Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ivy
If she ever saw Alexander Benson again, Ivy was determined to strangle him.
She’d seen that glint in his eyes back at the consulate—and she wanted to kick herself for suggesting the visit in the first place—that smug, obstinate look he got when he was especially proud of his own cleverness.
Normally, she didn’t care that he thought of himself as being so much more intelligent than she was. He was. They both knew it.
She wouldn’t have survived one minute without him in Port Said. Or gotten away from her captors and off the boat at all.
But all that intelligence meant nothing when his pride got in the way of logic.
She’d spent a lifetime learning that it was the most infuriating thing about him.
Alex’s face had practically been beaming with pride when Mr. Federline had handed him that notebook of newspaper articles while they were still in the consulate.
And when Mr. Federline had praised him after Alex had found a code in a second article—JERUSALEM—Ivy wasn’t certain if she’d ever seen him more pleased with himself. It had only made her want to slap him for ignoring the warning looks she’d given him.
Now, shivering on the streets of Cairo, well past the middle of the night and getting closer to dawn, none of that fury was doing her any good though.
Alex was gone—carted off into a large, luxurious estate home by the Prescott Federline fellow, probably still under some delusion that the man wasn’t a villain.
Had Alex even noticed she was missing yet?
She’d only narrowly escaped.
Hands trembling, Ivy rested against the wall of a building in an alleyway, tugging the scarf she’d stolen more tightly around her head.
She still felt guilty for swiping the scarf, but she’d been terrified and alone and in need of something to better conceal her identity.
Even if Alex didn’t know she was gone, Mr. Federline and his men would know by now.
She’d been separated from Alex as soon as she’d arrived at the mansion—taken to a spectacularly beautiful bedroom. A bath had been drawn for her. And while she’d been in the midst of disrobing, she’d glanced out the window.
In that second, she’d known. Known that she shouldn’t have ignored her gut feeling about Mr. Federline. That she’d been foolish to suggest the consulate. That he’d been right all along—the men who had taken her were powerful and well connected.
Because there, walking on the lawn of the house in Cairo, was one of the men who’d kidnapped her in England.
So she’d slipped out of the room and tried to find Alex. But when she’d heard someone coming, she’d taken off. Managed to get outside unnoticed. Then run like the little coward she was.
A fresh wave of tears threatened her, but she fought it back.
Alex had risked everything to save her and she’d left without him. Without even warning him. Now she was hopelessly lost, afraid, hungry, tired, and an utter mess.
Alex never would have left her there.
Never.
And as angry as she was with him for letting Mr. Federline’s praise stroke his pride, she wasn’t certain she could ever look Alex in the eye again knowing she’d simply abandoned him.
Ivy sighed, setting her head back and closing her eyes. And to think that she’d ever considered running away from home.
The shifting noise of something stirring near a stack of crates several feet away forced her to lower her chin.
What was that?
She watched the stack, warily, her heart pounding.
It’s probably nothing more than a little mouse. Nothing to be afraid of.
Still, she tucked her feet closer to her body.
The sound came again, then a large creature emerged from behind the crate—a cat?
The glowing eyes, tail, and pointed snout told her differently.
A rat.
A scream erupted from her and she bolted to her feet, then was off down the alleyway.
She ran blindly, heart thundering, breath tearing from her lungs in ragged gasps. The alley narrowed around her like a noose. Stone walls loomed high and featureless, the uneven cobbles slick beneath her shoes. Somewhere behind her, a shout echoed—a drunkard? A guard? A shadow?
She didn’t wait to find out.
You’re fine. You’re fine. Just breathe.
Turning sharply, she darted through another passageway, this one littered with fish bones and broken crates. The stench was choking—urine, garbage, something dead. She gagged but kept going, ducking under a low-hung clothesline and nearly tripping over a cat that yowled and scattered.
She was no longer in a part of Cairo she recognized.
The buildings here pressed in close, narrow-shouldered and soot-streaked, their upper balconies drooping like tired eyelids. Wooden shutters creaked in the wind. Somewhere overhead, laundry flapped—abandoned or forgotten. A lightbulb dangled on a wire, swinging above a doorway but never catching.
She passed a row of cracked stone archways and a broken drainpipe dripping onto the street. A broken wagon wheel leaned against one wall, moss growing from its edge. Her steps echoed louder than she liked, too easy to follow.
Would Federline’s men be looking for her still?
Don’t think about it. Just keep moving.
She turned another corner and found herself in a slightly wider alley, a crooked lane of sleeping shops. Painted signs in Arabic and French hung crooked above their doors. A few wooden carts had been left out for the night, but otherwise the street was deserted.
She slowed. Her heart thundered, but even that felt distant now.
Cairo was so big. And she was so small.
A foreigner. A girl. A stranger in someone else’s night.
Had she really thought she could just find her way to Lucy’s house?
A lump formed in her throat. Alex would have known what to do. Alex always knew.
Her feet dragged, one heel now soaked through. The city stretched like a labyrinth—no landmarks, no lights, just the tangled, silent bones of a place that had nothing to offer her. Not tonight.
Please, God. I don’t know what I’m doing.
She stumbled to a halt beside a shuttered storefront, pressing a hand to her ribs where the muscles had begun to stab. A line of Arabic scrawled in chalk above the window caught her eye, but she couldn’t read it. She didn’t even know if she was heading north or south anymore.
She turned in a slow circle. Every direction looked the same.
She started walking again—though it felt more like drifting—passing rows of locked shops and broken stairwells. A child’s doll lay in the gutter, one glass eye missing. Ivy stepped over it.
Her blistered heel screamed with each step. Her ankle throbbed. Dust clung to her skirt. Her scarf had nearly fallen off, but she didn’t dare stop to fix it. She felt like a ghost slipping between the cracks of a city that didn’t want to see her.
A figure moved in the shadows up ahead.
She froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
But it was only a boy, maybe ten, sleeping on a bundle of cloth near a door. His arms wrapped around his knees. A small empty tin cup beside him.
She moved on, shame catching in her chest.
The narrow alley finally emptied onto a wider street. A battered lorry rumbled past, its headlights off, tires whispering over the compacted dust. The shrill bell of a tram sounded in the distance. A single minaret pierced the horizon, silhouetted against the navy wash of the sky.
She kept moving, limping now, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The air had turned damp with cold. Her fingers were numb. She tried to breathe through her nose to steady herself, but the smell—smoke, petrol, sewage—made her eyes sting.
She passed a shuttered cinema, its art deco marquee boasting some French film she couldn’t pronounce. The poster girl on the wall was glamorous and confident, mid-spin in a sequined dress, her arms raised in laughter. Ivy looked away.
A flickering streetlamp threw light across a row of peeling advertisements. All meaningless. They blurred together.
Her stomach growled. Her vision tilted. She’d thought Cairo was magical once—bright and alive, full of color and rhythm and history.
A city of domes and minarets and palm trees, of horse-drawn carriages and brilliant lanterns.
She’d been jealous each time Clara and Alex got to go and she was left behind.
Mama didn’t like to come to Cairo too often. As a result, Ivy spoke some Arabic, thanks to Uncle Noah, but not the way Alex and Clara did.
Tonight, the city was like an ancient tomb.
A maze of locked doors. A terrifying monster sleeping with one eye open. A place too big, too hungry, too hollow to care about a lost girl in worn shoes and a torn dress.
She slowed, dragging her feet, gritting her teeth.
God, just help me. Help me. And if you do … I promise I’ll go to school without protest. I’ll be good, I promise.
Another alley. Another turn.
Then … light.
She blinked, staggering into a proper thoroughfare that was wide and elegant, flanked by handsome buildings of limestone and stucco.
Ornate wrought-iron balconies curled over the street.
The pavement shone with last night’s rain.
Electric streetlamps glowed warm and steady, casting soft halos on the sidewalk.
The difference was like waking up.
She heard music—a slow, grainy waltz or ballad crackling from an open window. The scent of coffee drifted on the air, rich and bitter, laced with spice. Somewhere close, the warmth of bread teased her starving senses.
Then she saw it.
Set back beneath a stone archway was Café Riche.
The sign gleamed softly in the lamp glow, and golden light spilled through the tall paned windows. Lace curtains. Polished wood. A waiter sweeping the last crumbs from the floor. A phonograph turning lazily in the corner.
She’d heard of it—Alex had mentioned it. A favorite of revolutionaries and artists, he’d said, a place where professors and politicians plotted over thick coffee and French pastries.
Two men smoked on the steps outside, heads bent in tired conversation.
The whole place looked like it belonged to another Cairo entirely.
Ivy’s steps faltered. Her legs trembled.
She stopped at the edge of the light, almost afraid to step into it, afraid it might vanish if she moved too quickly.
She didn’t even care if they mistook her for a beggar. She didn’t care that her dress was filthy or that her hair had fallen loose from its pins. In that moment, she would have given anything just to sit, to rest, to be seen.
To not be alone.
Her eyes filled with tears. Her throat ached. She needed help but she was afraid to ask. Who knew what they might do to her.
A young man emerged from the café, descending the steps with quiet ease. His dark hair was neatly combed, his jacket buttoned despite the hour. He moved like someone sure of his place in the world.
And his left hand—
A flash of metal. A familiar prosthesis.
She blinked, stunned.
Her eyes widened. I know him.
He was friends with Uncle Noah—she’d seen him with Alastair Taylor before.
She bypassed the food, then rushed over to the Egyptian man. She grabbed his good arm, and he whirled to face her, his brow furrowing.
“K-Khalib?” she sputtered, hoping he’d see beyond her disheveled appearance.
Khalib’s expression softened with pity. “No baksheesh.”
“I’m not a beggar. I’m Ivy Fisher. I met you through Noah Benson, don’t you remember? And I’m lost and I—”
Khalib’s eyes widened, then his hand clamped over her arm as he gave her a look to silence her. “Ivy?”
She nodded breathlessly.
He looked around the square as though expecting to see someone else with her. His face registered shock as he took in her appearance, then tugged her away from the front of the café, hurrying down the pavement.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone as brisk as his movements.
“I-I told you. I’m lost. I was with Alex—Alex Benson—I was taken from England and Alex helped find me and … well it’s a very long story, but I need help. I have to get to Alex’s Aunt Lucy’s house. Alex is in danger. Can you help me?”
Khalib’s brows furrowed with concern, but he nodded. “You should not be alone out here, Ivy. It’s dangerous. I’ll get you anywhere you need to go safely.”
Safely.
The word was like a breath of fresh air she hadn’t realized she’d been starved of. She hadn’t felt safe at all in weeks.
She’d also never really noticed how handsome the young man was until that moment, and her heart squeezed. “Oh, thank you,” she managed, tears prickling her eyes as he ushered her toward a parked car.
Safe. And on her own.
She’d found her way to someone safe without anyone guiding her. Guilt bit her. Well, maybe Providence had helped. But, still.
You see, Alex? I can be useful without your help.
Khalib opened the door of the motorcar and helped her inside. As Ivy sank against the warm leather, her body relaxed. The car smelled like Khalib, actually.
She closed her eyes for just a second, letting herself be lulled by the scent.
Safe, for now.