Magic. It always exacted a price.
EPILOGUE
Fatma wiped up the last bits of soup from her plate with some flatbread. Siti’s aunt made the best mulukhiya, with pieces of lamb soft enough to melt on the tongue. It joined an array of dishes spread out on a long table—large platters of chicken stewed in chili sauce and even some fatta with thick chunks of stewed beef. She looked up to see Madame Aziza gazing in approval from where she sat at the table’s head. The proprietor of Makka liked to be certain that people enjoyed her food. That meant taking not only a second helping but a third and fourth. With the appetite Fatma had right now, that wasn’t a problem.
She and Hadia had come to the Nubian eatery to celebrate the end of their case. Aasim was there as well. The inspector seemed to be trying to eat for all of them. At the moment he sat jawing it up with Uncle Tawfik while enjoying a plate of raw camel liver blended into a spicy mixture with onions soaked in vinegar. Tawfik claimed the Nubian dish had potent nutritious qualities; the amount the two had downed so far, it seemed they were out to cure every ailment.
Siti sat directly across from her, between Hamed and Onsi. The three chatted it up like old friends. It was odd to see Hamed so casual and carefree with his tongue. The way he stared at Siti, however … that look was recognizable enough. It didn’t help that she was a hopeless flirt.
“This is amazing!” Hadia raved beside her. She practically moaned, swallowing a mouthful of fish in caramel-colored rice. “Thought I’d have to go all the way back to Alexandria for some decent sayadeya.”
“This city has everything you need,” Fatma replied. “If you know where to look.”
“And it’ll be here tomorrow, praise God,” Hadia said.
“Praise God,” Fatma murmured. It would be here, though it had taken a beating.
Two days had passed since the night at Abdeen Palace. Since she had faced Ifrit Lords and stopped the world from being overrun by an army of subjugated djinn. And it already felt like two weeks, or two months. A lot had happened in the past forty-eight hours.
She looked down to the Sunday evening edition of Al-Masri sitting on the table. The front page of the newspaper was filled with stories about Abigail Worthington being unmasked as the imposter, drowning out almost everything on the king’s summit—which had also miraculously survived. The city’s administrators were especially keen on getting the word out. Not that they really needed bother. Cairo’s rumor mill worked well enough, with the onetime witness Moustafa in the streets pronouncing the claimed al-Jahiz a fraud. The Forty Leopards helped spread the word, ferrying him from place to place to give his accounts.
A chastened Alexander Worthington had agreed to help the Ministry in any way to uncover the extent of his sister’s crimes. Abigail had been remanded into his custody, now left in a catatonic state. Her coconspirators—Victor Fitzroy, Bethany and Darlene Edginton, and Percival Montgomery—were all being held and charged as accomplices for her crimes. London had declined to invoke extradition, and their families back in England were being investigated for collusion. There were no plans at present to rebuild the Worthington estate—as much of it now sat in a sinkhole carved out by Ifrit.
Most of Cairo had been untouched by the battle. But parts of downtown were a wreck. The cleanup was already under way. Djinn architects were making grand proposals to rebuild what was destroyed. At least the reign of terror had come to an end. People were out everywhere now—as if making up for time kept cooped up in their homes. The hate attacks had ended. Siti said shop owners in the Khan had even helped repair the damage to Merira’s store. It was good to know the city could mend—though there were lingering wounds.
The frayed social fabric that Abigail had so judiciously exploited remained. Hadia had struck upon the idea of bringing up the conditions in Cairo’s slums at the next Egyptian Feminist Sisterhood meeting. “If women can fight and defeat patriarchy, we can take on inequity!” she’d said. “You just watch!” For Fatma’s part, she was going to insist in their write-up that all materials associated with the Clock of Worlds be permanently destroyed. No telling if brass would listen. But the thing was too dangerous to keep around—no matter how well locked up.
Then of course, there was the Seal of Sulayman.
In her initial debriefing, she claimed the ring had been lost in all the mayhem. Neither the Ministry nor the Angelic Council were happy about that. But they’d have to take the matter up with the self-proclaimed embodiment of the god Sobek. If they ever found him.
“I hear they let out Zagros,” Hadia said. “Without charges. He’ll be back this week.”
“We’ll have to pay him a visit,” Fatma replied. “I look forward to being insulted.”
Across from her, Siti barked a loud laugh, catching her attention. Here was another unexpected loose end. A lot had happened between the two of them in the past weeks. Fatma was still trying to wrap her mind around the woman being a half-djinn. Where that left their already complicated relationship, she wasn’t quite sure. All she knew for certain was that she had fallen hopelessly for the woman. So maybe it wasn’t really that complicated at all. If you steal, steal a camel, she heard her mother whisper. And if you love, love the moon.
“The way you look at my niece,” Madame Aziza remarked. “I remember when men looked at me that way. I was quite the beauty.”
Fatma turned to her, a bit stunned. This old woman didn’t miss a thing! Beside her, Hadia leaned forward. “You are still a beauty, Madame Aziza. Like a flower in greatest bloom.”
The elderly woman smiled, setting off wrinkles. “Now that is poetry. Did you find any to tell
