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“It was never finished.”

I stopped walking, the back of my throat tickling. “But why?”

“Remains a mystery,” Whit said, squinting in the sunlight. “Are you all right? You’re a bit peaky.”

I nodded, but I felt uncomfortable. A sharp prickling surrounded me, pressing into my edges. I wanted to push back against it, as if it were a wall closing in on me. “Let’s keep going.”

Whit obliged and led me to the front of the temple where a wide and open courtyard sprawled before it. Covered colonnades enclosed the irregular shape, and crude stones set in a honeycombed pattern stretched from one end to the other. The first pylon, a kind of gate, stood high, blocking parts of the blue sky. The lines of the structure were sharp and unforgiving; I supposed they’d have to be, to survive the ravages of time. Beyond the first pylon was another court, and yet another enormous gate. Reliefs of Egyptian gods and goddesses were carved on the walls, detailed and magnificent.

We were not the first to have come here. Several depictions and hieroglyphics had been destroyed, whole sections ruined. It was hard to fathom, hard to look at without feeling a keen sense of loss.

Whit followed my gaze, his mouth set at a grim line. “The work of the Romans when they converted the temple to a Christian church. If you look closely, you can see the excavation team who carved the wall the year they were here in 1841.”

“Excavatorscarvedthe wall?” I tilted my head back to scan the imposing wall, and sure enough, several explorers had left their mark. The crude etchings were several stories high from the ground. “I don’t understand how they reached the top? Why not scrawl their name and date closer to the ground, at eye level?”

“Because when they did so, itwasat eye level,” Whit explained. “The bottom part of the structure was covered entirely in sand. Years of erosion revealed the whole temple, but until then the ground was higher up, which is why travelers were able to scratch the limestone near the top.”

“They weren’t the only ones. Napoleon noted his arrival in 1799,” said a voice from behind me.

I startled and whirled around; I hadn’t heard my uncle’s quiet approach. He stood with his hands on his hips, a leather bag slung over his shoulder. Rolls of maps poked up from within. “Tío Ricardo. Mr. Hayes was giving me a tour of the temple.”

“Was he?” My uncle shifted his attention to Mr. Hayes. “Well?”

Whit shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

I looked at the pair of them as some silent communication passed between them. “Tío?”

“Have you felt any magic?” my uncle asked.

I shifted on my feet. There had been something, but it wasn’t exactly the same magic as the trinket box and golden ring. “Not yet.”

“Keep trying, Inez.”

“I will.” I thought hard. My parents had excavated here, their last known digging site. Papácouldhave found the ring here. If that were true, then there could be a connection between the ring and the wooden box to the island of Philae—something that pointed to Cleopatra. “But we haven’t explored the interior of the temple.”

My uncle stepped aside. “By all means.”

We passed through the second pylon and straight into a portico. I gaped at the painted ceiling. The column burst with color reaching up to the capitals, carved to resemble lotuses, palms, and papyruses. The paint appeared soft in hue, a rainbow of pastels in shades of coral and green. As a traveler, I was in awe; as an artist, I was inspired. The space opened at the center, allowing a square of light to pass through, casting the rest of the room in a golden glow. My fingers itched to capture every detail, every line and curve made thousands of years ago by intrepid artists.

But as much as there was beauty, there was also ruin, too. Sections of the pavement had been pulled up, the ground strewn with broken fragments of shattered cornice. A constant reminder that for more than a millennia, treasure hunters from within and without stole from sites up and down Egypt.

“Anything?” my uncle asked.

I shook my head, staring at a particularly demolished corner of theportico. All I tasted was the bitter tang of regret. We moved into the interior of the temple, a large room that opened into various halls. Whit stood next to me, and for the first time, I noticed the smallest freckle above his lips. A long shadow scored the line of his jaw. I might draw blood if I let my finger trail it. His blue gaze shifted to mine, as if sensing how keenly I studied every curve of his face.

He abruptly turned away.

Mortified, I forced myself to study my surroundings. The walls were covered in black smoke, the remnants of some careless traveler lighting a torch. The chamber opened to a hallway but when I went to explore that section, my uncle held me back.

“Try to see if you feel magic here.” He kept me in the main room, carefully watching as I walked around the dimly lit space.

“It’s hard to see anything,” I commented.

Tío Ricardo reached into his leather sack and pulled out an old sandal. He buckled the straps together and the pointed toe of the shoe lit up in a blue flame.

I gaped.

I had seen ordinary objects with the remnants of magic give up a smattering of sparks. But the shoe stayed lit, and the room was washed in its azure light.