Chapter 14
Celia had heard many stories about Cairo.
Based on her father’s tales, she’d expected to step off the train into a city of wonders: where men played flutes to cobras coiled in pots and dusty bazaars hid treasures.
If you were determined enough, you might be able to find a magical flying carpet rolled up among hundreds of other rugs.
Or perhaps a lamp that granted wishes when you polished it.
There was something in Egypt’s capital for everyone—tearooms, promenade gardens, even an opera house stood among the city’s mosques.
Papa had painted a perfect picture in young Celia’s mind.
And so, she found herself more than a little disappointed as she stood on the curb by Bab al-Hadid Station.
There were no camels with colorful tassels waiting to whisk them away.
There wasn’t even a carriage. Their group had lingered in the station too long, waiting for Hugo and Everett to hail a ride to Shepheard’s Hotel.
It had gone against Celia’s every instinct, watching those rotters drive on ahead.
Patience, here, felt wrong. And she felt antsy.
The street stretched before her—dark and mostly empty.
Celia fought the urge to open her locket. The hairs on her neck bristled.
“So what’s our plan? Dinner?” Vincent asked hopefully.
“We need to get to the fourth pyramid.” Ezra was scanning the street too, his eyes lingering on alleyways as if he expected someone might be staring back.
“I agree. After we eat a three-course meal and have a proper night’s rest. We’ll set off for the pyramids first thing tomorrow morning. Well, second thing. After breakfast.”
“Why are you so obsessed with food?” snapped Biz.
“Because I’m hungry and food is a pleasure I am not judged for. Generally.” He shot his fiancée a look.
She fired it right back. “This isn’t a holiday, Vincent. This is an actual, honest-to-god treasure hunt. Ezra’s inheritance is on the line and you want to order room service?”
“He’s right, though.” Celia didn’t really enjoy saying this.
She enjoyed it even less when the station lights caught Vincent’s smirk.
“I haven’t slept in well over a day. Ezra hasn’t either, I’d wager.
We know Hugo and Everett are retiring for the evening…
I understand that you want a head start, but going out into the desert without supplies or a plan? That’s a dead end.”
Biz sighed. “Well, we can’t go to Shepheard’s.
We’d risk running into Hugo in the lobby.
There was another hotel that Papa used to stay at whenever he came to Cairo.
Mena House, I think it was called. He used to send postcards,” she explained.
“You could see the pyramids from the porch while you were taking your morning tea.”
“Sounds perfect!” Vincent rubbed his palms together in anticipation.
It also sounded like it could be crawling with Order members, if someone like Thomas Ellington had stayed there. But beggars could not be choosers, and Celia didn’t feel like standing on this curb all night, so she didn’t argue.
“What do you say, Bright? Chocolates on our pillows and tea at the pyramids?” Vincent gave Ezra a glowing look, which dimmed a bit when there was no response. “Bright?”
Ezra didn’t seem to hear. He stared across the street, something about his expression making Celia shiver despite the warm air. She hadn’t felt this way in Alexandria—so out of her element and on edge.
“What is it?” Celia didn’t reach for her locket, but the knife.
When she drew the blue blade out of her dress, Ezra finally blinked. “I thought I saw—never mind.”
“What?” Another shiver.
Why did it feel like eyes on her skin?
Ezra wasn’t staring at her… He was eyeing the knife, as if it was a snake he’d narrowly missed stepping on. His head shook. He raked a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. “Fine, yes. Let’s go to this Mena place and get some rest. We’ll set out for the fourth pyramid in the morning.”
Mena House was more worthy of William Sinclair’s stories.
A hired carriage drove the group out to the old hunting lodge within an hour, leaving behind Cairo’s cramped quarters for a wide sky of stars.
Oh, such stars. Staring up into the desert night, Celia hadn’t realized what she’d been missing her entire life.
Stars by the hundreds. The thousands. All shining down on the hotel’s beautiful latticework entrance.
It was easy to tell that this place had once belonged to royalty—every detail of the lobby was rich.
Ceilings with intricately carved beams vaulted over the mahogany reception desk.
Brass lanterns cast patterned light along the colorful wall tiles.
A plush Persian rug softened the space, somehow free of sand despite all of the hotel’s comings and goings.
A uniformed porter ushered their group to the desk, where they were assigned two rooms. One for the men and one for the ladies—as propriety preferred.
They were given keys, along with glasses of lemonade and cool, wet towels for their faces.
Nightclothes, they were promised, would be provided immediately.
And sturdy desert outfits, after that. Did they wish to visit the pyramids tomorrow?
At dawn? To watch the sunrise? Yes, of course.
Camels and a guide would be waiting for them downstairs first thing.
Money really can buy anything, Celia mused as she sorted through the garments the porter had brought up to the ladies’ chambers.
Even pants! She was delighted to see some culottes in the pile; part of the safari suits they would wear on tomorrow’s expedition.
These are better for running in. The boots too.
“Are those trousers?” Biz asked as she collapsed onto her bed. The kohl had been cleaned off her face, along with the rest of her makeup. Celia could see the young woman’s freckles as clear as the night’s stars.
“Looks that way.” She ran a finger along the garment’s sturdy fabric. “I’ve never worn a pair before… You?”
“Not that I can remember.” It was a heavy declaration. Weary. Not with a need to sleep, but the kind of leaden ache that existed only between women in a world where every stitch was meant to hem them in.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t do more for you at the Seek and Find,” Celia said slowly, unsure if she should offer another excuse. I couldn’t would be a lie. She could have stepped in, but she hadn’t, to save her own Enlightened skin.
Biz’s eyes met hers for a beat.
“What Hugo did to us wasn’t your fault,” she said finally. “That snake is to blame, and I’m going to find a way to make him pay.”
“Yes, well, you’ll need more than a toothpick.”
Celia unfolded the pants and held them up to her hips. Biz watched from the bed, lacquered nails tapping at her chin. “What might you suggest? That pretty little knife you stole?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Celia said, more harshly than she first meant.
The other socialite arched an eyebrow. “Does ‘aggressively borrowed’ sound better?”
“It was mine in the first place,” she countered.
“My father’s, really. He collected it during the war.
” Celia’s mouth went dry as she traced back this memory.
According to Papa, the knife was a gift from some grateful Russian refugees.
Refugees who’d also surrendered all their Fabergé eggs, according to the placards in the Order’s vault. Acquired by W. Sinclair. Russia, 1917.
You didn’t acquire gifts, did you?
It had been easy—in the museum—to share Ezra’s anger. They’d been so close in that coffin, and then behind the wheel of the Hispano Suiza, and then at the door of that ruined castle. Thornhill, covered in its own stinking shit. It had been so easy, to think of that as justice…
But when it was Rosewick?
When it was Papa?
“You’re lucky,” Biz was saying, “that your father was brave enough to break the Order’s rules.
It’s rubbish, this whole business of excluding women.
I’m convinced they do it because they’re afraid we’ll take over their positions and do a far better job.
Did you know, when all the men were off to war, that farms run by their wives and daughters started yielding more food?
Women made more bullets too, at Cain Munitions. That’s what Vincent told me.”
“I believe it.” Celia smoothed the trousers over her form. “We are the superior sex.”
Biz cracked a smile. It looked so very different without lipstick—her whole face shone.
“I’ve always admired you,” she said. “Even after your family lost Rosewick. Especially then. Any sensible person would’ve put their head down and carried on, but you kept showing up to our parties.
You ignored the whispers. You wore the same dress twice, and somehow you never cheapened yourself. That takes skill.”
Celia’s hands tightened over the trousers’ seams. “I had bigger fish to fry than Mayfair gossips.”
“I see that now,” Biz replied slyly. “But even before, it felt powerful. It felt doable, losing everything without being ruined. I thought that maybe I could do the same. But it’s a hell of a lot harder than you made it look.”
“Hence the room service.”
There was a brass bowl of sugared dates sitting on the nearby table, beside a vase filled with fresh flowers. The linens somehow smelled even sweeter. Everything about this place was the height of desert luxury.
“Hence the room service,” Biz repeated. “I could do worse than Vincent Cain.”
“You could also do better.”
The other woman’s smile thinned. “Ezra said something similar.”
“He’s one to talk.”
“He does talk more around you, I’ve noticed. He smiles more too. That’s no small thing.”