Half the crew prayed with the rising sun, a sight familiar to me since my first morning in Cairo where the sound of hundreds of mosques signaled the time for prayer, the Azan, five times a day. The other half of the crew were Coptic Christians, and they moved quietly, preparing for the long work ahead.
I made my way to the roaring fire, rubbing my arms to fight off the chill. One of the crew took an elegant fountain pen and shook the ink into the fire pit. Flames erupted from the splatters of dark liquid, embers dancing in the air from the ink droplets. Tío Ricardo nursed his drink, watching the others, and avoiding looking in my direction. One of the women serving our party placed a warm cup of coffee into my hands. I sipped the strong brew, my sketch pad tucked under my arm. Whit stepped out of his room, his blue gaze unerringly finding mine. His face was remote and closed off. I recognized it for what it was. His armor was back in place, a knight defending a vulnerable fortress.
His engagement was the moat surrounding it.
I couldn’t pin the moment when I wanted more than a friendship with Whit. I’d have to forget what I had begun to feel for him, and instead focus on what annoyed me the most. He was high-handed and exasperating, secretive and closed off. He’d made his feelings clear last night.
But I remembered the way his mouth had felt against mine.
I looked away, remembering my mother’s plea. The distance was for the best. I only wished my heart felt the same way. He couldn’t be trusted, I reminded myself for the hundredth time. He’d retreat behind the orders given to him by my uncle, and keep me at arm’s length with his meaningless flirting and roguish winks.
He was my uncle’s man, through and through.
Tío Ricardo pointed to the empty seat beside him, and I settled onto the mat. “Buenos días, Tío,” I said. My pulse jumped in my throat; I was sure that he’d see through my nonchalant behavior. Disgust mixed with my fear. He wasn’t honorable or decent. He was a liar and a thief.
“Did you sleep well?” Tío Ricardo asked.
“I did.” I’d brought out my sketch pad and flipped to what I’d completed the day before instead, telling myself that I had a mission.
“Is this what you were hoping for?”
Tío Ricardo looked down, the lower half of his face near covered by his thick, grizzly beard. His hazel eyes widened as he took my painting into his weathered hands. I’d captured the massive columns, the ghosts of the vibrant colors decorating the capitals, the hieroglyphics etched into the stone. Hours had passed as I painted, but I barely noticed.
“These are lovely,” he said, beaming.
A compliment at last—I ought to note the date on the pages. My uncle noticed the rest of the crew and team eyeing the journal curiously, and to my astonishment, he passed it around. Isadora held it first and she pored over the drawings.
“Why, these are extraordinary! I couldn’t draw a straight line even if someone offered me a kingdom. You’ll have to teach me, Inez.”
“It only takes practice,” I said.
“Nonsense,” she said. “If that were true, I would be able to sew and I’m afraid I still can’t.”
I smiled and she handed the journal to her father. Mr. Fincastle barely glanced at it, but Abdullah marveled at the detail and I felt a swell of pride in my chest. I sat up straighter and fought a blush. When the notebook reached Whit, he handed it to someone on the digging crew without looking, sipping from his cup.
“I observed the making of it,” Whit explained to Abdullah’s astonishment.
“Speaking of which,” Tío Ricardo said. “Inez, I’d like you to sketch and draw the interior of the temple of Isis this time.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Whitford will be with you.”
“He’ll only distract me,” I said, keeping my voice nonchalant and calm. I couldn’t handle another encounter with Whit. “I work faster without someone hovering over my shoulder, anyway. I promise I’ll be safe and won’t come out until I’ve finished.”
“Still, I’d feel better if Whitford were with you,” my uncle said, frowning.
I couldn’t keep my eyes flicking in his direction. He stared mutely into his mug, the corners of his mouth crimped. His distaste of being in my company was all too clear.
“I’ll join you,” Isadora said suddenly, looking between us.
I threw her a grateful smile.
“You’ll get dusty,” Mr. Fincastle said.
Isadora gave a dainty shrug. “I daresay no one will mind my dirty hem.”
“I certainly won’t,’ I said. “I’m incredibly happy to have your company.”
If I hadn’t been looking in his direction, I would have missed his quick eye roll. But he tightened his hold on the cup, his fingers turning white.
My uncle glanced at me pointedly. “You’ll let me know of any developments?”
I fought hard to keep my expression bland as I lied straight to his face. “Of course, Tío.”
Isadora assessed us with a speculative gleam in her eyes. Intuition flickered sharply. I might have fooled my uncle, but possibly not her. She had observed the tension between me and Whit, coming to my rescue. She had somehow known I had lied to my uncle. Isadora collected information while she remained a mystery to me. It suddenly dawned on me that I was making myself vulnerable.
If I weren’t more careful, she could discover the biggest secret I kept.
Capítulo Veintidos
Whit stayed outside with the digging crew, working alongside them, while Abdullah and Tío Ricardo shouted instructions, their hands as dirty as everyone else’s. They all worked in cohesion, speaking to the long years between them, seeming to understand one another without speaking. Gunpowder disappeared down into the tunnels under Trajan’s Kiosk, along with shovels and pickaxes. Isadora and I cleaned up after the morning meal, washing plates and cups in a big luggage trunk brimming with soapy water. Once the dishes were done, we flipped the lid closed. When I opened it again, the old water was replaced by fresh, clean water. A marvel out here in the desert.
I wished I could fit inside of it for baths.
Isadora must have felt the same because I caught her looking longingly at the trunk, too. But she looked prim and neat, her hair perfectly braided and coiled high over her head. You’d never know she’d spent the night in a makeshift tent with crumbling walls and a tarp stretched over her head.
“Shall we?” she asked, gesturing toward the temple of Isis.
We carried the sketch pad and pencils and paints, along with my canvas bag, stuffed full with a canteen of water and a small meal put together by Kareem. We settled inside the interior of the temple, surrounded by columns and bas-reliefs, and I worked for a couple of hours while Isadora explored. She seemed on edge, restless, as if there was something on her mind and she was only waiting for the right moment to bring it up. I felt that she knew I had been lying.
When Isadora returned, she sat down beside me with her knees tucked demurely beneath her, her ankles covered by the volume of her linen skirt. She had the kind of manners and modesty my mother approved of. My clothing had already acquired a fair bit of dust and the tips of my fingers were stained from my pencils.
“Any progress?” Isadora asked.