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Oh, shit.

It was absurdity that had made me lean down to kiss her. It was annoying to still feel the soft curve of her cheek, to remember her sweet scent swirling in my nose.

Thank God she was leaving.

“Well?”

I blinked, shaking away the memory. I kept my expression blank as I lied to his face. “She’s no trouble at all.”

Ricardo grunted, and his attention caught somewhere over my shoulder. I followed his gaze to find a burly man with light hair and blue eyes striding toward us, a petite, younger woman at his heels. She wore the latest fashion, her narrow waist cinched, her neck adorned by extravagant lace, reminding me of a territorial hen. Her eyes met mine, coolly amused, a coy smile framing her pink mouth. She looked at me as if I were someone to win over.

Mr. Fincastle and his daughter had arrived.

CAPÍTULO DOCE

The piastres in my purse clinked loudly as I rushed out of Shepheard’s, my bag smacking the back of my thigh. I scanned the street below, searching for an attendant who I could convince not to relay my whereabouts should anyone ask. I was prepared to pay whatever they wanted for their silence. A young boy of thirteen or so smiled at my approach, and I reached into my purse.

“Where to?”

“Bulaq, please,” I said. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept my outing to yourself.”

His brow puckered. “But—”

I pressed two more coins into his palm, and he fell silent. “Please don’t worry.”

The young attendant secured a driver with great reluctance, pocketing the money, and after he helped me inside the carriage, he gave directions to the docks. During the day, Cairo was fueled by the tourists who walked up and down its streets, buying trinkets and dining in various establishments serving traditional fare. But at night, the city pulsed with life overflowing from live music, the locals smoking on porch steps, eating from carts where vendors served warm bread that was flat and shaped like a disc. Every block we passed was a different scene with its own life and heartbeat. I pressed my fingers on the window frame, hardly able to breathe from wonder. The silver moon rose high over the river, the water sparkling and moving slowly.

I wanted to explore every inch of this version of Cairo.

This was an Egyptian night.

We approached the Nile, dark and expansive in both directions. Like the rest of the city, this area was alive with its own kind of sharp energy. I climbed out of the brougham and stared in amazement at the sight before me. Hundreds of boats and dahabeeyahs were moored, bobbing quietly in the water. Egyptians spread out, chattering in rapid Arabic, dressed in long white tunics and comfortable sandals. Others appeared to be tourists attempting to secure a boat from the local captains. Children ran up and down the street playing with stray dogs, dressed in the same long-sleeved tunics as the adults, the clothing reaching down to their ankles. The strap of the canvas bag dug into my shoulder, and I shifted, trying to find a spot that didn’t ache.

Now came the next part of my plan I was less sure about.

Where thehellwas my uncle’s boat?

With a sigh, I approached an older man with a friendly smile. At the sight of me, he lit up, no doubt thinking I’d like to hire him to cart me up and down the Nile. I was sorry to disabuse him of the notion.

“TheElephantine?” I asked. “Please?”

He stared at me in confusion and then he pointed to a boat namedFostat.I shook my head and saidshokranunder my breath, and continued walking the docks, reading name after name painted on the side of various boats, all the while my ears straining for anyone who might understand English. I approached someone else, asking for my uncle’s boat, but with no success. From the corner of my eye, a young boy kept his attention on me as I continued my search. After two more tries, sweat formed at my brow. There were hundreds of boats docked. How would I find the right one? I glanced over my shoulder to find the young boy still trailing after me. I turned away and approached another group, talking low under the moonlight. They eyed me warily.

“I’m looking for theElephantine?”

They shook their heads and shooed me away.

I sighed and pressed on. Then at last I heard it. A scrap of language I understood. I turned toward the source to discover the same young boy behind me.

He saw me looking and approached, his smile flanked by dimples. “You are Inglizeya?”

“No, but I speak English. I am looking for a dahabeeyah.”

The young boy nodded. “TheElephantine?” When I stiffened, he shrugged and then grinned, his thin shoulders rising up and down in a graceful motion. “I’ve been following you, sitti.”

I furrowed my brow, not recognizing the word.

“Honored lady,” the boy translated without a trace of irony. “I heard you ask for theElephantinefrom the first reis.”