“Preposterous!” Alexander blurted out. “First you accuse me of being this Soudanese madman. Now you imagine it’s my sister? Who next? The servants?” He looked to Aasim. “Inspector! How long will you allow this farce?” This time Aasim held up a hand for silence.
“Is that how you came across a passage about the ring?” Fatma continued. “Not in one of those silly books you’d read in front of us. In one of your father’s manuscripts. You saw it, didn’t you? Someone with strong will. Maybe even driven by anger. You knew all about the Brotherhood’s dealings with Siwa. You went to him, asking. He couldn’t tell you, but you’d seen it on his list, perhaps when your father and no one else could. And you wanted it so badly. With it, you’d have the power to take vengeance on your father and his Brotherhood. Power to do whatever you wanted.”
She held up the lock of pale gold hair again. “Ifrit magic, that’s how you created your illusion. How you became al-Jahiz. I’m told it’s a special kind of deception. It makes us see what we want to see. I thought I’d solved it. But I just traded one illusion for another—like when you think you’ve woken from a dream, but you’re still dreaming. AW was never Alexander Worthington. It was Abigail Worthington. That’s how I know this hair I’m holding isn’t really gold.”
Fatma looked to the lock in her hand, and finally, emptied her thoughts—free of expectations and wants, letting it simply be. The gold coloring of the strands vanished, leaving behind a familiar dark red. The room went absolutely still.
“All of you must be out of your minds,” Alexander spoke into the quiet. He laughed openly. “My sister? A sorcerer right under my nose? A master swordsman? Look at her! She sheds tears if you speak too harshly, or faints at the sight of blood. I hardly think the poor creature could even dream up so many fanciful notions and schemes!”
Fatma held up her hand again to quiet the man. But someone else beat her to it.
“Do shut up, Alexander,” Abigail said. She twisted her slender neck to fix her brother with a stare that could have burned through a wall—and he swallowed his laughter. Her eyes returned to Fatma. “I suppose that’s that, then,” she commended in fluent Arabic. Her brother gaped as if he’d been slapped a second time, which just about matched Aasim’s face. Even Hadia, who by now had seen it coming, let out a low breath.
“No more playing the part of the wide-eyed Englishwoman?” Fatma asked.
Abigail chuckled. Her puzzled expression was gone as if she’d torn off a mask. “Play the part people expect, and they’ll accept it every time.” She switched to English, gesturing to her brother. “He believed it. Not all illusions require magic.”
“But magic helps,” Hadia put in. “It was you who went to Madame Nabila on the night of your father’s murder, wrapped in the illusion of your brother. Begging her to keep things quiet in the newspapers.”
“Amazing what a well-placed word here or there can do to sow confusion,” Abigail said. “The trick is knowing what people want to hear. Maybe it’s an appeal to their fears, their prejudices, their hunger, the natural distrust between empires. Or it can be as simple as a haughty Egyptian woman who delights in seeing a young Englishman grovel at her feet.”
“Or leading two agents to chase after your brother,” Fatma said. “Throwing us off your scent so that you can go about your deeds, unmolested. You sent the letter luring him to Cairo. Then planted clues for us—even handing us Portendorf’s journal. The spell on the Illusion djinn. The one that makes him cut out his tongue at the merest mention of your brother’s name. Very incriminating.”
Abigail performed a slight curtsy. “That one was my special touch. Reciting from all his books. Does he still keep those tongues in a basket? Absolutely wretched!” She narrowed her eyes. “But how did you reason it out?”
“How does it suit you to be tested by the lion of the forest?” Fatma recited. “Ever read Sirat al-amira Dhāt al-Himma? It’s about a queen who goes into battle dressed as a man—hiding herself like a lion in the forest. The quote is her boastful taunt, admiring her own wit and deception.”
Abigail nodded appreciatively. “Oh, I like her!”
“One trick I haven’t figured out,” Fatma said. “I’m guessing you were behind your brother’s car troubles to keep him from the summit. Make him look guilty in our eyes. But I saw you faint when al-Jahiz appeared. How?”
Abigail broke into a wolfish smile. “Al-Jahiz. Prophet. Savior. Madman. So many things to so many people. Whoever he truly was, all we have now is … illusion.” She waved her bandaged hand, and the imposter was there—garbed in black and with the dark-skinned face of al-Jahiz. About the room, gasps went up. One of the policemen, Fatma noted with satisfaction, gasped loudest of all.
“Al-Jahiz is no one person,” Abigail said, shrouded in illusion. “He is here.”
“And here,” a voice came as another al-Jahiz walked from a corridor.
“And here,” twin al-Jahiz echoed, emerging from a second.
“He is everywhere,” yet another al-Jahiz spoke, entering from a third.
Four replicas of al-Jahiz moved to stand beside Abigail. She waved her hand, and their illusions faded. One al-Jahiz became Victor Fitzroy, with a sneer on his square jaw. The Edginton sisters, Bethany and Darlene, stood where the twin al-Jahiz had been. The ever-smirking Percival Montgomery accounted for the fourth.
“So which one of you gave that speech at the summit?”
Percival sketched Fatma a bow to which Abigail clapped delightedly.
“Abigail,” Alexander said hoarsely. “Are you saying you truly did all these terrible things? That you murdered our father?”
For a heartbeat the hard mask the woman
