“The goddess really gets into her work. Lucky for humankind, Thoth tricked her with beer she thought was blood. Put her right to sleep. Woke up in a better mood.”
Fatma could almost hear the ayah Hadia was likely reciting in her head. To her credit, she held her composure. “So what is it you do at the temple?”
“I look after things. Fix things. Put things together.” Siti flashed a sharp smile. “Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get to break things too.”
“We’re here,” Fatma said, eager to end the conversation. They stood before a white house that boasted some three stories. It was capped with triangular red roofs in Western fashion, but with a stone façade cut to mimic mashrabiyas. If windows were anything to go by, it held at least a dozen rooms—or more.
“That’s fancy,” Siti remarked.
Fatma confirmed the address on the message. “How’d you find this”—she looked again at the name—“Nabila al-Mansur? Wait, is she related to the al-Mansur steel industrialists?”
“Same family,” Siti confirmed. “Though they have their hands in a bit of everything now. Merira put the word out among the temples. My head priestess,” she explained for Hadia’s benefit. “Anyway, there was one curious tip. From someone who works at Al-Masri.”
“The newspaper?” Hadia asked. “A reporter?”
“Better. A secretary. To the editor. Belongs to the Cult of Isis. Haughty types, but we get along alright. Anyway, notice how lacking news stories are about Lord Worthington’s death?”
Fatma had checked the paper again today. “They make it sound like the fire was at best an accident. Nothing about a secret brotherhood. Strange.”
“Purposeful,” Siti replied. “The secretary says the morning after Lord Worthington’s death, she arrived at work to find the printers in a snit. They had to dump an entire batch of morning dailies and reprint the headlines—on orders that came in at 4:00 a.m. That day, she took a call for the editor. She listens in every now and then, to keep the temples up on things. This caller thanked her editor for keeping talk from the paper that might embarrass the English Basha. Pressed him hard to keep it up.”
Fatma had thought that Aasim’s work. This was even more interesting. “Let me guess. The caller was one Nabila al-Mansur.”
Siti winked. “You’re catching on. The secretary also passed on that the al-Mansur family is a major financial benefactor to the city’s papers. Betting she made that call more than once.”
“So much for a free press,” Hadia muttered.
“Talk that might embarrass the English Basha,” Fatma repeated. “Like dying at a meeting of his own secret occult society.”
“I’d put that high on the list,” Siti agreed. “Merira said that before he approached the temples for his little club, he tried to entice a more high-class crowd. The al-Mansurs fit the bill.”
Fatma suspected the same. They walked a tree-lined path to the front door—its black surface carved with interlocking stars. It took two heavy poundings of the brass knocker to bring someone. The servant, a young woman in white, took in the trio blankly until Fatma flashed a badge, and she scurried off to fetch her mistress.
When Nabila al-Mansur came to the door, the idea Fatma had formed of the woman didn’t do her justice. She wasn’t tall but of surprising girth—not plump but sturdy, wearing a modern silk gallabiyah with gold fringes, contrasting with a hastily wrapped traditional black hijab. Well past her middling years, her face bore its share of wrinkles, but her eyes were two sharp points. She stared down at them over a hawkish nose, with a measuring glare only a patrician could master.
“Well?” she asked with an impatient click of the tongue.
“Peace be upon you, Madame Nabila. I’m Agent Fatma, and this is Agent Hadia. We’re with the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities.”
Madame Nabila scanned their badges, one hazel eye glaring like an owl. “What does the Ministry need of me?”
“We wanted to ask you about Lord Worthington.”
“He’s dead. Has that changed?”
So she was going to be difficult. “His death took place in the company of a certain brotherhood that we have reason to believe you know about.”
That got her attention. Her lips pursed tight as her eyes drew sharper. After a while, she settled back to adjust her headscarf. “Very well, come in.” Her gaze flickered to land on Siti. “But your abda is going to have to wait outside.”
Fatma stiffened, and beside her Hadia gave an audible intake. The slur was common enough—hurled against Nubians and anyone with dark skin. A none-too-subtle reminder of a recent past. But Cairo was the boasted modern city. And it was now frowned upon to use such language. At least in public.
“She’s not my … servant,” Fatma said, unable to properly explain Siti’s presence.
“Whoever she is, she waits here. I won’t allow abeed in my home.”
Fatma opened her mouth in a flare of anger, but Siti cut in.
“Fine by me.” Her tone was nonchalant. “Don’t think I want to go in there anyway.” She paused, thoughtful. “You know what’s funny? My family’s been living along the Nile for thousands of years. Certainly, much longer than the descendants of some Mamluks—so jumped-up and full of themselves they forget they came here only recently. As slaves.” She said the last word with emphasis, before turning in a carefree stroll.
Madame Nabila scowled at her back. “How rude. Abeed. God put no light in their complexion.” Shaking her head, she led them inside.
Fatma spared a glance at Siti before following, letting a servant shut the door behind.
“I used to have abeed work for me,” Madame Nabila went on. “Terrible thieves. Wallahi, you had to watch the women make your bread in the morning, or they would pilfer sacks of flour. I dismissed them outright when I discovered it and will not have their kind back.”
Fatma studied the house—with walls in gilded flowering, marble floors covered in lavish rugs, a grand brass chandelier composed of perhaps a hundred spheres of glowing alchemical gas, and ornate furniture fitted with velvet cushions.
