I whirled around to face him. “Can we talk about that?”
“No.” Whit rolled his eyes. “Now go and retrieve your things.”
The items were by the rest of my art supplies, abandoned next to the sketch I’d done earlier that day. When I stomped back to the back room, I found Whit exactly where he said he’d be. A part of me had really believed he would have gone on without me, especially after his flippant remark about his happiness. Or unhappiness, rather. He hadn’t sounded desolated, exactly, but wearily resigned.
But he kept his word.
He lit the candles and led the way down. I placed a light hand on his shoulder as we went, the space above us growing darker the farther we went underground. The staircase was narrow, and several times I had to resist the urge to suck in my stomach. It wouldn’t have made a difference. It was a tight squeeze regardless. Whit had to slide down sideways in order to fit his brawny frame. I don’t know how he stood it. It felt as if I were in a tight fist. The only sound came from our sharp breaths mingling together in the tight space.
At last we reached the bottom after the sixteen never-ending steps, but a thick wall deterred any forward movement. Whit shoved against it using his not-so-inconsiderable brawn.
“Well?”
He grunted.
“Any movement?”
He glowered at me. “I think we’re going to have to push together.”
I joined him on the last step, our shoulders pressed tight together, the long line of his leg hard against mine. There was no room to create any kind of distance between us.
“Why are we always finding ourselves in dark, enclosed places, Olivera?” Whit muttered.
“The thrill of adventure?”
He snorted and placed one hand on the wall and I followed suit. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I said. We heaved, grunting and panting, but the wall wouldn’t budge. We couldn’t put down the candles and use both of our hands, not without blowing them out. After a second we stopped, and inhaled air that tasted centuries old, filling our lungs and bellies. “I have an idea,” I said in between huffs.
“I’m listening.”
“Lean against the wall, and use our feet to push. The space is small enough—”
Whit was already moving. He propped up both legs, his feet flat against the opposite wall, and I did the same. Together we pushed and the wall gave, little by little. We didn’t stop until the door pushed forward enough for both of us to squeeze through. A gust of warm air slapped our faces, whistling up the round staircase. The hair on my arms stood on end. The candles illuminated only a few feet ahead, but it didn’t matter. We saw enough. We’d found something.
Surrounding us were untold treasures that had been hidden away two thousand years earlier.
Capítulo Veintitres
Whit tugged me close to his side, the pair of us laughing like idiots. His powerful frame engulfed mine, the long line of his body pressed against my slighter one. Tears streamed down my face, and I blinked them away, not wanting to miss even a moment. Cleopatra’s essence swirled around me, and I understood that there were more objects tied to her, matching the spell caught up in the golden ring.
“We need more light,” Whit said hoarsely.
“How incredible that my uncle’s sandal isn’t enough,” I said between gasping breaths.
We laughed harder, tears dripping down our faces.
He lifted the lit shoe, and I did the same with the single-wick candle, and together we gazed into what the tiny flames revealed. It cast the chamber in a soft golden glow, touching countless objects decorating the space. They were organized by likeness and size. A large chest stood pressed against the left side of the room, and on the opposite was what looked to be a wooden chariot.
The walls were covered in gorgeous paintings, faded from the long years since the original painters brushed color over stone. Scenes of Cleopatra dining at an elaborate table with golden plates, of her in a long procession surrounded by attendants. A gorgeous couch sat in the middle of the room, sculpted in bronze and inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. The entire room shimmered from turquoise tiles lining the walls, glinting in the candlelight. Plush rugs, rolled up tightly, were propped in both corners, and even from where I stood, I saw the intricate weaving of roses. My fingers itched to draw every detail.
“This looks like the antechamber,” Whit murmured. “The room before the actual burial chamber, and it’s definitely been looted.”
I glanced at him in surprise. “How can you tell?”
“It’s like organized chaos in here,” he said. “Her chamber wouldn’t have initially been left like this. More likely . . .” He walked back to the staircase, lifting the candle to examine the curve of the entrance. After a moment, he let out a noise of satisfaction. “You can see here where the door was reinforced at least once.”
I followed him as he drew the candle close to the various statues, some tiny enough to fit in my palm, others large enough that they met my hip in height. My gaze snagged on an entryway that opened to another space. The magic sang under my skin. My pulse jumped in my throat as I stepped through, Whit directly behind me. The firelight created monsters on the elaborately adorned walls.
The next chamber was smaller, and at first sight I thought painted entirely in gold.
“Holy shit,” Whit said.
My eyes were assaulted by the stately beauty. Thousands of objects sparkled back at me: golden shrines topped with statuettes of deities, models of boats and barges, and several chariots. Whit’s attention snagged on rolls of parchment piled high. He stared hungrily, but when he noticed me looking, he turned away and motioned toward an enormous statue greeting us, topped by the figure of a jackal reposed, and decorated with gold leaf accents.
“Anubis,” he said.
We stared in awed silence until Whit spoke, destroying the moment.
“I have to get Abdullah and Ricardo.”
Any elation I felt vanished in the next breath. Dios, what had I done? The room seemed to press close around me, squeezing me like an iron fist. The word ripped out of me, vehement and loud. It reverberated in the small space. “No!”
He gaped at me. “No? What do you mean no?”
I had made a terrible mistake. This shouldn’t be happening, least of all with Whitford Hayes. The enormity of what I’d done crawled against my skin. My mother would be horrified by this development. The sense of failure tasted sour in my mouth. “Please, can we pretend we never found her?”
“Have you lost your senses? They’ve been searching for Cleopatra for years, Olivera. Do you really want to take that from them?”
“Fine, but only Abdullah. I don’t trust my uncle.”
His jaw slackened. “You don’t trust Ricardo?”
I shook my head.
“What the bloody hell is going on? Is this because of who you had in your room last night?”
“No.”