“What are you doing?”
“I wanted to copy the map for my sketchbook,” I explained. “It won’t take but a moment.”
He waited as I quickly gathered my things together and then as I sat on one of the campsite’s mats to draw the island. After I finished, he came to stand behind me, observing my work.
I walked inside my room, surprised to find it was more spacious than I first realized. I could comfortably stand at my full height and stretch both of my arms wide and still not reach either end.
Whit poked his head in. “Well?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “I have an idea.”
He eyed me warily. “Have I told you how much I live in terror of your ideas?”
“That’s rude.”
But the errand turned out to be successful. Whit carried back one rolled-up rug from my room, a handful of books that would serve as a small nightstand, and a single bowl for washing.
“After you’re done decorating, I’ll show you around the temple,” Whit said as he balanced all of the items across the sandy terrain.
Decorating meant unrolling the rug; it covered the entire floor of my room, one end curling up the wall because it was wider than the space allowed. I’d already brought over the extra bedroll and linens, and one of the crew had carried my belongings inside. Whit handed me the stack of books, his hand brushing against mine, and I startled from the electrifying zip that ran up my arm. He flexed his fingers as I placed the books next to the bedding. The bowl went on top of the literature. While the space felt dark, I had plenty of candles and matches should I need them.
All put together, the effect turned out to be cozy.
I stepped outside to where Whit waited. “Where are you sleeping?”
He pointed at the room directly next to mine.
My body flooded with heat. “Oh.”
Whit grinned. “I hope you don’t snore.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I muttered.
He took mercy on me. “Are you ready to see the temple?”
I set off after him, mimicking every step as he crossed the packed dirt of the island. The temple looked large and solid to the left of us, casting us in cool shadow. We were mere ants to its size and grandeur. On the right stood a roofless structure on a platform. Fourteen massive columns resembling palm trees created a rectangular shape.
“Trajan’s Kiosk; he was a Roman emperor. Probably constructed two thousand years ago,” Whit said. “The locals call it Pharaoh’s Bed.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It was never finished.”
I stopped walking, the back of my throat tickling. “But why?”
“Remains a mystery,” Whit said, squinting in the sunlight. “Are you all right? You’re a bit peaky.”
I nodded, but I felt uncomfortable. A sharp prickling surrounded me, pressing into my edges. I wanted to push back against it, as if it were a wall closing in on me. “Let’s keep going.”
Whit obliged and led me to the front of the temple where a wide and open courtyard sprawled before it. Covered colonnades enclosed the irregular shape, and crude stones set in a honeycombed pattern stretched from one end to the other. The first pylon, a kind of gate, stood high, blocking parts of the blue sky. The lines of the structure were sharp and unforgiving; I suppose they’d have to be, to survive the ravages of time. Beyond the first pylon was another court, and yet another enormous gate. Reliefs of Egyptian gods and goddess were carved on the walls, detailed and magnificent.
We were not the first to have come here. Several depictions and hieroglyphics had been destroyed, whole sections ruined. It was hard to fathom, hard to look at without feeling a keen sense of loss.
Whit followed my gaze, his mouth set at a grim line. “The work of the Romans when they converted the temple to a Christian church.”
“If you look closely, you can see the excavation team who carved the wall the year they were here in 1841.”
“Excavators carved the wall?” I tilted my head back to scan the imposing wall, and sure enough, several explorers had left their mark. The crude etchings were several stories high from the ground. “I don’t understand how they reached the top? Why not scrawl their name and date closer to the ground, at eye level?”
“Because when they did so, it was at eye level,” Whit explained. “The bottom part of the structure was covered entirely in sand. Years of erosion revealed the whole temple, but until then the ground was higher up, which is why travelers were able to scratch the limestone near the top.”
“They weren’t the only ones. Napoleon noted his arrival in 1799,” said a voice from behind me.
I startled and whirled around; I hadn’t heard my uncle’s quiet approach. He stood with his hands on his hips, a leather bag slung over his shoulder. Rolls of maps poked up from within. “Tío Ricardo. Mr. Hayes was giving me a tour of the temple.”
“Was he?” My uncle shifted his attention to Mr. Hayes. “Well?”
Whit shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
I looked at the pair of them as some silent communication passed between them. “Tío?”
“Have you felt any magic?” my uncle asked.
I shifted on my feet. There had been something, but it wasn’t exactly the same magic as the trinket box and golden ring. “Not yet.”
“Keep trying, Inez.”
“I will.” I thought hard. My parents had excavated here, their last known digging site. Papá could have found the ring here. If that were true, then there could be a connection between the ring and the wooden box to the island of Philae—something that pointed to Cleopatra. “But we haven’t explored the interior of the temple.”
My uncle stepped aside. “By all means.”
We passed through the second pylon and straight into a portico. I gaped at the painted ceiling. The column burst with color reaching up to the capitals, carved to resemble lotuses, palms, and papyrus. The paint appeared soft in hue, a rainbow of pastels in shades of coral and green. As a traveler, I was in awe; as an artist, I was inspired. The space opened at the center, allowing a square of light to pass through, casting the rest of the room in a golden glow. My fingers itched to capture every detail, every line and curve made thousands of years ago by intrepid artists.
But as much as there was beauty, there was also ruin, too. Sections of the pavement had been pulled up, the ground strewn with broken fragments of shattered cornice. A constant reminder that for more than a millennia, treasure hunters from within and without stole from sites up and down Egypt.
“Anything?” my uncle asked.
I shook my head, staring at a particularly demolished corner of the portico. All I tasted was the bitter tang of regret. We moved into the interior of the temple, a large room that opened into various halls. Whit stood next to me, and for the first time, I noticed the smallest freckle above his lips. A long shadow scored the line of his jaw. I might draw blood if I let my finger trail it. His blue gaze shifted to mine, as if sensing how keenly I studied every curve of his face.