Chapter 13
Ezra had been to Alexandria once before, to board the HMS Euphemia.
It had been his farewell to Egypt, along with so many other things.
His childhood. His mother. He’d had no idea, clutching the white rails of that ocean liner and watching the harbor’s bustling dockside pull away, what had happened to Nour…
Not that the nineteen years since had done much to solve this mystery.
He’d had the chance to come back, on a dig with Professor Blythe the previous summer.
Ezra had declined the invitation—he didn’t want to return to the desert with a pickaxe.
But there was another fear, just beneath the surface.
What if he went back to Egypt and found himself a stranger?
What if he didn’t belong among the pyramids and palm trees?
What if he didn’t belong anywhere?
My son.
These words had been ripped away, yet Ezra kept the parchment with Nour’s clue curled in his fist. Better than a pickaxe, he thought as their group marched toward the train station.
Many of the surrounding buildings looked quite European.
If it weren’t for the palm trees dotting the sidewalks and the evening call to prayer sounding from a nearby mosque, one might mistake this for an unexplored corner of Paris.
Some passersby were even speaking French.
And English. And Greek. And Italian. And Arabic.
Ezra’s ears sharpened whenever he heard this last one, snatching words out of the chaos. Yet… there was so much he’d forgotten…
Egyptian men walked by wearing scarlet and blue galabeyas, passing tourists dressed in loose linens and straw hats.
There were shops that catered to both—bakeries that displayed baguettes alongside aish baladi.
Pharmacies had signs written in English and Arabic.
Even the roadside vendors called out in both languages.
Roasted nuts! Very tasty! Buy a pretty dress for the pretty lady, no? I have shoes too!
It didn’t escape Ezra that every single one of these hawkers addressed him in English.
“We could use some new clothes,” Biz suggested as they crossed the street, pausing for the sleek yellow tram that cut past carriages and the occasional automobile. “I feel ridiculous in this costume.”
Vincent gave her linen gown a once-over. “Why? You’re in Cleopatra’s capital.”
It seemed some of the Egyptology classes had stuck.
“Yes, well, I’m not the bloody queen, now, am I?
” Biz tugged at the dress she’d been so eager to sport the night before.
“It just… It feels different, here. Besides, we don’t want to attract attention.
” She held out her ringless hand, looking at Vincent expectantly.
“Give me some money and I’ll sort out outfits while you purchase train tickets. ”
“Nothing fancy,” Ezra said as Vincent handed over a wad of what was certainly too much money. “No velvet dinner jackets or gold accessories. Please.” But his half sister was covering more than just cracks: Ezra’s shirt bore a brutal knife slice down the front.
He could still feel the spot where Everett stabbed him, the blade both hellishly hot and cold enough to crack bone. All of us are broken. One way or another. Something inside Ezra had shattered as the knife went deep, deep into his most fragile, most encased places…
He lost control.
He found…
Power.
Or rather, power had found him. Ezra could no more command it than he could tame a tiger. He’d seen his own terror in Everett’s eyes—the moment magic took hold and the breaking went backward.
It was one thing to wake up to a foxhole full of mangled bodies.
It was quite another to watch a young heir get snapped like a twig.
No one was going to give Ezra a medal for valor this time.
He’d spent most of his adult life running—but only in a metaphorical sense.
Now all poetry was gone. Ezra was no hero, and if he wanted any chance to understand this menacing force inside him, then he had to get to Cairo and find what his mother had left for him.
“We’ll meet you at the train station,” he told Biz as she paused to admire a display of straw hats.
It was, perhaps, not the most well-thought-out plan.
Misr Railway Station was chaos. Porters lugged heavy trunks toward the platform.
Passengers fanned themselves with tickets and purchased snacks for their upcoming journey.
Ezra’s stomach growled as he watched a man walk past with sesame-covered bread rings on a stick.
Simit. That’s what they were called! And the small bags of pickled vegetables that the vendor carried in an adjoining basket were known as mekhalel.
He found himself calling out to the man—the way a child would.
“Effendi!”
The vendor turned with a surprised smile, which only grew when he caught sight of Ezra. He waved his stick of bread rings and replied in rapid Arabic. Rapid enough to remind Ezra of how rusty he was.
“Food!” Vincent clapped his hands and gave a dramatic whiff. “Thank God. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast!”
Celia, he knew, had gone with an empty stomach longer than that. Neither of them had eaten at Hugo’s Egyptian-themed party.
“They’re two piastres each,” Ezra translated, feeling a glow when the vendor nodded.
“Two pence,” the man added, in easy English.
Vincent drew out a handful of much heavier coins from his velvet green jacket. “Let’s just buy the whole stick. And some of those pickle things.”
“Exactly how much money do you have in those pockets of yours?” Celia asked, once the overjoyed simit vendor had walked away.
“More than enough, my dear.”
“I’m not your dear.”
“Not with that attitude, certainly.” There was a cheekiness to Vincent’s reply, but also something strained. For a person who got along with almost everyone—from professors to postmasters—this was odd.
“Your question was rather rude,” the young man went on before he bit into a simit, scattering sesame all over the station floor.
Celia watched this shower of seeds with no sign of emotion. “Train tickets cost money. So do lodging and guides out into the desert and who knows how many more meals we’ll have to eat. We need a plan.”
She’s right, Ezra thought. They were woefully unprepared for this journey.
They didn’t even have luggage, discounting the bulging bag that Biz was now hauling through the entrance hall.
She’d made quick work of her shopping trip.
She was doing the same to the porters who now flocked to her side, offering to carry her haul.
No. No thank you. I said no thank you! The parcel looked heavy, but Biz was strong.
She’d had to be, Ezra thought, with a shot of guilt.
She’d carried so much more, for so long, without him.
“La shukran,” he told the remaining porters as he stepped out to meet her.
“No, thank—oh, Ezra.” Biz made no move to hand over the bag. “Did you get the tickets yet?”
He glanced over at the ticket booth. The line was long—but that wasn’t what made his blood run cold.
There, at the counter, stood an unsettlingly familiar face.
Hugo Pratt. And behind him? Everett. The young magician looked right as rain.
He wasn’t even wearing a cast on the arm Ezra thought he’d ruined.
“I can pay for everything,” Vincent was saying, wagging the simit stick under Celia’s nose as they moved to join Ezra and Biz in the center of the hall. “Want one? They’re delicious—”
“Shhhhhh!” Somehow Hugo hadn’t spotted them yet, despite the giant parcel and the stack of waving pastries. Ezra grabbed the tower and jerked the top dough ring in the direction of the ticket line. “We’ve been followed.”
“Damn,” Celia exclaimed under her breath. “Hugo got here faster than I expected.”
The bag slipped from Biz’s fingers, dropping to the floor with a muffled thud. Fury flushed her cheeks. And for a moment Ezra thought his half sister was going to march right up to the ticket line and slap the living daylight off Hugo’s face. With a few freckles to boot.
But Celia moved first. She placed a hand on the other flapper’s shoulder, holding her in place. “It’s not worth it. Not yet.”
“Easy for you to say.” Biz shook herself free but stood her ground. “All you did was watch.”
“I know that’s what it looked like.” Celia swallowed. “But I was trying my best to do more. It’s not easy, Biz. It was never easy.”
Ezra felt more lost than usual. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Celia said quickly.
Biz pinched her lips.
There was more, Ezra sensed, but he wouldn’t be hearing about it here. He also understood how sorely they stood out, in the middle of the hall. He leaned down and grabbed Biz’s dropped bag, hoisting it over his own shoulder. “Let’s make ourselves scarce.”
“I’ll say, why does Everett have both his arms?” Vincent asked as the group began moving toward the opposite edge of the hall. This was more crowded with merchants and porters. Still, Ezra thought nervously, they didn’t exactly blend in. Not with their velvet suits and sequined stars.
“Hugo must have healed him,” Celia murmured, once they were tucked away behind an asab vendor, who was squeezing juice from sugarcane stalks.
She paid no mind to the drink the man was pouring into small glass cups.
Her icy eyes were scanning the rest of the station, pausing on the open archways where dusk crouched.
The first stars were beginning to wink above the silhouettes of palm trees.
“My guess is that the next time we go to the Seek and Find we’ll see one of the Bright Young Things wearing a sling. ”
Biz growled at this. “If he touches any more of my friends, I’ll take a toothpick and mummify his balls.”
Ezra’s stomach went sour.
Vincent stopped chewing his simit. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed, terrified, or didactic about actual mummification practices—”