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If I hadn’t been standing near him I would have missed the slight tightening of his shoulders, his hands almost closing into fists. But he recovered quickly, taking the letter. “Danke schön.”

“Bitte schön,” the hotel attendant said before striding away.

Mr. Hayes turned to me.

“I hope it’s good news,” I said.

“It never is,” he said. “This is goodbye I believe, Señorita Olivera.” He pointed over my shoulder, and I followed the line of his index finger. “Your uncle is just there, across the hall. I would behave, if I were you.”

Any feeling of camaraderie for him vanished. I gave him a stiff nod, which he returned with an expression I couldn’t easily interpret. It might have been one of regret. He turned and strode after the attendant. My last sight of him was the strong line of his back as it disappeared into the crowd.

My fingers touched the spot he had kissed. I stared at nothing in particular for several astonishing moments, the chatter surrounding me falling into a hush. I shook it off, and returned my focus to my present problem, disappointment clouding my vision. I had come to Egypt hoping to learn more about my parents, about their life here. I’d come hoping to learn more of what had happened to them.

I’d failed. Utterly.

I caught sight of Tío Ricardo standing next to several battered trunks. He looked at his pocket watch with an impatient air, no doubt waiting for Mr. Hayes so they could well and truly be on their way.

Without me.

I contemplated running out of Shepheard’s, but reason held me steadfast. Where would I go without money or my things? Stifling a wave of anger, I walked past him, careful not to look in his direction. The grand staircase loomed ahead of me and with every step forward, I felt as if I were taking one backward. My uncle had already wished me goodbye. There was nothing more to be said, no progress to be made—at least for the moment.

I hadn’t made it up a few steps before I heard my name being called out. I turned to see Sallam striding toward me. He wore the hotel livery, gold and green colors that made me think of the palm trees lining parts of the Nile.

“I heard you were leaving us already,” he said with a sad smile.

It took considerable effort not to shoot a glare in my uncle’s direction. Some part of me sensed his forceful gaze cutting through the crowd, focusing on me so fully I actually shifted my feet. But I still wouldn’t look at him. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

“Unfortunately, it’s true. You can thank my uncle for that.”

Sallam frowned. “Well, I wished to bid you a safe journey back to Argentina. I’ll send someone up to collect your luggage for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a creased note. “You’ve had a letter, by the way.”

Across the front, the message bore my aunt’s elegant penmanship. Just what I needed, a lecture that had survived the journey across the ocean. “Oh dear.”

“Sorry?” he asked.

“Never mind.” I took it from him, thanked him, and then made my way up to my parents’ suite. I slumped onto the couch and dragged my hands through my hair, tugging the strands free. The quiet felt oppressive. Wordlessly, I threw one of the pillows across the room. I threw the other for good measure.

This was it. I had no more options before me. My uncle refused to answer my questions, refused to help me learn what had happened to Mamá and Papá, and now he was sending me away.

As if he didn’t care.

I clenched my eyes and thought furiously. There must be something I could do. When I opened my eyes, I looked around the room in desperation.This was where my parentslived. I stood and went to the desk and began searching. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I’d settle for anything that told me what my parents had been doing in their last days before leaving for the desert.

This was my final chance.

I rummaged through the drawers, sorting through countless books and loose sheets of writing paper. My parents had stacks of unopened letters, and I read them all, but there was nothing. Greetings from friends back in Argentina, invitations for dinner that were months old. Frustrated, I went inside their bedroom and searched through both of their trunks, tossing their clothes into an enormous heap onto the carpeted floor. I ripped the sheets off the bed and tucked my hand inside both pillows.

Nothing.

Not even a journal or a diary, which I knew both my parents kept.

With a growl of frustration, I dropped down onto my knees and looked under the bed. A letter lay beneath one of Papá’s shoes, the corner just visible. I tugged it free and sat back on my haunches, blowing my hair off my face with an impatient huff. My gaze dropped to the back of the closed note.

It was addressed to Monsieur Maspero, but without a stamp.

My uncle’s flustered dinner companion. The head of the Antiquities Service.

I pulled the letter out.