She sat up, turning around. Might as well be direct. “Guessing this isn’t just a social visit. Or you’d have worn something a little more casual.” She gestured to where the black outfit lay discarded, silver claws piled atop.
Siti stared back, impassive, eyes hard as black stone. Something gave, and she sighed. “I got back to Cairo by airship today. And yes, I was sent to deliver a message. From the temple.”
The temple. That was the other thing about Siti. She was an adherent of the old religion. Pledged to Hathor, the goddess of love and beauty once worshipped in a long-gone Egypt. An infidel, without question. Hadia’s “idolater” wormed into her head, and she shook it off.
“What’s the message, then?” she asked, cooler than intended. It didn’t matter if she had come here partly on business—did it?
Siti frowned at the tone. “It’s about what happened tonight in Giza.”
That was unexpected. “How do you even know about that? It’s barely been a few hours.” Her eyes narrowed as understanding dawned. “You have a policeman who belongs to one of your … temples.”
“Why do you think it’s just one?” Siti asked. “Anyway, two of the victims were followers. I didn’t know them well. They were from other temples. But word is out about the way they died. We might have information. Figured you’re the best person to approach.”
Naturally. Fatma was one of the few authorities in contact with them. “What kind of information? Are you involved in this?”
“Me? No! I just got here. I don’t know much of anything, except that this Worthington—the one they call the English Basha—had dealings with the temples. You’ll have to ask Merira more. She wants to meet, tomorrow.”
Merira. A priestess of the local Temple of Hathor who seemed to know the oddest things. “We’ll meet, then, tomorrow. Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Siti leaned forward and kissed her, gentle but filled with warmth enough to keep back the coldness swirling in Fatma’s thoughts. She fell into it even as the woman pulled away.
“I missed you these past months,” Siti said, seeming to read what lay behind Fatma’s eyes. “I did plan on coming here, message or no. It’s all I could think about. It’s all I’ve thought about for so long.” Lying down, she put her head onto Fatma’s lap and curled in close. “For the rest of the night, promise me we’ll stop talking about murders, and investigations, and whatever’s happening out there. Just for tonight, let’s forget about the world. And just be here.”
Fatma ran a hand along the thin covering of hair on Siti’s scalp, playing with the tuft in front between her fingers. She could do that. The world, after all, would be waiting.
It was the sound of the muezzin calling Fajr that stirred her awake.
Fatma blinked to adjust to the dark room. A nearby clock read just past 5:00 a.m. Shifting, she reached out to find empty space. She lifted up and looked about but found herself alone. Her gaze drifted to the balcony, where a breeze blew in from the predawn morning.
Siti had opted for her usual exit, it appeared.
Like old times. There was even a folded note on the pillow. Guiltily—knowing she would not be getting up in time for prayer—Fatma lay back down and closed her eyes. Ramses purred in her lap, and she curled around him, trying to ignore the emptiness beside her.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Morning, Uncle.”
“A morning of roses, Captain,” Mahmoud returned. “Is that a new one?”
She glanced down at her ensemble: a dark forest-green suit with thin magenta stripes and matching waistcoat. She’d paired it with a fuchsia tie showing hints of purple, over a soft white shirt. “Been hiding in the dresser. Felt like being a bit … bold.”
The bewab raised bushy eyebrows, holding open the door. “You seem lighter this morning, Captain. God is great to send you good dreams and sleep.”
“You could say that.” Stepping outside she flicked the brim of her bowler and bid him farewell. The truth was she felt remarkably rested—though she’d only slept a few hours. She hadn’t felt like this since the summer, after spending time with … Siti.
A smile touched her lips, and when she stopped to get her shoes shined, the little man in a white gallabiyah and turban eyed her, curious. She hid her flustered face behind a newspaper as a hand drifted to her jacket pocket—patting Siti’s note, an invitation to breakfast.
Hopping a street trolley she found it packed with commuters—factory women in telltale light blue dresses and hijabs; businessmen in suits of Turkish fit and red tarbooshes; government clerks wearing kaftans over crisp white buttoned-up gallabiyahs, complete with shirt collars in the ministerial fashion. A goat-headed djinn in a tweed jacket and pants sat reading a newspaper, the long hair on his chin moving as he chewed absently. Catching the headline, Fatma hastily checked her own.
Shocking Death of the English Basha was the lead story, with condolences from the business community, a statement by the government vowing the peace summit would go on, and the ensuing investigation. Nothing about flames that burned only flesh, a corpse with its head on backward, or a mysterious man in a gold mask. The rest of the front page included speculation on the growing closeness between the German kaiser and the Ottoman sultan, the usual worries of war, and a write-up on another daring heist by the Forty Leopards. Maybe Aasim had managed to keep the press in the dark after all.
She tucked the paper away and hopped off the trolley at a backed-up intersection. Cairo’s infamous traffic had struck again: an accident involving a sleek silver automobile and a donkey-drawn wagon overturned with melons. The two drivers stood yelling, pointing and wagging forefingers in the air. The donkey ignored both, trying to pick up a melon with its teeth.
Fatma headed off the main street, winding through back roads to her destination. Makka was a sleepy-looking Nubian eatery to the unsuspecting but had
