Chapter 19
Luxor was not what Ezra remembered.
The place he’d so often daydreamed about during soggy, sterling Thornhill afternoons was nowhere to be seen when the quartet stepped off the train.
The station itself was larger, sleeker. More people moved in and out and down streets lined with vendors who sold clay jars filled with “the last breath of a pharaoh” alongside fake scrolls and amulets.
Dust was stamped down by so many feet, donkey hooves, and even the occasional Model T.
Humble mud-brick houses had been crowded out by Western-style buildings—such as the Winter Palace, which perched at the edge of the Nile like some pale, sunning amphibian.
This was, of course, the first place Vincent led them.
“We can’t go dragging all these bags to your mother’s old flat!” he insisted.
“The Winter Palace is the most popular hotel in Luxor,” Biz pointed out. “What if we run into Hugo there?”
Vincent did not look at all bothered as he pulled out some piastres to tip the local who’d rushed to help put their bags in the carriage. “Then we take back the map with Ezra’s shadow magic. You’ve been practicing, yes?”
Heat worked its way underneath Ezra’s cheeks. He could see Celia beside him, fanning herself against the bold sun. She’d burn if she wasn’t careful…
“What do you mean, practicing?” Biz wiped some hair out of her face with a gloved hand and opened her parasol, holding the umbrella up just enough to provide shade for Celia too. “Is that what you two were doing in the spare compartment without a proper chaperone?”
That, Ezra thought, and more.
He still tasted violets and steel at the edge of his lips. He sensed Vincent staring there—as if he could taste these too.
“Ezra didn’t want an audience,” Celia said hastily. “In case things didn’t go as planned.”
“Like what happened with the pistol?” His sister sniffed.
Celia frowned at the other woman. “What happened with the pistol?”
“I nearly blasted my own brains out in the pyramid, before Vincent cut us free. I know Ezra didn’t mean it.” Biz waved as if she was swatting a mosquito. “But I’d prefer for that sort of thing not to happen again.”
The frown on Celia’s face deepened, and Ezra felt himself mirroring it. She hadn’t seen the gun. Hadn’t really known the danger she was putting herself in by following me into that vacant compartment…
“And certainly not in the lobby of the Winter Palace,” Biz went on. “Can you imagine? Actually, don’t.” She tucked another short blond strand behind her ear with a nervous smile. “We wouldn’t want to manifest something untoward.”
“We’re going to run into Hugo one way or another,” Vincent said, his gaze unwavering. Ezra kept fighting the urge to fan himself. “Did you get enough practice?”
Enough…
Again, Ezra fought an urge. This time, trying not to look at Celia.
She stood under Biz’s parasol—blue eyes blazing ice while the rest of her fair skin glowed.
Her shadow pooled at her feet. Grabbing it had been all too easy.
Letting go? He’d been able to do that in the train car as well, but as much as she’d trusted him then, who was to say it would happen again?
He failed to stop his stare.
Her frown had only grown.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to face Hugo just yet,” Ezra replied slowly.
Thankfully, there was no apocalyptic shadow battle in the Winter Palace’s reception area.
Hugo and Everett were not taking hibiscus tea on the terrace.
Nor were they plotting their expedition in the Grand Salon.
Their names weren’t even in the guest registry when Biz inquired about them.
Ezra didn’t greet this news with much relief.
It probably meant they were already out in the desert, making their way to whatever his mother’s X marked.
A daunting head start.
Ezra was determined to catch up—somehow.
He rolled the scrap of map and the clue into the pocket of his utility belt, though they wouldn’t help him when it came to locating Nour’s old flat.
His memory wasn’t much better. He knew the building was by the river, close enough to count lily pads from the kitchen window.
A strong start, though the entire city stretched along the Nile.
There were several miles of docks filled with feluccas and larger boats built for carrying Thomas Cook’s tour groups.
Ezra couldn’t count any lily pads at all as he walked down the bank.
Nothing was familiar.
Even the skyline had changed—telephone poles jutted up to join obelisk fragments. Ezra had always remembered his building as grand and fancy. Set apart. Now there were dozens of structures that fit this description.
“Recognize anything?” Biz twirled her parasol as they walked, as if they were promenading on the Thames. Vincent sauntered beside her, pausing every so often to study trinkets displayed in stalls strategically set up to catch the disembarking passengers of cruises.
“The river,” Ezra said dryly.
“That narrows it down.” Vincent’s jolly tone was as fake as the canopic jar he was examining.
Celia shielded her eyes as she took in the rest of the shoreline. “Do you remember any street names? Or nearby shops?”
Ezra shook his head. “I was too young.”
“What about your neighbors?” Celia asked.
“There was one gentleman who grew flowers on his veranda—”
“That’s something!” Biz tilted her head up to look at the nearby balconies. “What kind of flowers?”
“They were pink,” Ezra offered.
Vincent snorted. “Pink flowers from nineteen years ago… Yes, that’s quite the lead. Excuse me, good sir.” He spoke to the vendor who’d been watching their group with interest. “Are there any buildings along the river with pink flowers on their porches?”
The man shrugged.
“That’s what I thought,” Vincent said, setting the canopic jar back and starting down the street.
Biz flounced after him. “What has gotten into you, Vincent?”
“Nothing,” he said.
This was obviously the wrong answer, given the way he pushed past Celia, who’d paused to stare up at more balconies. When Vincent’s shoulder brushed hers, she clutched at the chains around her neck. Not a terrible instinct, given the number of pickpockets that frequented these docks.
“You’re not seriously searching for flowers, are you?” Vincent asked.
“Do you have a better suggestion?” Celia snapped back. “Should we throw some money at the buildings to see if they’ll start talking?”
“Too bad there’s no vultures here.” Biz twirled her parasol at the cloudless sky. It was the kind of blue he’d never seen back in England—a thirsty color. Ezra swallowed as he studied the rest of the buildings down the lane.
“There!” The word was out before he’d fully registered the structure.
It was smaller than he recalled. Shrunken after nineteen years.
Pale blue paint peeled away from the edges of the main entrance, badly in need of a fresh coat.
Balconies jutted over the street, filled with drying laundry and an assortment of plants.
No pink flowers. Their old neighbor’s porch was bare.
Ezra’s heart skipped a beat as his gaze landed on the veranda where he’d played sebah as a child.
His mother had let him use jeweled scarabs as the game’s “pebbles,” though his hands had been too small to toss and catch all five. He wondered if he could do it now.
Probably not, came the thought as Vincent halted next to him.
Celia paused by Ezra’s other shoulder. “That’s your mother’s old flat?”
He nodded. It was impossible to see through the windows, from street height.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Vincent grabbed his hand eagerly.
For as much as Luxor had become a stranger to Ezra—with all its telephone poles and tourists—the door to his old home looked just as it had when he’d walked out with Thomas Ellington, nearly twenty years prior. No one had painted it. Even the lock looked unchanged.
Biz was the first to knock.
Ezra could feel his heart beating against the back of his teeth.
There was no answer.
Biz knocked again. “Sounds like no one’s home.”
“It’s for the best,” Celia said, pulling out one of the chains that sat around her neck. The key at the end flickered through several iterations as she held it close to the door.
“Oooooh!” Biz let out a delighted gasp as the key changed shapes. “That’s handy!”
“A family heirloom,” the other woman explained. “And yes, it is rather handy. Opens all sorts of doors.” The key between her fingers settled into a shiny brass shape, which slid neatly into the lock.
“Shouldn’t we knock one more time?” Ezra started to ask. “Just to be sure?”
“Nothing’s sure, Bright. Besides, we didn’t trek all this way to play at nice manners.” Vincent grunted when the entrance swung open.
Biz gasped.
Ezra’s breath caught too. Everything inside him started to shrink. Or maybe it was the opposite… maybe the space around him was stretching, trying to make up for the two decades that had passed. Otherwise, he could have quite easily forgotten them.
The apartment was untouched.
No one had moved in. Or out. Ezra recognized the sandals lined along the entry hall—he’d counted them every morning after his mother vanished to see if she’d returned in the middle of the night.
Six pairs. He ghosted past, every hair on his body stiff with disbelief.
The sitting room glittered with just as much treasure as he’d remembered.
Gold funeral masks, countless amulets, more of those skin-crawling scarabs.
A mummified cat watched Ezra from one of the high shelves.
He watched back, expecting the dead thing’s tail to twitch.
“Heavens!” Biz said breathlessly. She prodded one of the funeral masks with the end of her parasol. “Is all of this real?”
A fair question, considering the number of counterfeits they’d passed in the streets below.
“I think so.” Ezra finally exhaled. “My mother collected antiquities. She always had an eye for them…”
“I’ll say.” Celia let out a low whistle. “I’d stake my last farthing that these are all relics.”