Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ginger
Thick with the scent of dust and motor oil, the air in Cairo stifled—as if the city itself had begun to sweat beneath the sun’s relentless gaze.
In the shaded rear courtyard of Dr. Jane Radford’s clinic, the heat clung to everything—skin, linen, breath. Even here, surrounded by whitewashed walls and the clipped hush of palm trees rustling in the breeze, Ginger felt the weight of her restless thoughts pressing on her chest.
She tied off the last bundle of gauze with a sharp tug, her fingers deft despite the low buzzing tension in her shoulders.
The borrowed nurse’s uniform stuck to her back, damp from Cairo’s early spring heat.
It was a strange comfort—how quickly old habits returned.
She hadn’t worn a nurse’s uniform since the war, but her body remembered the habit of adjusting her cap, of smoothing her hands against the white linen apron tied around the blue dress.
This place, too, was familiar. Jane Radford’s small clinic sat nestled in a quieter corner of Cairo, not far from the Nile.
A few modest rooms, clean tile floors, cabinets of supplies shipped in from England.
Patients came out to the courtyard to convalesce or when their level of contagion required them to be outdoors, which meant that even the walls here had shelves of medical equipment—every inch of the space was well utilized.
Ginger had volunteered here during the winters when Noah brought the children to dig around on archeological expeditions—as much as she loved to join her family, she felt useless on those digs. Here, at least, she could help Egyptian women and children in the way she knew best.
But now she wasn’t a help to anyone—not her own patients at home nor to Jane and her patients, whom Ginger felt badly for.
Jane had not only inspired her to be a doctor in the first place but had provided the reference to Dr. Louisa Garrett Anderson, who had helped Ginger into medical school.
Jane had also forgiven her for lying to her during the war.
She’d become a close friend to Ginger over the years, and now she was helping her—once again—by providing her with a nurse’s uniform and papers.
In a few hours, she and Victoria would be on a train heading for Jerusalem, posing as nurses with forged papers and borrowed names.
A week ago, Ginger might have found the whole idea reckless.
Now, it felt inevitable. Ivy and Alex were still missing.
Jack had vanished into the desert. And Noah—God, Noah—given the level of silence from him, he was either in danger or walking into something far darker than either of them had been prepared for.
He’d never been one to stay out of touch for this long, not even when it was tough to communicate with her.
Not after his disappearance during the war—he was too cognizant of how that experience had nearly broken them both.
There was always a letter, a coded message, a whisper of reassurance in the shadows.
But now, nothing. Had he gone too deep? Was he trapped?
The thought of Ivy was somehow more troubling.
Even now, the sound of Ivy’s name stirred the shock of that evening like a reopened wound. Ivy’s father is Jack. Victoria had said it in the quiet after dinner, her voice low but certain, and the words had landed like a confession no one in the room was ready to hold.
Ginger had stared at her for a long beat, waiting for some sign that it was a mistake.
When it didn’t come, the questions had spilled—how had it happened, why hadn’t she told Jack, what did she think keeping it secret had protected?
Victoria’s answers were clipped at first, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass: an affair born in the brittle loneliness when both had been captured together, a fear of ruining Jack’s life, a belief that her silence was a kind of shield from the wrath and vengeance of Stephen Fisher.
There’d been a tremor in her hands, though, and when her eyes went glassy, Ginger had stopped pressing. She’d respected the silence since, but her own mind hadn’t stopped circling the truth.
Most of Victoria’s inner circle had known Stephen wasn’t likely to be Ivy’s father—and Victoria had confirmed it to Ginger before this.
But this?
What would it mean for Jack if they found Ivy now? What would it mean if they didn’t? She’d seen the way he carried his ghosts—this one buried deeper than most—and it terrified her to think what Prescott could do with the knowledge if he really had figured out the truth, as Victoria suspected.
But how would Prescott know, when Victoria had never told a soul? Or were Victoria’s fears of someone learning the truth informing her suspicions about Prescott?
And, beneath it all, a quieter fear: If the moment came and Victoria still could not speak, would it fall to Ginger to tell Jack? And if it did, would he ever forgive either of them?
Her hands were steady as she shut the gauze tin, but her heart thudded unevenly, the weight of her worries making each movement feel mechanical.
She’d come out here to pack a few basic supplies to make the ruse look believable.
But the quiet pulse of the clinic only deepened the ache in her chest. Was Noah in danger? What if they never found Ivy and Alex?
“Ginger,” Jane said, her voice low from behind her, “your sister is here.”
Ginger frowned and straightened, glancing to see Jane standing under the archway to the courtyard, stethoscope draped over her neck, face written with concern. What on earth is Lucy doing here? “My sister?”
Jane nodded. “Should I let her through?”
Ginger’s stomach sank. Lucy didn’t come here. Not unless something was wrong. “Yes, please. And fetch Victoria. I think she was changing in the exam room.”
Biting her lower lip, Jane slipped back through the doorway into the heart of the clinic.
Moments later, footsteps clattered across the tiles in the hallway.
Lucy appeared in the doorway, breathless and eyes wide with panic.
A shawl hung loosely around her shoulders, forgotten gloves dangling from one hand.
Her hair, always so precisely arranged, clung about her face in disarray, strands sticking to her forehead as though she’d just sprinted through the streets.
Ginger’s stomach lurched—this wasn’t Lucy’s usual composed demeanor.
“They were at my house,” Lucy said, not even offering a greeting.
Ginger blinked. “What?”
“Alex. And Ivy. They were at my house yesterday. I’ve been searching for you everywhere—went to Alastair’s house, and he was gone too. I’ve been half mad with worry. I know you all aren’t telling me everything, but—”
“Ivy and Alex?” Ginger felt the world narrow around her as she rushed toward Lucy. She gripped her by her forearms. “They came to you? Are they with you now?”
How had they gotten there? When? Was it possible?
Lucy shook her head rapidly and pulled one arm away, reaching for her handbag.
She removed a crumpled scrap of paper. “No. I wasn’t home.
I’d gone to Shepheard’s for lunch. When I came back late last night, my housekeeper told me a boy and girl had come to the side entrance—said they were asking for me.
They looked like street kids, she said. Dirty.
Sunburned. She turned them away. Thought they were begging.
Bahiti wasn’t home or she would have recognized them. ”
Ginger took the note from her trembling hands and opened it.
The paper was stiff with dust and creased from too much folding. But the handwriting—
She recognized it immediately. The sharp angles, the careless loops—so similar to Noah’s.
Alex.
Her throat closed.
Aunt Lucy—Went to the British Consulate. If you get this and we haven’t returned, please meet us there. Can’t stay long—it’s not safe. We’ll try to come back.
“Ginger?” Victoria’s voice wavered as she stepped through the door.
Ginger turned to see Victoria already dressed in the nurse’s uniform she’d planned to travel in. Her veil hung loose around her neck. One glance at Lucy’s face stopped her short.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
“They were in Cairo,” Ginger said quietly, holding the note out toward her. “Ivy and Alex went to Lucy’s house. Yesterday.”
Victoria’s expression faltered. “They were here? In the city?”
“I wasn’t home,” Lucy said again, anguished. “They left this but never returned.”
Victoria stepped closer and took the note, her face paling as she read it. “The consulate? Has anyone from the consulate called you since then to come collect them?” she asked Lucy.
Lucy shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. I spent most of the night out searching for you, but I did go back home three times to see if there had been any word from them—including this morning. I’ve heard nothing.”
Ginger folded the paper, slow and deliberate, as if handling something fragile. “The consulate is a safe place to go.” She cleared her throat, trying to be optimistic. “And if they went straight there, someone should have seen them. Or maybe they’re still there. We should go.”
“But what if they didn’t make it?” Victoria’s voice trembled at the edges. “What if something happened along the way? The consulate would have contacted Lucy immediately, wouldn’t they? She’s the next of kin closest to them here. And Federline also could be watching Lucy’s house, for all we know.”
“I didn’t know,” Lucy whispered, her eyes wide with anguish. “I didn’t know they would come to me. I’m so sorry. I should have been there.”
Ginger gave her sister’s arm a comforting squeeze.
“How could you have known, Lucy? It isn’t your fault.
” She stepped toward the door, moving past Victoria.
“We’ll go to the consulate and find out what’s happened to them.
Right now. There has to be some trace of them there, at least.” If they made it there.