“Do you see what you’ve done? Addled my sister’s easily impressionable mind. This is an assassination upon my very character!”
Fatma looked the woman over. “Are you well, Abbie?”
“Just a bit light-headed. This is all so sudden.”
“Were you two going somewhere?”
Abigail blinked, then looked down at her dress. “To a dinner engagement.”
“With one of your family’s powerful friends, likely.” Fatma turned back to Alexander. “We have one of them on record, who can identify you in Egypt on the night of your father’s murder.”
“I have documents showing my time of arrival!”
“Not hard to forge for someone who uses illusion,” Hadia put in.
Alexander threw up his hands, then began to laugh, shaking his head. “You’re all mad. This entire country is mad. It claimed my father, and now it wants to claim me.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “But it won’t! It won’t take me like it took him! I won’t let it!”
Fatma searched his hard blue eyes for signs of that burning she’d seen in the imposter. There was arrogance certainly—the self-importance of men who thought too highly of themselves. But none of the intensity. She looked to his fingers. All bare, save for the one adorned with his father’s silver signet.
“It does seem like madness, doesn’t it?” she asked. “When the first clues led to you, I thought I was mad too. But it began to make a sort of sense. You appearing to lie about when you arrived in the country. Your unwillingness to talk to us. You even have a motive for getting your father out of the way. And you certainly didn’t think highly of his Brotherhood. You’re also very unlikable.” His lips tightened at that.
“But it wasn’t enough,” she went on. “What finally led us to you were the more recent happenings. First you don’t appear at the summit your father helped put together, while the imposter does. Then we learn about a money transfer to the djinn Siwa bearing your initials—AW. By the time we visited the angels about the ring, it all painted a picture—straight to you.”
“What are you talking about?” Alexander was beyond frustration. He looked to Aasim and then Hadia. “What is she talking about? Who is this djinn, and what monies did I send him? Angels? Why would I have anything to do with those … creatures?”
Fatma walked back to the wall with the swords. “Investigations can have their own life. If you go in wanting to believe something, the clues take you right there. They’ll line up just like you want them. Paint you a convenient picture.” She pulled out a sword fully, feeling the textured grip. “Your father built this entire estate after al-Jahiz and the so-called Orient. This sword, it’s Soudanese, I think?” She turned to Hadia, offering it.
The woman accepted the weapon without question, looking it over. “It’s a kaskara. Soudanese, or maybe Bagirmi.”
“Agent Hadia’s good with swords,” Fatma explained. She drew the other blade, then looked to Alexander. “I bet you’re good with swords. Had to be, as a captain.” She met Aasim’s questioning look, motioning for patience, before tossing the sword to Alexander.
He caught it in surprise. But awkwardly. Managing to get a hand on the tassel, before gripping the hilt. He glared at Fatma. “What do you think—?”
“Fight him!” she said.
Hadia didn’t miss a beat, moving into a fighting stance and rushing him. Alexander yelped as he brought up his sword to block. It was clumsy, and he almost dropped the weapon when their blades met. She quickly sent him shuffling back, trying to defend as the flat of her sword penetrated his guard repeatedly—catching him on the arm, hip, and leg.
“That’s enough,” Fatma called. Hadia fell out of her stance, stepping back.
“What the devil are you about?” Alexander roared, apoplectic.
“My apologies,” Fatma said. “You’re not very good with a sword.”
Alexander turned a shade redder. “We don’t use Oriental blades in His Majesty’s army!”
“Of course,” Fatma said. Hadia walked back, handing over the kaskara. “It’s just that the imposter is a very good swordsman. He also favors his right. You fight with your left. That’s odd.” She hefted the sword, then threw it hilt-first.
Abigail hadn’t been expecting the weapon to be hurled in her direction, but she caught it smoothly—snatching it out of the air with one hand.
Fatma didn’t waste another moment. Drawing her sword from her cane, she rushed the woman—who flowed surprisingly fast into a defensive stance, bringing her blade up to meet the attack. Fatma pressed with quick, even strokes. Each was deflected by well-executed parrying strikes. She pulled back, nodding. Abigail stood, body poised and balanced beneath her evening gown, an all-too familiar fire in her blue-green eyes.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed, the intensity flashing away. She handed the sword back, giggling nervously. “I suppose those fencing lessons have paid off.”
“That was a bit more than some lessons,” Fatma remarked, returning the blade to the wall. She glanced to Hadia, whose knowing gaze said she had caught on. “You’re good. And you favor your right. But that’s not all you’re good at, is it, Abbie?”
Abigail looked puzzled. “I don’t think I know what you mean?”
“You were the first one to tell us about the imposter—the man in the gold mask. Your brother seemed to have all the motive for killing your father. But what about you? The daughter who he brought to Egypt, spending months, then years at a time. Who he confided in about his obsession, who helped him look through books and manuscripts—while your brother’s off playing at being soldier.”
“See here!” Alexander began. Fatma held up a hand for quiet.
“What else did you help your father with? Maybe the secret hand growing the Worthington fortune while he chased after esoteric antiques? Then in the end, you don’t get anything. Your father doesn’t let you join his Brotherhood, though he invites some ‘native’ woman. Your brother gets to join even though he doesn’t want to. Not only
