“Mourning veils?” Hadia asked.
Abigail pulled down the bur’a, confused. “Isn’t that what they’re for?”
“You mean we don’t have to wear these?” Darlene Edginton asked, ripping hers off.
“Thank God!” her sister followed. “How do you even breathe?”
Hadia stared open-mouthed. Fatma headed things off with a question. “We’ve come at the invitation of your brother?”
Abigail nodded. “Alexander’s upstairs. I’ll take you.” She stood, wrapping the milaya lef awkwardly over one arm before turning to her friends. “Go easy on the scotch. We’ve a long day ahead.”
She led them from the library and down the hall. As they walked, a faint clanging came to Fatma’s ears, conjuring images of a hammer striking metal. She remembered hearing it on her last visit. She’d thought her mind was playing tricks, but it was clearer now. Then it was gone. Maybe there were workers on the premises?
“Have you read this book, Agent Fatma?” Abigail asked. She held up the text she still carried. “It’s written by one of England’s foremost Orientalists. With stories of djinn and magic and the like. Quite informative!”
Fatma glanced to the book, remembering its sensational content. It looked like utter nonsense. Most of these “Orientalists” thought their bad translations and wrongheaded takes might help them better understand the changes sweeping the world. It seemed reading from actual Eastern scholars was beneath them.
“From what I’ve heard,” Abigail went on, her tone darkening, “that dreadful man in the gold mask I encountered has been causing mischief all through Cairo. There was a riot of some sort? And he’s calling himself after that Soudanese fellow.”
“Al-Jahiz,” Fatma affirmed as they began climbing the absurdly long set of stairs. “Is your hand better?”
Abigail flinched at mention of her bandaged appendage. “The doctors say I’ve sprained it with my clumsiness. May take weeks to heal.” Her tone shifted. “The papers claim this man killed my father. And all those poor people.”
“He’s confessed to it,” Fatma confirmed.
Abigail stopped, leaning against the railing and swaying as if she might faint. She caught herself, shaking her head at their concerns. When she spoke again, her voice was strained. “Why would he do this? What did my father do to him?”
“We don’t know,” Fatma answered truthfully. “We’re hoping your brother might be able to help.” She paused before making her next statement. “You told us your brother was overseas, the night of your father’s murder. But he was here in Cairo.”
Abigail’s blue-green eyes glazed in confusion. “Alexander arrived the next day. True enough, he was already en route to Cairo, unbeknownst to me. But he wasn’t here. Not that night. I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
Fatma searched her face. “Perhaps we are. Thank you.” They resumed their walk, and Hadia shared a critical glance. So much for needling a different story from the woman.
“This man in the gold mask,” Abigail said shakily. “Do you think he might return here? To come after my brother and me?”
“It’s possible,” Fatma conceded. “We don’t know his motive. If you’d like, we can see about having the Giza police provide a guard for your estate.”
“Yes. That’s a splendid idea. I’ll bring it up to Alexander.”
She fell into idle chatter, pointing out the ornamentations of the house. It turned out the estate had been the hunting lodge of the old basha, sold to Alistair Worthington back in 1898.
“That’s around the same time the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz was founded,” Hadia noted.
“Four years after my mother passed away,” Abigail replied. “I was seven when she died. Alexander was ten and remembers things better than me. He says it was her death that drew my father’s interest in al-Jahiz. Father believed that had England taken the mystic arts more seriously, my mother could have been saved from the consumption that claimed her. He bought this lodge and had it refashioned toward that goal. He liked the view.” She gestured with her book to a window, where the pyramids loomed.
“Is that where he got the design for his brotherhood?” Fatma asked. “The six-pointed star. Two interlocking pyramids.” She sketched the symbol with her fingers.
“Clever of you to notice. He claimed it came to him in a vision. That it held some great meaning that evaded him. Together we would stare at it, hoping to puzzle it out.”
“But you weren’t a member of his organization?”
Abigail let out a light laugh. “Heavens no. My father didn’t take the term ‘Brotherhood’ lightly. He might talk to his daughter of his explorations while thumbing through old books. But the Brotherhood was for men. Though in the end, I understand he allowed a native woman to take part. My brother fears his mind was slipping.”
“Your brother, however, was a member,” Hadia said.
“At Father’s insistence.” There was an awkward pause. “Alexander and Father didn’t see eye to eye on such things. After acquiring the estate Father was often here in Egypt—half the year at times. Alexander went off to boarding school at a military academy. I was left with nursemaids and tutors back in England. But Father started sending for me to spend time with him as he built his brotherhood and hunted after relics. When he moved here permanently, I stayed a year or two off and on. He confided in me about his quest, as if I were Mother. I even helped read through his strange books and manuscripts. It’s why I’m so well acquainted with the native culture.”
Not acquainted enough, Fatma thought. She held her tongue, though she wasn’t certain how many more times she could stomach the word “native.” They reached the top of the stairs, turning left.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t the same for poor Alexander,” Abigail continued. “He only visited infrequently. Egypt’s still all a foreign place to him. And he never took to Father’s society. I’m sure he only joined to receive his inheritance. But look at me going on about my brother’s business. I’m certain he can speak for himself.”
She led them to the place Fatma had visited previously—the ritual room of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz.
