My uncle stared mutinously at his brother-in-law. But in slow degrees, he softened under the weight of Abdullah’s quiet firmness. “Fine, I’ll go. The day after Navidad.”
Somehow, I’d forgotten all about Christmas fast approaching. We never celebrated as a family on the actual day. My parents were in Egypt every year, and so we exchanged gifts in May. This past May had been my last with my father. I wish I would have known. I had been closed off and surly, annoyed that I was given a consolation holiday during winter when everyone else in Buenos Aires celebrated properly during our summer in December.
When Papá had asked to play a game of chess, I had said no.
I gathered my supplies, and stood, preparing to finally head back to work. Whit remained ensconced in conversation with the attractive tourists, and I carefully kept my gaze from flitting back to where he stood.
“Inez,” Tío Ricardo said as I brushed past. I paused, and raised an eyebrow. My uncle kept his attention on his mug, his fingers gripping tight around the handle. “Tomorrow, we break the seal at first light.”
Somehow, I managed to keep my face utterly neutral, as if his including me hadn’t sent a tremor through my body. My uncle eyed me curiously and I shifted under his attentive gaze. A sharp line appeared between his brows. It occurred to me that my lack of reaction confused him, given how long and how hard I’d persuaded him to join the excavation team.
I forced a smile, trying to hide the truth.
I would be long gone by the time they opened the tomb.
*
Whit found me hours later, hunched over the painting, painstakingly capturing the detail of a jewelry box inlaid with pearls and turquoise. He hovered behind me, watching me work.
“You’ve made it too big,” he said.
I turned and glared up at him. “No, I haven’t.”
“Why are you scowling?”
“I’m not,” I said, hating the catch in my voice. “Why aren’t you with your new friends?”
“They’ve left, alas,” he said. “But they did give me a letter for you. A certain gentleman brought it over and he seemed quite annoyed with me when I wouldn’t tell him where you’d gone.”
My brows rose. “I don’t know any gentlemen here.”
Whit eyed me severely. “He said to tell you that he still wanted to have that dinner whenever you return to Cairo.”
I thought back, and then widened my eyes. “It must be Mr. Burton; he was staying at Shepheard’s.”
“Hmmm. How did you meet him?”
“He escorted me to dinner.” I watched him keenly.
“To dinner,” he said. “How kind of him.”
“Does that bother you?”
He shrugged. “No, Olivera. Why would it?”
His words might have sounded nonchalant, but I detected a faint tightening at the corners of his mouth. His hands curled into fists, and when he noticed I was looking, he stuffed them inside his pockets. A flush spread high in his cheekbones, twin banners in a deep red. My jaw dropped. “You’re jealous.”
He let out a crack of laughter. “Not bloody likely.”
“I have to admit I’m surprised by your behavior,” I said. “Or did you think I wouldn’t notice how you can’t keep your eyes off me?”
“Your uncle has asked me to keep an eye on you,” Whit snapped. “If I’m looking, it’s only to make sure you’re not getting into trouble.”
“I know how to behave,” I said, mildly offended.
“Ha,” he muttered under his breath.
We stared at each other for several minutes, his frustration rolling off him in waves. I lifted a brow and dared him to explain himself. But he stayed stubbornly silent for one long intolerable beat. Then, in a much calmer voice, he asked, “Do you want your letter, or don’t you?”
I held out my hand.
There were only two people who knew where to find me in Egypt and I could guess how they felt about my leaving without saying goodbye. I had left a note, but I could just imagine what my aunt would have thought about that. Guilt needled me, and while I didn’t feel bad about tricking my aunt, I did regret leaving my cousin. But if I told Elvira my plans, then she would have wanted to come. If she came, then my aunt would have done anything and everything to get her back. I couldn’t risk it. “Give it to me, then.”
Whit dug into his pocket and pulled out two envelopes he’d tucked inside. He gave them both a cursory glance and then handed me mine, the other he stuffed back into his pocket with a slight frown. My aunt’s neat and prim handwriting stared up at me. I never read her first letter, and frankly didn’t know where I’d put it. I hadn’t seen it in weeks, not since we’d left Cairo. With a shudder, I placed the envelope inside the pages of my sketch pad.
Whit raised his brows. “Who’s it from?”
“How did Mr. Burton know where to find me?”
“The staff at Shepheard’s must have assumed you’d be with Ricardo. Who’s it from?”
“I’ll read it later.”
“Not what I asked.”
“It’s none of your business, Whit.”
“What if it’s important?” he pressed.
“Trust me, it’s not.” I narrowed my gaze at him. “I thought we didn’t discuss personal matters.”
He rolled his eyes and sat next to me, folding his long legs close to his body so as not to knock anything over. “We don’t unless they make you upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“I know when you are, Olivera,” Whit said. “You wear everything on your face.”
“Then stop looking at my face,” I said pointedly.
Whit opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut.
“What were you going to say?”
“Absolutely nothing helpful,” he muttered.
“I’ll tell you who it’s from if you tell me who sent yours,” I said. “Nosy.”
His eyes flicked down to his pocket. “It’s from my father.”
“Oh.” He rarely talked of his family. A small part of me wished I hadn’t pressed, but he’d annoyed me with his questions. Whit didn’t say anything else, and so I cleared my throat and said, “Mine is from my aunt. She must be furious.”
Whit’s lips pressed together. “She probably wants you to come home.”
“I bet your family wants the same for you.”
His hands flexed, tension rising around him like steam over boiling water. We sat in silence and when it became clear he wouldn’t say more, I resumed working.
“We’re opening her tomb tomorrow,” Whit said suddenly. “Did your uncle tell you?”
I pressed my lips into a thin line and nodded.
“Why aren’t you more excited?”
I would have been. My time in Egypt had softened my resentment, had seduced me with its sweeping expanse of desert filled with temples and a million secrets hidden beneath its golden sand. The people here were warm and kind and incredibly hospitable. I’d become part of the team, and the feeling of all of us working toward the same goal was intoxicating, heady in a way I hadn’t expected. I wanted to be there with them as they opened Cleopatra’s tomb.