purchased a pair of armchairs that could fly, no one had been inside. They caused terrible damage, crashing into the walls, smashing the mirrors, poking holes into the paintings. To this day, my father still lamented the loss of his two-hundred-year-old whiskey trapped in the bar cabinet.
“Because she’s Inez,” Amaranta said. “Too good for indoor activities like sewing or knitting, or any other task for respectable ladies.” She slanted a glare in my direction. “Your curiosity will get you in trouble one day.”
I dropped my chin, stung. I wasn’t above sewing or knitting. I just disliked doing either because I was so terribly wretched at them.
“This is about your cumplea?os,” Elvira said. “It must be. You’re hurt that they won’t be here, and I understand. I do, Inez. But they’ll come back, and we’ll have a grand dinner to celebrate and invite all the handsome boys living in the barrio, including Ernesto.”
She was partly right. My parents were going to miss my nineteenth. Another year without them as I blew out the candles.
“Your uncle is a terrible influence on Cayo,” Tía Lorena said with a sniff. “I cannot comprehend why my brother funds so many of Ricardo’s outlandish schemes. Cleopatra’s tomb, for heaven’s sake.”
“?Qué?” I asked.
Even Amaranta appeared startled. Her lips parted in surprise. We were both avid readers, but I was unaware that she had read any of my books on ancient Egypt.
Tía Lorena’s face colored slightly, and she nervously tucked an errant strand of brown hair shot with silver behind her ear. “Ricardo’s latest pursuit. Something silly I overheard Cayo discussing with his lawyer, that’s all.”
“About Cleopatra’s tomb?” I pressed. “And what do you mean by fund, exactly?”
“Who on earth is Cleopatra?” Elvira said. “And why couldn’t you have named me something like that, Mamá? Much more romantic. Instead, I got Elvira.”
“For the last time, Elvira is stately. Elegant and appropriate. Just like Amaranta.”
“Cleopatra was the last pharaoh of Egypt,” I explained. “Papá talked of nothing else when they were here last.”
Elvira furrowed her brow. “Pharaohs could be . . . women?”
I nodded. “Egyptians were quite progressive. Though, technically, Cleopatra wasn’t actually Egyptian. She was Greek. Still, they were ahead of our time, if you ask me.”
Amaranta shot me a disapproving look. “No one did.”
But I ignored her and glanced pointedly at my aunt, raising my brow. Curiosity burned up my throat. “What else do you know?”
“I don’t have any more details,” Tía Lorena said.
“It sounds like you do,” I said.