Isadora pulled at her lip. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
“While true, it doesn’t exactly make me feel better.” I hesitated. “I trusted the wrong person.”
“You are trusting,” she agreed. “Far too much.”
I blinked, surprised. Anger sparked, lacing my blood. “You don’t know me at all.”
Isadora pulled out her gun, sleek and shiny in the sunlight. She raised it and aimed at my heart. Something flickered in her eyes. I couldn’t define the emotion. The world dimmed, narrowed to the barrel of her weapon. “I know you’re the type of person who would leave the safety of the camp with a near stranger, even knowing they carried a weapon.”
I backed away a step. “What are you playing at? Lower it.”
Isadora rolled her eyes. “Now you’re scared. A little too late, Inez.” She swung away, aiming for the scorpion up the bank. She inhaled and pulled the trigger.
The bullet blew the insect apart, sand kicking up from the shot.
Wordlessly, she handed me the gun. “Your turn.”
Capítulo Veintiocho
I approached Trajan’s Kiosk, the sun high in the blue sky. In ancient Egypt, the god Ra reined over the sun and sky, giving warmth and life. And on the island of Philae, cut off from most modern conveniences, it was easy to imagine him guiding my steps as I descended into the belly of Pharaoh’s Bed. My lesson with Isadora had gone well, and while I wouldn’t win any awards for my shooting, I was reasonably proud of my aim.
Isadora and her reckless streak. After she’d pointed the gun at me, she behaved as she normally did. Observant and thoughtful, cheerful and competent, flashing her dimpled cheeks. She acted as if she hadn’t threatened me with a weapon. But maybe that had been the point.
Was she telling me to be more careful?
“Olivera?”
I returned my attention to the present. Footsteps sounded close by, and a flickering light appeared on the stairwell, followed by Whit’s brawny frame.
“Still in one piece, I see.” He said it in a teasing voice, but I detected a note of relief in his tone.
“She’s a good teacher.”
“What do you think of her?” he asked.
I considered the question. “I enjoy her,” I said slowly. “She doesn’t quite fit the mold of an English rose, well-mannered and buttoned-up, but I think that’s her appeal. She’s crafty and strategic and charming—when she wants to be. I’ve never met anyone quite like her. What about you?”
He made a noncommittal noise and led the way through the tunnels, until we ducked into a new room, recently found given the taste of dust and smoke from the blast of a dynamite stick. Above, the roof stretched high above us, dark and foreboding. Large boulders were piled high along the craggy wall. The chamber was narrow and I coughed, clearing my throat of smoky air. He propped the candle securely between two rocks, and threw his sport coat over a tall boulder, and then turned to face me.
Dirt smudged his cheeks, and the glow from the candle cast his features in shadowed hollows. Only the blue of his gaze shone brightly in the dimness.
“What are we doing here?”
“Let’s call it my Christmas present to you,” he said with a slight smile. He motioned for me to stand next to a long spool of coiled rope on the ground, the other end reaching high upward and disappearing into the darkness of the tall ceiling.
“My Christmas present,” I repeated as he tied the other end of the rope around my waist. His breath brushed my cheek as he worked silently. I lifted my chin and stared at his downturned face, his attention solely on the knot.
Whit pulled out my uncle’s enchanted sandal from his vest pocket and handed it to me.
“Buckle the strap,” he said.
I did so and the tip of the shoe immediately caught fire, a fiery blue. Then without ceremony, he climbed the boulders, up and up, until I lost sight of him in the flat black of the chamber.
“Whit?” I called up.
“I’m here,” he said. His voice echoed down. “Are you ready?”
“If I must be.”
His faint chuckle reached my ears. “Hold on to the rope with your free hand, Olivera. Don’t scream.”
“Don’t—oh!” A sharp tug propelled me up off my feet and I was launched upward. Whit passed me on his way down, and I barely caught his flash of a smile before I flew up toward the ceiling, buoyed by his weight as he nearly landed on the ground. The blue flame illuminated the ragged walls of the cave, and the higher I went, the smoother the walls became. Whit slowed my ascent.
“See it?” he called up.
I squinted and looked around, using my legs to turn myself around. “No. What am I supposed to— Miércoles!”
I was staring at a stretch of ancient paintings in blues and greens and reds. A woman made of stars, having just swallowed the sun and moon, where they’d travel through her body and be reborn at dawn.
“It’s the goddess Nuit,” I whispered. Sweat dripped down my face from the heat of the fire, and my palms grew slick, but I didn’t care. I was staring at something so incredible it stole my sadness for a breath. I was weightless, seemingly floating with only the rope a reminder that I was alone.
Whit tugged and I looked down. He was barely visible. I whistled and he lowered me down, slowly and carefully. When my feet touched the ground, he loosened the knot around my waist. His hands were steady and sure, and I wanted them to explore my body.
“That was beautiful.” I cleared my throat, overcome. “Gracias.”
He smiled. It was one of his real ones. “Feliz Navidad, Inez.”
I cleared my throat. “I have something for you, too.”
“Do you?”
Without meeting his eye, I bent and retrieved my bag and rummaged through it. I pulled out the sketchbook and flipped through to the middle. A single sheet had been neatly torn away and on it was a sketch of Whitford Hayes. But not the one I had done in Groppi, all those weeks ago. This drawing showed Whit in the way I’d always remember him. His direct stare, his emotion hidden just beneath the surface.
Wordlessly, I handed the drawing to him.
He wiped his hands on his trouser pants and carefully took it from me. He lifted his eyes. His mouth opened, but then just as quickly shut. As if he couldn’t bring himself to lay bare his thoughts.
“Thank you,” he muttered hoarsely. “But you didn’t sign it.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought I had, do you have a pen? Pencil?”
He nodded absently, attention still riveted on the drawing. “In my jacket pocket.”
I walked to where he’d discarded it and rummaged through the pockets. He had all manner of things tucked within. Pen nibs, a handkerchief, loose Egyptian coins, a switchblade. Whit was prepared for everything. Whitford Hayes was dependable.
I kept rummaging. “Why do you have matches?”
“In case I need to blow something up.”
Chuckling, I continued my search. My fingers grazed something small and smooth. Curious, I pulled it out, astonished to recognize the button I thought I’d lost. It had been missing since the day at the docks.
When I’d first met Whit.