throughout Cairo. Other places too. They keep mostly hidden, but the Khedive senses something grand is happening and makes a move for greater independence with the Ottoman Porte. Asks al-Jahiz to construct him weapons of magic. But he refuses. Angered over this, Isma’il Basha sends soldiers to confiscate his inventions. By the time they arrive, al-Jahiz is gone.” She looked up wryly. “Only about a dozen different versions of how that happened.”

That was understating things. Al-Jahiz had made the Khedive’s soldiers blind, before walking through their midst while they groped about. He had turned them into wisps of smoke. No, he’d turned them into winged rams that bore him away. Or had he flown off on the back of a djinn? No, it was a mechanical djinn. A chariot pulled by djinn. Or golden-winged rukhs.

And so it went.

The only thing anyone knew for sure was that in 1873, al-Jahiz disappeared, taking most of his machines and writings with him.

“I have a cousin who fancies himself an augur,” Hadia related. “He swears al-Jahiz left piloting a great contraption that spun with endless wheels. And that even now he travels between the many worlds, bringing magic with him. But I guess none of that really matters. Because what impacts us today mostly happened after he was gone.”

“Aywa,” Fatma agreed. The ten years after al-Jahiz’s disappearance saw the rise of a nationalist movement as Isma’il Basha fell into debt and ceded greater control to European powers. The djinn mostly hid behind the scenes, but they were there too. It wasn’t until Tell El Kebir in ’82 that they made themselves fully known—where djinn magic joined nationalist fervor to drive the British from Egypt and into the sea. That event was now commemorated as the Emerging. Whatever became of al-Jahiz, it was them who created this new world.

“I just did the math,” Hadia said, scrunching up her face. “Al-Jahiz was maybe in his twenties in the 1830s. So by the time he disappeared he was in his sixties. Anyone claiming to be him today would have to be what—a hundred years old?”

“The man I saw last night definitely didn’t look a hundred,” Fatma confirmed.

“You’d think people would take that into consideration. Wish we had some of his earliest followers around to speak against this imposter.”

“No chance of that,” Fatma said. Al-Jahiz’s core followers had disappeared shortly after he did, supposedly to take his most secret writings into hiding. The youngest of them would likely be in their seventies now, if still alive. The Ministry had been searching for them for decades, but had come up with nothing.

“What about these others last night?” Hadia asked. “The man who was really two? That part kind of confused me.”

“Still confusing to me,” Fatma replied. She rubbed at her side again. “I don’t know what that man was. Or how he did what he did. Had to be sorcery involved.”

Hadia nodded thoughtfully. “So what’s the connection to Lord Worthington?”

Fatma strummed fingers along the top of a book. She’d been considering this as they put together their profile. “Lord Worthington was a man so infatuated with al-Jahiz he created a brotherhood dedicated to him. From what I saw, they were hunting down even scraps of clothing, personal possessions—anything. Like holy relics. Men obsessed with al-Jahiz to the point of wanting to own him, to be a part of him, to maybe be him.”

Hadia’s eyes rounded. “You think the imposter belongs to Worthington’s brotherhood?”

“It’s the best I can come up with. Someone immersed in al-Jahiz. Someone in the know about Lord Worthington’s brotherhood. Even the night it meets up. And where. Someone who could get into his mansion unseen and undetected. Too many pieces there to not fit.”

“But why?”

Fatma closed the book. “Maybe a resentful employee. Someone who wanted the English Basha out of the way. Or a member of the Brotherhood who took this al-Jahiz thing too far.”

“Sounds plausible. But it doesn’t explain the possible Ifrit.”

“No,” Fatma admitted, recalling the strange fire. “But one mystery at a time.”

They were interrupted by Zagros, coming to tower over them.

“The both of you do realize,” he drawled, “that it’s polite to be quiet for other patrons.”

Fatma looked around the empty reading room. “We’re the only patrons.”

“Then you should be quiet for your own sakes.”

The two women exchanged glances. It appeared their good graces had worn off.

“It seems, however, today I’m not only a librarian but a messenger.” The djinn extended a small rolled tube, disdainfully held between clawed thumb and forefinger. “This arrived for you by boilerplate courier. They weren’t able to come further than the lobby, so I was forced to walk up an entire flight of stairs—since these lifts can’t accommodate my healthy weight—and back down again. Only to find, the missive wasn’t even for me. Isn’t that a delightful story?”

Fatma accepted the message with thanks, though the librarian had already taken his leave.

Hadia watched after him. “Is he always like that?”

“No. Sometimes he’s actually in a bad mood.” She read over the note. “I think we might have a reason to go out into the field today. Ever been to Cité-Jardin?”

Hadia shook her head. “No one I know has that kind of money.”

“Then consider this a chance to visit. Just got a tip. Someone there we might talk to, who knows something about this Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz. Let’s grab lunch first. Hungry?”

“Starving!” Hadia all but whimpered. “But, umm.” She gestured toward the dial of zodiac characters above the swinging pendulum. “Do you think we can make time for al-salah? It’s Friday. There’s a masjid that opens to women. It’s on the way, I think. And the sermon’s quick.”

Fatma turned to eye the clock, a bit guilty at her impatience.

“Or we could just pray here,” Hadia offered. “Just staying steadfast on deen.”

“No,” Fatma said. New partner, new concessions. “It’s fine. I actually wouldn’t mind.” Just the thing to clear her head. “Only, I don’t have a hijab. Just more bowlers.”

Hadia reached into her bag, pulling out a blue headscarf. “Stay

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