Fatma found her mouth dry. Madame Aziza’s voice wasn’t loud enough for anyone at the talkative table to hear but herself and Hadia. Yet that was more than enough. She glanced to look into the woman’s large dark eyes, which matched her hijab. Discerning eyes.
“You should ask Onsi for some good love poems,” Hadia murmured idly, sipping from her tea. “He’s very well read. And something of a romantic.” Seeing Fatma’s unspoken question she shrugged. “Have I told you I have a cousin?” She touched a hand to her heart. “Partners rely on each other’s trust. So do friends.”
Friends, Fatma mused. That was even more surprising than partners.
Hadia beamed. “Now, Siti’s told me all about this Jasmine? I want to see it!”
Fatma arched an eyebrow. That would be something. She looked back to Siti, who returned a long considering look that made her insides flutter. Oh yes, quite hopeless.
Their brief moment was broken as one of Siti’s younger relatives came by, bearing a small leather pouch. She handed it over to Fatma. “Someone left this with me. A man. He came by earlier but said I should let you finish your dinner before giving it to you.”
Fatma took the pouch. “What did he look like?”
The young woman shook her head. “I can’t say. His head was covered. And it was already dark. But his voice was strange and raspy. I thought he might be ill.”
Fatma looked to Hadia, who was busily talking with another agent and hadn’t noticed. Excusing herself, she moved from the table to a corner before hurriedly undoing the string on the pouch and reaching inside. It held a wooden box and a note, which she unfolded and read:
Agent Fatma,
I hope I find you well. You have my thanks for all that you have done. I go now, to dwell in the sacred place, to my home and temple, where she who is Nephthys yet lives everlasting. There are powers in this world that should not be in the hands of men. Or immortals. And should be forever sealed away where it can cause no mischief. On this we both agree. I have left something in your charge, as I trust it with no other. You may trust me the same.
Lord Sobek, Master of the Waters, the Rager, Lord of Faiyum, Defender of the Land, General of the Royal Armies
P.S.—This is Ahmad.
Holding her breath, she gently opened the wooden box—her heart leaping at the glint that peeked from within. Bracing herself, she threw back the lid. Lying inside was a small silver lighter. Shaped like a scarab beetle.
For some reason the sight made her smile. And she used a red kerchief to dab away the anxious sweat that had broken out just beneath her bowler.
“Good one, Ahmad,” she muttered.
Flicking the lighter once, she closed and tucked it into her jacket, right beside her pocket watch, before walking back to the table. Just in time for dessert.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first full-length novel! Can you believe it? So many people to thank. First off, Diana Pho—who not only helped me work through this novel bit by bit, but took a chance on that first story of djinn, steampunk, and Cairo. You’re the whole reason Fatma has a home, and a world to grow into! Greatest Auntie Editor ever! Thanks to my agent, Seth Fishman, who is the best critical hype man to have in your corner. Both you and Diana helped make this debut novel better with each suggestion and revision. Thanks to Carl and Ruoxi, who helped me work on the final parts of this book and take it across the finish line. And my earnest gratitude to the whole Tordotcom team—including your magical copy editors—for the hard work of making this book an actual living and breathing, beautiful thing!
I want to give special thanks to those who helped me navigate the spellbinding folklore and medieval manuscripts that inspired this novel, as well as those who painstakingly guided me through the complexities of modern Egypt in its spoken languages, cultures, and customs. Thank you so much for sharing your learned expertise and lived experiences with me.
I’m indebted always to my sister, Lisa, who urged me to keep writing even when I thought of giving up; to my father, who is always proud of my achievements; and to my mother, who I know would have been delighted to see this. Shout-out to Lasana, my travel partner from Cairo to Aswan. We still got jokes to last “twenty thousand years!” And of course, all my warmest love goes to Danielle, Nia, and Nya, who are always in my corner.
Lastly—to all the readers who kept asking for more of this world, you were the greatest fuel for my muse. You made this book happen more than anyone else. May it fill you with delight and live up to your expectations.
ALSO BY P. DJÈLÍ CLARK
The Black God’s Drums
The Haunting of Tram Car 015
Ring Shout
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in New York and raised mostly in Houston, P. DJÈLÍ CLARK spent the formative years of his life in Trinidad and Tobago, the homeland of his parents. He is the award-winning and Hugo- and Sturgeon-nominated author of the novellas The Black God’s Drums and The Haunting of Tram Car 015. His writing has appeared in online venues such as Tor.com, Daily Science Fiction, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Apex Magazine, Lightspeed, and Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and in print anthologies, including Griots, Hidden Youth, and Clockwork Cairo. His short story “The Secret Lives of the Nine Negro Teeth of George Washington” (Fireside Fiction) has earned him both a Nebula and a Locus Award. He is also a founding member of FIYAH Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction and an infrequent reviewer at Strange Horizons. You can sign up for email updates here.
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