“We aren’t here for your political views,” Fatma said, cutting off the harangue.
Madame Nabila stopped, eyes inspecting. “You disapprove of the way I talk. No wonder. You carry a bit of the abeed around the nose and lips. In the skin too. I thought el-Sha’arawi were a wealthy and respectable family in the south.”
“We’re not them,” Fatma replied. “Your mistake.”
The older woman’s appraising gaze swung to Hadia. “At least you look to have some untainted blood.”
Hadia regarded her coolly. “And among His wonders is the creation of the heavens and the earth, and the diversity of your tongues and colors. For in this, behold, there are messages indeed for all who are possessed of innate knowledge.” Finishing the ayah, she smiled. “Before God, our blood means nothing. Virtue is in deeds, not the skin.”
Madame Nabila’s face drew to a fine point, obviously unused to reprimands from someone half her age. She turned, muttering about “liberal philosophies,” beckoning them along. They were led through a room of vivid panoramas, including one of airships hovering over the Saladin Citadel.
“You’ve interrupted my hydrotherapy,” Madame Nabila grumbled. She lifted the hem of her gallabiyah to climb a winding staircase, with railings that twisted like vines. “So you’ll just have to talk while I steam.”
At the top she led them to a room with a large bath whose floor and walls were covered in green tiles overlaid with yellow octagonal stars. Several attendants stood—more women in white—beside a large silver box.
As Fatma and Hadia sat on a bench, two attendants helped the woman disrobe. Two more worked dials on the silver box, which parted at a seam that ran down its middle. Inside revealed a small seat, where Madame Nabila stepped in and sat. It was closed again, leaving only her head visible, which craned out from a hole at the top. The box began to hum and hiss, as steam curled up from the hole about Madame Nabila’s head that gave off a sweet, dusky, floral scent. Fatma sniffed. Was that cardamom? Was she steaming herself … in tea?
“Rich people are strange,” Hadia whispered.
That was ever the truth.
“Now,” Madame Nabila said. “What do the two of you want?”
“Information about Lord Worthington,” Fatma said. “You two were acquaintances?”
“Alistair and I?” She frowned. “Yes, we were acquainted. Nothing improper. He was a friend of my husband, who passed years ago. We were more business associates. Though for some reason he believed he could confide in me, the way he confided in my husband. Occidentals are always needing someone to confide in, I find.”
“Did he confide in you about the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz?”
Madame Nabila made a face. “Alistair’s great project. He was always going on to my husband about al-Jahiz. Pestering and questioning, as if we know anything about that madman. After my husband’s passing, he attempted to recruit me. I said no, of course! Warned him he’d be a pariah if it got out. But he was stubborn.”
“What do you know about the Brotherhood?” Fatma asked.
“Not a great deal,” Madame Nabila answered as an attendant flicked sweat from her brow. “That they went about hunting al-Jahiz’s secrets and held odd rituals. Alistair believed those secrets could bring a new age to the world—as if we don’t have enough on our hands.”
“Quærite veritatem,” Fatma quoted.
Madame Nabila huffed. “You’ve seen that outrageous emblem? I think he truly believed it all. Doubt you could say the same for half his brotherhood.”
“If they didn’t share his vision, then why join?”
“Standing and advancement. The Brotherhood became a way for ambitious men at the company to get close to Alistair. The only way, when he picked up from England and moved to Giza permanently. They could even procure funds for projects. Quite the game many played. Though most were wasting their time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Alistair barely ran the company anymore. Too invested in his brotherhood.”
“Then who was running it?” Hadia asked.
“I assume his son, Alexander.”
“Why did you contact the newspapers to cover for Lord Worthington?” Fatma asked.
Madame Nabila’s eyes widened. “How did you…?” She sighed. “Well, I only have the same answer. Alexander Worthington.”
“You’re saying Lord Worthington’s son asked you to hide details of his father’s death?”
Madame Nabila clicked her tongue. “He was panicked. Begged me to talk to them.”
“And you obliged?”
“I don’t expect you to understand the burden of societal standing. Lord Worthington was a respected member of Egyptian society. The English Basha. As heir to the Worthington fortune, Alexander knew his father’s death in such a … compromising situation could embarrass more than just his family. It could hurt the Worthington stock and trade. Hurt markets on two continents. Not to mention the peace summit to which the Worthington name is vital. It was in everyone’s interest to keep the matter quiet.”
“You can’t keep something like this quiet,” Hadia put in. “Not forever.”
Madame Nabila chuckled. “Girl, you don’t need to keep something quiet forever. You just let it come out in drips, to give everyone a chance to prepare for it. Then when the larger story is released, the impact is diminished and it’s soon forgotten.”
Fatma could see the reasoning behind that. There was so much going on in Cairo at any given moment, you could bury even a story like this if you let enough time pass.
“Is it true?” Madame Nabila asked. “About the way Alistair died?”
“We’re not calling it an accident,” was all Fatma answered.
The woman whispered a prayer. “I warned him about who he was getting close to. In the end, he consorted with all sorts of low types. Not just commoners but idolaters! Can you imagine? If there is a jackal’s hand behind this, look to them. You can be sure of it!”
“Did he have enemies?”
“Business rivalries. No one capable of such depravity.”
“How about among his brotherhood?”
“Unlikely. Never more than twenty or so. And all of them perished with him.”
All of them, Fatma thought. So much for her theory.
“Terrible business,” Madame Nabila complained. “No wonder Alexander
