“Agent Fatma?”
Fatma turned to find a tall woman striding toward her. Abigail Worthington—who’d thankfully decided to not make mockery of local customs. She wore a rose-colored evening gown that flowed with the airy feel of chiffon and satin. A black silk sash finished with silver and pearls cinched at the waist, and purple lilacs were worked onto the shoulders. It was eye-catching enough to almost miss the bandage still covering her right hand. Behind came the usual retinue—Darlene and Bethany, in matching wine-hued gowns, their hazel eyes judgmental. Broad-chested Victor and the ever-smirking Percival brought up the rear, in black tuxedos.
“Good evening, Abigail,” Fatma greeted. Then remembering, “I mean, Abbie.”
“I hadn’t expected to see you here!” She used her uninjured hand to pat dark red tresses piled into a fanciful pompadour, then leaned in to whisper. “I heard of the attack on the Ministry! Horrid! Do you expect that … madman … to appear here?” Fear tinged her voice.
“We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Fatma assured. She looked over the small group. “Where’s your brother?”
Abigail sighed, making a face. “Alexander shall be a late body. Spent all day again with his head in the company books. I’m sure he’ll be along presently.”
Fatma frowned. “I’d think he’d want to be here. This summit was your father’s doing.”
Abigail gazed about with a fond sadness in her blue-green eyes. “Father would have been so proud. He very much wanted to see more peace in this world.”
“We all do,” Fatma replied.
A cough came from Victor—who was eyeing a boilerplate eunuch with a tray of drinks.
“That, I believe, is my cue,” Abigail said. “Victor feared this entire event would be dry. Or worse, only stocked with wine. I think he’s happy to see stiffer refreshments provided for we Occidentals. If you will excuse me, agent.” She turned, leading her troupe in search of likely mischief. Fatma shook her head. What it would be like to have no responsibility beyond her own whims. Speaking of which, it was time to start up her rounds again.
She began her way through the garden, eyes sharp. She hadn’t gotten a quarter of the way before someone tapped her shoulder.
“Pardon me, zir.”
Fatma turned to face a tall woman in a long white gossamer dress. Her face was hidden behind a cloud of a veil strung with pearls and capped by a broad white hat. She spoke English, but with a strong French accent.
“I wuz wondering where I might find ze powder room?”
Fatma gestured to the palace. “There’s a place to freshen up in there.”
“Ah! Magnifique! And tell me, how might I get you out of that fabulous zoot?”
Fatma started—then noticed the silver brooch pinned on the right side of the woman’s gown. A carving of a snarling lioness. Dark smoky eyes stared back. Familiar eyes. One winked.
“Siti?” she blurted out.
A chuckle came from behind the veil. “Had you going there.”
Fatma was at a loss. “What are you doing here? How are you even here?”
Siti tapped the lioness brooch. “Merira knows … people. Got an invitation.” She produced a small letter between white-gloved fingers, addressed to some woman Fatma never heard of, with a French name.
“Siti, you can’t just crash a royal event!”
The woman waved the invitation about. “Not crashing. Invited.”
“That’s not you.”
“Non? But who elz would it be?” Siti asked, that silly French accent returning.
Fatma released a breath, trying to keep patient. “I’m working here.”
“I’m working too,” Siti replied, shifting back to Arabic. “Merira wants me here. In case our friend shows his face. He’s decided to take on the temples. Set people after us. Well, we’re not taking it lying down.”
“If you’re found out—”
Siti scoffed. “Found out? As if it’s hard to play and act among this lot. Look at them. That’s all they do—play and act. Not a real face in the bunch.” She laughed throatily. “In a crowd like this, I can fit right in.”
As if to prove her point, she whirled to a passing man and rattled off something in that French-accented English. He appeared startled, but stammered back in what she thought was German. In moments he was escorting her to a waiting boilerplate eunuch offering drinks. Siti laughed richly with him, turning to spare a winking glance.
The woman is incorrigible, Fatma thought. And she looks good in that dress too.
“I think that German will propose marriage before the evening is through,” someone assessed. A woman stood near, watching Siti’s antics with amusement. She looked in her thirties, with a plumpness that extended to her round cheeks. Her English carried inflections from the western parts of the continent. Her dress—with its bright greens and blues—bore the same. But what stood out was her company.
Standing beside the woman was a djinn. Tall and striking, her deep blue skin was wrapped in robes as gold as her twisting horns, though her face was a stark chalk white—so that it looked as if she wore a mask. Dizzying scents surrounded her—frankincense and cracked shea nuts, fragrant peppers and sweetened coconuts. She peered down imperiously with bright silver eyes, and Fatma pulled her gaze away, feeling flustered.
The woman, not appearing to notice, still stared after Siti—head cocked beneath a sun-yellow hijab that seemed more an elaborate crown. “I wager she’s very interesting to be around. I saw you talking. You are a friend of hers? But forgive me my manners. I’m Amina.”
“Fatma. Happy chance at meeting you.”
“I’m happier.” The woman smiled. She gestured to the djinn. “This is Jenne.”
Fatma turned back to acknowledge the djinn, then did a double take. Jenne was now a man—no less imperious or striking, and with those same
