“How did you—?”
“I have a cousin on the force.” She grinned, showing off a slight overbite.
Fatma leaned forward, flipping through the sheets. Aasim would have sent her information on all this by tomorrow. But he was particularly stingy about his sketches.
“Never seen burns like these,” Hadia remarked. “Some kind of alchemical agent?”
“Too controlled,” Fatma muttered. “There’s magic at work.”
“I thought this was interesting.” Hadia lifted one sketch out. It was of the woman. Her fingers traced the broad collar and earrings. “This was an idolater, wasn’t it?”
Fatma looked up, eyes narrowing. Good catch. The arrival of djinn and magic pouring back into the world had impacted people’s faiths in strange ways. It was inevitable a few would go seeking Egypt’s oldest religions, whose memory was etched into the very landscape.
“What do you know about them?” Fatma asked.
“More than the police. I don’t think they’ve caught on yet.”
Not yet. Aasim and his people believed the adherents of the old religions a small group of heretics. They wouldn’t be looking for them at the mansion of a British lord.
“From the banner,” Hadia went on, “Lord Worthington looks to have been in some kind of cult. Maybe the idolater was their priestess. There was a man with his head turned backward. Some kind of sacrifice? I’ve heard—”
Fatma closed the folder, cutting her off. “First thing they should have taught you at the academy is not to take rumors you hear on the streets as fact. I haven’t had any cases of ‘idolaters’ twisting people’s heads about. So maybe we wait until we have some evidence before starting up about human sacrifices.”
Hadia’s face colored. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking aloud.”
Fatma reached into her jacket for her pocket watch. Already past two. She stood up. “It’s late, Agent Hadia. Not a proper time to think clearly. Let’s get some sleep and pick up on this in the morning.” And, hopefully, get you reassigned.
“Of course.” She gathered up her things and stood in turn. “I’m honored to be working with you, Agent Fatma.” And the two parted ways.
Fatma could have taken a carriage. But the walk home from the coffee shop wasn’t far. Besides, she needed to clear her head. She wasn’t certain why Hadia’s words had been so irksome. She’d heard similar things a thousand times. It was why she didn’t mention it to Aasim. Maybe she was smarting at being assigned a partner without a say in the matter.
Or maybe you’re taking out your weariness on some starry-eyed recruit. Bully. She could hear her mother’s chiding: “Well, look at the big investigator. Her face is to the ground.”
Fatma turned the corner to her building: a twelve-story high-rise of tan stone, with Neo-Pharaonic columns along the sides and rounded like a turret in the front. Outside broad black doors worked with gold stood an older man with receding graying hair. At seeing him, she smoothed the annoyance from her face. Every apartment in downtown Cairo had its own bewab—porters, doormen, and general watchers of all things. This one had no problem offering unsolicited advice, and could read faces with uncanny accuracy.
“Uncle Mahmoud,” she greeted, walking up with taps of her cane.
The man fixed her with a look that could have come from the sphinx. His sharp eyes seemed to weigh and judge her on a scale, before his red-brown face broke into a smile.
“Captain,” he replied, using the nickname he’d given her—on account of the suits. His Sa’idi accent didn’t hold a hint of Cairene. With that long gallabiyah and sandals he could have stepped right out of her village. “Wallahi, the Ministry is keeping you out later and later these past nights.”
“It comes with the job, Uncle.”
The bewab shook his head. “And you don’t even come home to sleep in the afternoon like a civilized person, always going like one of those trams.” He gestured at the network of cables that crossed the city’s skyline. “Wallahi, that’s no good for the circulation!”
She wanted to ask when it was he slept—given he seemed to be out here at all times. But that was rude. Instead, she tapped her chest and bowed in thanks. “I’ll take the advice.”
That appeared to satisfy him, and he opened the doors. “See? You listen to an old man like me. Some arrive here and forget all decency, wallahi. But you are a good Sa’idi, with proper manners. In our head and heart, we must always remember we are Sa’idi. Wake up healthy.” She returned the same and walked into the lobby, ignoring her letter box and stepping into a lift.
“Ninth floor,” she commanded a waiting boilerplate eunuch. Leaning back, she felt the day’s toll take hold as they rose. By the time she got out, she was trudging along and thinking fondly of her bed.
Opening her apartment door, she found the inside dark. By memory, she hung her bowler on a wall hook by a leafy plant. Fumbling, she searched for the lever to the gas lamp. The building owner had been promising to move to alchemical lighting, or even electricity. But so far, she hadn’t seen any work started, despite the small fortune she paid for the place. A few quick pumps lit up the dim space—enough to at least see.
“Ramses?” She thrust her cane into a rack. Where was that cat? Mahmoud came in to feed him and would have said if he’d gone missing. She unbuttoned her jacket. “Ramses? I know it’s late, but don’t be angry.”
“Oh?” a voice purred. “And what does Ramses get when you find him?”
Fatma tensed, spinning on her heels and reaching instinctively for the janbiya at her waist—only to find the blade wasn’t there. Damn. Her other hand clutched at her service pistol, still nestled in the holster. She got it halfway out before stopping dead
