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“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Mahjoud retorted, aghast.

Ellie’s mind whirled furiously. She had accounted for the possibility that Dawson and Jacobs might have already beaten them here—but not for the chance that her enemies would arrive right at the same time.

Adam’s gaze met hers from across the chapel, his hand still ready on the hilt of the machete. “We gonna run? Or fight?”

Ellie fought for an answer. “If we run, we risk Neil telling Dawson about anything he might have already found. We have to at leasttryto warn him before Dawson gets here.”

Adam yanked the machete from its sheath. “Sounds like fight,” he concluded.

“You are forgetting a third option,” Constance hissed, grasping Adam by the elbow and pulling him back from the doorway. “The one where both of you go into the tomb while Mr. Mahjoud and I remain behind as a distraction!”

“We what?!” Mr. Mahjoud protested, stiffening with alarm.

“This professor of yours doesn’t know who we are,” Constance pressed. “As long as he isn’t aware that you are here, his guard will be down. We’ll just… er,inconveniencehim until you can fetch Neil and get him out of there,” she finished with an awkward look at the obviously disapproving dragoman.

Adam met Constance’s eyes, his blue gaze narrowly assessing. “Fine,” he concluded, shoving the machete back into its place at his belt. “But you see one sign of a snake-eyed, black-haired English bastard—”

“We won’t do anything foolish,” Constance assured him, already reeling up the bucket.

“This is already foolish!” Mr. Mahjoud pointed out.

“Well, what doyouthink we should do?” Constance retorted.

“Go home?” Mr. Mahjoud suggested.

“Would you be telling my grandmother togo home?” Constance pushed back.

Mr. Mahjoud blanched at the thought.

Constance pointed into the tomb shaft. “Get in the bucket, Eleanora.”

The makeshift elevator hung just inside the mouth of the thirty-foot drop. The notion of balancing in it while clinging to a rope made Ellie’s stomach tighten.

The grating tones of Dawson’s voice were growing louder as he approached. She hesitated, looking to Adam.

He nodded.

With an exasperated sigh, Mr. Mahjoud firmly cut in front of Constance to take hold of the winch. Constance crossed her arms and shot him a glare at the intervention.

Gingerly, Ellie set her boot into the bucket. The opening only had enough room for one of her feet. The other was left to dangle uncomfortably as she wobbled. She managed to straighten herself, then went into a slow, awkward spin.

“La sahla illa ma ja 'altahu sahla,” Mr. Mahjoud muttered.

“What does that mean?” Ellie pressed curiously.

“It is a dua for trying circumstances,” Mr. Mahjoud retorted with a pointed look at her and turned the winch.

With a jolt, Ellie descended, bumping awkwardly against the tight, evenly cut sides of the shaft. She looked up to see Constance’s face framed in the pale square of the opening.

Adam joined her there, immediately turning a bit green.

The bucket thumped to the ground with an impact that made Ellie’s teeth clack. She scrambled out and tucked herself up against the wall by the lantern as Mr. Mahjoud reeled the bucket back up again.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Ellie lied, hissing up at Adam. “You’ll hardly mind it at all.”

“You should probably scoot,” Adam replied as the bucket reached the top of the shaft again, and he wearily moved to set his foot in it. “In case I puke.”

A narrow opening stood in the wall nearby, just large enough for Ellie to crawl through. She plucked up the lantern—lest Adam’s fear of heights do it any untoward damage—and brought it with her. She emerged in a narrow, unadorned passageway.