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“But I’m awful at bargaining!” Neil protested.

“Youaren’t going to do it,” Constance retorted. “Iam. You are merely a necessary instrument. Now say something nice!”

Neil appeared singularly unhappy with her instructions, but he drew in a breath to brace himself and swung into a halting stream of Masri.

The farmer appeared confused, offering a few polite if unenthusiastic answers.

Neil breathed out a sigh. “I have ascertained the well-being of his sons, his cattle, and the likelihood of bad weather between now and the end of the inundation. Is that sufficient?”

“I suppose,” Constance allowed. “Now you may ask him about the boat—but don’t sound too interested yet! If he doesn’t think you’re set on buying it, he won’t try to gouge you.” She hesitated, taking in Neil’s pale complexion, river-stained shirt, and slightly panicked expression. “Maybe,” she amended.

Neil looked miserable but waded back into his negotiations with the farmer.

Constance had only been in Egypt for a few weeks, but she had always had an ear for languages—and Neil’s Masri sounded distinctly off.

The farmer stared at him in shock.

“Hold on,” Constance cut in. “Did you ask him about his felucca—or hisfalaka?”

“Aren’t those the same thing?”

“A felucca is a sailboat,” Constance retorted impatiently. “A falaka is…” She reconsidered the word she was about to use as she absorbed Neil’s already rattled sensibilities. “One’s posterior region.”

“Oh God!” Neil moaned, his expression falling into lines of abject mortification.

“Best clear that up,” Constance helpfully suggested.

Neil managed to recover from the blunder, but even with the right vocabulary to hand, Constance could sense that it was a frankly pathetic performance. The farmer himself looked a little disappointed by it. After all, one did have to appreciate the opportunity to engage in a bit of skilled haggling—and Stuffy was falling quite short of that.

“He says that the boat belonged to his father and is therefore extremely dear to him, but that he might be willing to part with it for the right price,” Neil finally reported. He was sweating.

“His father’s boat, my left foot,” Constance assessed. “Offer him five ginehs.”

The farmer made an elaborate reply.

“He says he cannot possibly part with it for less than ten ginehs,” Neil translated, “as the boat is actually on loan from his cousin and—”

“Ten ginehs for that floating bathtub?” Constance caught herself and pasted on a polite smile. “Tell him that it is a very fine boat, but you can only possibly offer him six and a half ginehs.”

Neil winced, but trudged back into it.

“He says because it is such a fine boat, he can’t possibly give it to us for six and a half ginehs. The lowest he can go is eight,” Neil pleaded, looking haggard.

“Tell him seven and a half.” Constance kept her gaze on the farmer, who looked back at her with a similar expression of happy competition.

“He accepts.” Neil’s shoulders sagged with relief.

Constance plunged her hand into her corset to pluck out a bundle of cash, which was still a little damp from its plunge into the Nile. She peeled off the notes.

“Here,” she said, holding them out.

Neil stared at the bills as though taking them would be equivalent to rubbing his hands over her bosom.

Constance snapped her fingers. Neil jolted, snatched the money, and shoved it at the farmer.

Another exchange of Masri had him looking decidedly peaked.

“He’s insisting we stay for tea!” Neil protested, near panicking.