“Not until I work on my squinting. Ever thought of carrying a sword? Maybe a cane?”
“That’s more … your look. Goes with the suits.”
“You know, you’ve never asked me about that. My suits.”
“Should I? You’ve never asked about my stunningly modern hijab.”
Fatma smirked, enjoying the brief reprieve. “We’d better get on to work. There’s probably already a stack for us to go through.”
“Another day hunting down sightings of al-Jahiz,” Hadia sighed. “I’m beginning to suspect that brass and the city administrators just want to keep things quiet until the king’s peace summit. They’re thinking if we don’t go disturbing the wasp’s nest, maybe it’ll stay hidden.”
“You’re not so wrong.”
“Wouldn’t mind a turn with that ash-ghul, though.”
Fatma arched an eyebrow. “Ash-ghul?”
“It’s what I’m going with. Can’t we go talk to that Moustafa again?”
“For him to go on for about the tenth time about the wonders of al-Jahiz? I don’t think he has any real connection to the imposter. He’s just being used.”
“This imposter,” Hadia said. “He’s good at that. Using people. What he was saying Sunday night, about how things are. He wasn’t lying. He was just twisting it, picking at all our raw places. He knew how to turn that crowd against us, and how we’d react.”
Fatma shared the concern. Whoever this imposter was, he’d studied this city. As well as he’d studied al-Jahiz. He wasn’t going to just go away like brass and the administrators hoped. He had a plan. And they needed to figure it out.
A knock came at the door. Fatma moved to open it, finding of all things a courier eunuch. It did its usual greetings and verification, handing her a message before running off. Didn’t anyone just make phone calls anymore? She opened the note, surprised to find it printed in English.
“It’s an invitation,” she read. “From Alexander Worthington. He’s agreed to an interview. I think we just got a chance to find some real clues.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They reached the Worthington estate by mid-morning. The sprawling mansion was more arresting by day as the automated carriage pulled up along the driving path. Several cars were already parked, with well-dressed drivers who lolled about—men accustomed to long waits between jobs.
“We should have talked to him a week ago,” Hadia grumbled, following Fatma out.
“Worthington name has its advantages.”
“Wonder why he decided to meet with us?”
“Can’t say. But the invitation is just for us—not the police. Talking to Aasim makes it look like there’s some criminal mischief. Talking to us—”
“—just makes it look a bit spooky,” Hadia finished.
Fatma eyed her sideways. Siti was such a bad influence.
When they knocked on the door, they were greeted by a man with the bearing of someone who worked for the wealthy. The day steward, it turned out. They were ushered across the large parlor, passing through a bulbous pointed archway.
“This place looks like something from stories I used to read,” Hadia whispered, eyeing the patterned rugs and mashrabiya latticework. “With spoiled princes and enchanted storks.”
“Might get to meet at least one of those.”
The day steward stopped at the library doors, bidding them enter. There were no windows, and a hanging gas lamp lit up the room. But what made Fatma blink were the people.
The stocky man with golden hair, she recalled, was Victor; the dark-haired one, Percival. They wore full-length black kaftans with red tarbooshes. Seated on the modish moss-green divan were three women, each dressed in a black sebleh and wrapped in a milaya lef. Their faces were hidden behind matching bur’a, though their heads were strangely uncovered.
“Agent Fatma,” one called in a familiar voice. Abigail Worthington. The red hair should have been a giveaway, and her still-bandaged left hand. She held an open book in her right—titled in English Mysterious Tales of the Djinn and Orient. One page bore a scantily clad veiled woman, arms up in distress at a menacing djinn with fire emanating from his mouth.
“Aass-a-lamoo Ah-lake-um!” she greeted.
Fatma winced. How did anyone speak Arabic that badly? “And unto you peace,” she replied, in English. “Abigail, this is Agent Hadia. My partner at the Ministry.”
Abigail’s blue-green eyes widened above the bur’a. “Partner? How splendid! Good morning to you, Agent Hadia. As I’ve told Agent Fatma, simply Abbie is fine.”
“Good morning, Abbie,” Hadia replied.
“Oh! Your English is as remarkable as Agent Fatma’s! Is that accent … American?”
“I spent some time there.”
Abigail let out an astonished breath. “Another woman at your Ministry. And well traveled! I was just relating with Bethany and Darlene how advanced your country has become for women—practically leaving us English behind! We’re all féministes, you know. Hardly Pankhursts by any means. But we are fellow travelers in the sisterhood.”
Bethany and Darlene, Fatma recalled, putting names to the brown-haired women flanking Abigail. The Edginton sisters. Their hazel eyes carried that same appraising measure, like cats sizing up a rival.
Victor guffawed. He was drinking again, sipping from a crystal glass. “Give women the vote in England, and soon they’ll have us in the dresses and them in the suits.” He gestured a meaty hand to his gallabiyah and then to Fatma’s attire, before flashing a toothy smile. “No offense meant. Just a bit of English humor.”
“Poor humor,” Percival murmured, burying his moustache in his own drink.
Abigail’s eyes fixed sharp on Victor, and the man turned crimson, downing his glass hurriedly and going into a coughing fit.
“I’m sorry,” Abigail apologized. “Victor inherited the famed Fitzroy tongue. Whole family is forever tripping after their own words. You might recall the more refined Percival Montgomery. Percival, be a dear and help poor Victor. He might choke to death the way he’s going on.” The smaller man sighed, delivering hard slaps to his friend’s back. “Victor’s just sour because he’s not used to the garment.”
Fatma couldn’t resist the question. “Is there a reason for your … garments?”
Abigail blinked. “I thought it obvious. We’re in mourning. My father’s funeral was yesterday. He was so in love with your land, we wanted to honor him by taking on
