What the River Knows (Secrets of the Nile, #1)

“A pity,” she said. “He isn’t boring when so many men are.”

“And you are more than what you seem, Isadora,” I said, purposefully letting my gaze drift to her neat appearance. But I knew she hid a weapon somewhere on her.

“So are you,” she said.

A loud commotion came from the direction of the boat docked on the far side of Philae.

“Dios, what now?” Tío Ricardo snarled, yanking me from my reverie.

Whit sat across from me, looking over the records in his journal. At my uncle’s outburst, he glanced up and met my gaze, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

I looked in the direction my uncle was presently glaring to find a group of people rowing up to the sandbank. One of the men looked vaguely familiar. My uncle routinely despaired of the tourists crowding the river. The island of Philae, though more out of the way than other attractions found in Thebes, was a prime destination. There was a reason it was called the Jewel of the Nile.

“A group of women travelers.” Mr. Fincastle shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare with one hand, while the other hovered above his revolver. “And several gentlemen. Definitely American.”

“Definitely not welcome,” my uncle muttered.

My ears perked up. Could one of them be my mother’s confidant?

The tourists were unaware of their unwelcome, and gaily approached us, talking loudly among themselves. Tío Ricardo sent a pleading look in the direction of Whit, who grinned hugely, snapping his journal closed and then bounding to his feet. He met the group before they reached our campsite.

Whit paraded his charm and several young ladies in their party glowed with pleasure. I shook my head ruefully. The Mr. Hayes mask he wore for everyone else was on full display. When I glanced over again, it was to find Whit watching me. My gaze flickered pointedly to one of the pretty ladies and I raised my brows.

He lifted an insouciant shoulder and I laughed, if only to hide the ache tearing at my heart. Whit still wouldn’t talk about the years he spent in the military, nor would he say much else about his family, but an easy camaraderie existed between us. He sought my company whenever there was any free time. I counted on him to bring me dinner when the hour grew late and I still hadn’t finished a particular sketch, and I always made sure his coffee was hot in the morning. It wasn’t everything, but at least we had a few smalls things between us that felt real.

I stood, brushing the sand off my linen skirt, and walked toward the temple as was my usual habit after lunch. As I walked past, Tío Ricardo lifted his head in my direction.

“Inez, are you almost done?”

I fought to keep my tone pleasant. Every day, it had been harder and harder to do. I lived in terror of him discovering my secret. I barely checked my grief, my anger, around him. “The painting of the antechamber is complete, and I’ve finished the detailed sketch of the treasury and have already laid down the base paint. From here, it’s adding in details.”

“Good,” he said.

“Ricardo!” Whit called.

My uncle groaned into his teacup. With an exasperated sigh, he stood and dragged himself to the group of tourists. They eyed him in awed fascination, the archaeologist in his element; thick hair tousled, serviceable trousers, and knee-high scuffed boots, his face lined, tanned, and weathered from the hot sun. He made quite a picture, surrounded by ancient monuments, and I understood why more than one lady began fanning herself.

I was about to continue my way to the temple when my uncle suddenly turned around from the party and stomped back to us, his face set in a pronounced scowl. He threw himself back onto the bit of rock he’d been using as a makeshift chair. Two letters poked out of his tanned fist.

Curiosity kept me in place. “What is it?”

Abdullah grinned. “An invitation?”

Tío Ricardo visibly weighed his response, his frown becoming more pronounced as the seconds ticked by. If someone were to carve him, this would be the expression. My uncle in his most natural state.

“I deplore it when you’re smug,” my uncle grumbled back.

I sat down on a rock. “Who is the invitation from?”

“The New Year’s Eve ball held at Shepheard’s every year,” Abdullah said cheerfully. “Your uncle never goes.”

“Why don’t you want to go?” I interrupted.

My uncle shuddered. “Because, Inez, it means tearing myself away from here, when there’s so much work to be done. I won’t announce our findings ever, and while I trust the majority of our team, I know it’s naive to believe our discovery won’t go unnoticed for long. It’s imperative that we record everything we’ve found with proper and distant objectivity before the incompetent gentlemen who call themselves archaeologists descend onto Philae. Idiots, all of them.”

He had almost convinced me. But I remembered the harsh lines of his face when he talked about Papá, remembered how he’d led me to believe that both my parents had died, lost in the desert.

My uncle ought to be on stage. He’d make a fortune.

“No one will come looking here during the ball,” Abdullah said mildly, picking up the thread of conversation. “Don’t forget that I’ll be here to maintain order, as I haven’t been invited.”

“Like I said. Idiots,” Tío Ricardo said. “Most are glorified treasure hunters, stealing anything that can be moved. And I do mean anything—coffins and mummies, obelisks, sphinxes. Literally thousands of artifacts. There are a very few,” my uncle said, “who care about keeping proper records, who understand the necessity of knowledge and safeguarding Egypt’s past.”

“But as they are Egyptian, they are often excluded like I am,” Abdullah said with quiet fury. “And until I’m not at a disadvantage from the field of study, none of what we excavate will be shared with the Antiquities Service.”

My heart broke for him. My uncle’s deception would shatter him.

“Ricardo.” Abdullah held out his hand. “Give it to me, please.”

Wordlessly, my uncle handed Abdullah the second letter, who read it once, then twice.

“I don’t understand,” Abdullah said. “Maspero revoked your firman? But why?”

Anger etched itself onto my uncle’s face. “I suspect Sir Evelyn had something to do with it, the bastard.”

“You must go to the party,” Abdullah said. “And make it right. You know what’s at stake.”

“Zazi hated the Cairo set,” Ricardo protested.

“She did,” Abdullah agreed.

“But she came with me.”

Abdullah was already shaking his head. “My coming would make things worse. You know this.”

“But—”

“I know my sister, and she’d tell you to go.”

Ricardo groaned. “We can cover—”

“It won’t be enough to fool a seasoned archaeologist.” Abdullah leaned forward, brows furrowed. “Think of what Zazi would want, Ricardo.”

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