Chapter 21 #3
I untie my boots and strip down, tossing my dirty clothes into the far corner beside the bed and placing my watch, Nonna’s signet ring, and my father’s switchblade on the nightstand.
My injured knee catches my eye, and I remove the gauze and linen strips I placed over them to maintain the integrity of the jumpsuit.
No new blood, at least. Maybe they have hydrogen peroxide here.
It would be my luck to get an infection in a foreign country without access to a hospital.
I don’t remove the Amulet of Amun from around my neck, though.
I don’t want to risk someone sneaking in and taking it.
Staring down at it, I’m more certain than ever that I want—no, need—to know more about it.
If Cec wasn’t lying when he told me Arturo—Ansaldo—would have texts on the amulet, then they should have some information on its history.
Or, definitive proof that it can or cannot do what it promises.
My situation may have changed, but my curiosity has not.
Stark naked, I pad across the room and crack open the door, seeing Bes was telling the truth about the bathroom.
Even more fortuitous: a porcelain clawfoot bathtub awaits me against the back wall, placed directly below a large faucet.
A sink, toilet, and short hutch set beside the bathtub complete the room.
I’m surprised they took the time to add these modern amenities to such an old castle. I suppose even people who are part of a secret spy organization need to keep clean.
Probably no more than I do right now. I raise my arm and smell myself, eyes widening at the sharp scent.
I’m shocked Bes stood so close to me. The dip I took in the Tyrrhenian Sea, the night before we snuck into the Port of Civitavecchia, removed the sand and grime from traveling—and, of course, there was my unintended swim in the aquifer water of the Temple of Seti I—but I’ve done plenty since then to warrant another wash.
Once I reach the tub, I turn the knob labeled “F” for what I assume is hot water, instead of the one labeled “C”.
I place my hand underneath the stream. At first it comes out lukewarm, but the longer I wait, the colder it gets.
I should’ve known running water didn’t mean hot water.
Refusing to give up, I turn down the “F” knob, and turn on the “C” knob.
Within minutes, hot water pours from the faucet, steaming up the room.
A modern marvel. Unless, of course, the Romans were here first.
I step into the tub, errantly curious about what the Italian words for hot and cold are.
Sinking down into the water, I don’t even try to stifle the moan that escapes my throat.
God, this is heaven. The amulet floats gently from my chest. I grasp it in my palm, only a little surprised to find the blood undulating beneath the surface.
There’s no pattern of when it does it, but it does affirm my assumption that I’m not going insane.
And that coming here in search of answers was, at least for now, the right thing to do.
I plunge fully beneath the surface, coming back up to leave only my head exposed. Bathwater dribbles down my wet hair into my face. I welcome the sensation, even as it brings on an odd bout of homesickness.
I reach for one of the glass bottles set atop the hutch beside me. It has no label, but when I remove the stopper, the soft aroma of rosewater engulfs my senses and hits me like a punch to the gut. Another thing to remind me of home.
Figuring it’ll at least help my hair smell better—even if it’s unlikely to be actual shampoo—I pour some in my hand, scrubbing it into my scalp and threading it through my long, thick hair.
To my surprise, it gently suds. Leaving the rosewater in for a few minutes, I close my eyes and sink into the warm water, attempting to empty my mind.
Those few minutes do wonders for my hair, but they wreak havoc on my thoughts. Without anything to busy myself with, the thoughts I pushed down and locked away break out and rise swiftly to the surface.
In my mind’s eye, I see all the things I thought I’d moved past:
I see Claude, the shock written across his traitor-face when I shot him, the blood spurting between his fingers from the fatal wound, the moment scarred deeply into my memory.
I see Bes, firing a bullet directly into Klaus’s skull with what I can only describe as a vengeful purpose.
I see myself shooting one of the OVRA soldiers in the Port of Messina, and Ailsa falling to her death anyway, blood blooming around her. The secrets she took to her grave must’ve been about the order.
I see all the people in the underground club, dancing and laughing in one moment, then being murdered in the next. Innocent bystanders in the wrong place at the wrong time, who I can’t help thinking wouldn’t have been in harm’s way had the three of us not been there.
I see the flash of blonde hair I convinced myself was Ingrid come to make good on her promise to kill me the next time we met. A chill scrapes up my spine at the thought of her following our every move, of having not killed her when I had the chance, even though doing so would’ve broken me.
I see the Blackshirt, the one who tried to attack Bes, the one who I had no choice but to stab in the throat… the one I should feel more remorse for but don’t.
I see the second Blackshirt—or perhaps he was one of the God Men—lunge toward me, and Bes leaping in front of me, only to be stabbed himself.
Knowing all of it—every single moment—was necessary for our survival doesn’t help. Not really. Not when it could’ve been avoided by my not coming to Egypt in the first place.
But, if I hadn’t taken action at the club or in the desert when I did, Bes would be dead instead of them. And I couldn’t live with myself if I’d been given the chance to do something to save him and was too cowardly to act on it.
Besides, they were all willing foot soldiers for violent fascists, and I’ve learned I can’t abide by their tactics. Whether they were simply following orders or not.
Like Bes and Cec were when they lied to me.
I do feel, though, as if a piece of my soul gets carved away each time someone—no matter how evil they are—dies by my hand.
Dunking my head under the surface, I scrub the soap from my hair, coming up for air to add more hot water to the tub so I can soak for a while longer. I sigh, sinking lower into the bath.
Before I realize what’s happening, tears slice unabated down my cheeks, hotter than any bath water.
I didn’t even feel them start to build behind my eyes, but now I can’t seem to stop them—burning, aching.
My heart feels as if it’s being ripped apart inside my chest by sharp nails and callous hands. A sob tears from my throat.
Nonna once told me that, sometimes, when things get to be too much, we need a good cry. It’s the only way to purge whatever feelings are poisoning us. And we should never feel any shame in it.
Remembering her words allows me to breathe a little easier; knowing she’s not there to say them to me only makes me cry harder.
Nonna… I’m not sure how, but I’ll get Ansaldo to tell me about her. I need to know how deeply she’s involved. Does she even know about the Order of Cavendi? Did she mean for things to go wrong at the Temple of Seti I? Was I always meant to come here? And if so, who knew of the manipulation?
If not—if my being here was only in case something went wrong in Egypt—then does she truly think Arturo can protect me? Why let me go at all if this expedition was dangerous enough to require such an elaborate escape plan?
No one can answer your questions if you stay in this bath forever.
I sniff, my tears gradually stopping.
Stone by stone in the cooling bathwater, I repair the dam broken, taming the thoughts swirling around inside my mind.
Because, even though I’m trapped in this place, I’m goddamn tired of running.
All the answers to my questions lie here, at the Order of Cavendi.
Besides, I have the Amulet of Amun to look after. And I have Bes and Cec.
No matter how difficult it is to believe, I’m not alone in this.