We exited the Delage and I had second thoughts about trusting these strangers. If I’d been tricked, then my only option would be to run into the trees. I had no idea where I was, but I was sure the distant rushing sound had to be waves crashing along the beach. If I followed the coast, I could find my way to a town and get help.
Nasira and Sayer scaled the stone steps toward a once magnificent portico darkened by massive columns and a sagging ceiling. Sayer turned halfway and paused.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
Still barefoot, I felt rooted to the cracked and neglected flagstones embedded in the earth. My flight response sang in my veins. At the same time, my heart pressed against my ribcage, a balloon filled with hope that might float to the clouds if it were torn from my chest. I hugged myself against a night chill around my bare legs; I’d have felt naked in my destroyed nightgown if it weren’t for Sayer’s jacket.
“Oh, relax,” Nasira said, exasperated but grinning. “It’s an illusion! The inside is much nicer. Don’t want the milkman stopping by, do we?” She tossed me a wink.
I inhaled, nodding, and followed them up the stairs. Nasira opened the right half of the grand front door and it yielded with a whine, scraping a couple of years’ worth of crunchy, dead leaves aside. She entered first and Sayer stepped to the left to allow me to pass him. I tried not to think about how they had me surrounded, but the instant I saw the splendor of the interior, all sense deserted me.
The entrance hall seemed as wide and tall as my entire crummy boarding house and was lit up bright and golden as day by numerous glittering crystal chandeliers. A magnificent black marble staircase rose into a circular, three-story atrium, each floor lined with a balustrade also of gleaming matching marble. And everywhere people—Medjai, I was certain—milled about with steely expressions.
“But the outside was so dark and quiet!” I exclaimed, unable to hide my amazement.
Nasira cast me a look like she couldn’t believe I was surprised. “I told you—an illusion.”
I stepped forward, my feet tapping the cold, white stone floor, moved by wonder and taking in as much as I could. Suitcases, crates, and boxes, as if no one had bothered to unpack them, were everywhere. As if they hadn’t been here for very long.
“Hello there.”
The speaker was a beautiful, mature woman with honey-brown skin. She wore an eggshell-white cloche hat artfully tilted to one side. Her rich brown hair, the ends flashing with a copper sheen, was cropped at her ears and styled into perfect waves. Gold dust shimmered on her high, elegant cheekbones and her catlike, hazel eyes were elongated with metallic silver-black lines. She wore a fashionable navy wrap dress, belted at her slender waist, which fell to just above her ankles to show off sleek eggshell pumps. She extended a matching gloved hand to shake mine. Even at this late hour, she was immaculately put together.
“This is Ziva,” Nasira declared, and that wonder and disbelief returned to her face, the same emotions I saw earlier when she realized who I was. “We found her.”
“How astonishing it is to meet you, Ziva,” the woman remarked, her burgundy-painted lips smiling, her accent British like the others. “I’m Cyrene Tera, high priestess of the Medjai.”
Cyrene wasn’t what I’d imagined a high priestess to look like. Perhaps I’d expected spotted animal skins and golden diadems—anything but someone who looked like one of the finest ladies to walk Park Avenue.
“Let’s talk,” Cyrene continued, an eager gleam in her dark eyes.
CHAPTER
4
Cyrene Tera beckoned me through the parlor, navigating around plush furniture I didn’t want to soil by touching, down a wide hallway with amber lamps glowing in alcoves, and through a rich mahogany door. We entered a study whose walls were built-in shelves crammed with books and trinkets. Cyrene switched on a stained-glass lamp at the massive desk, illuminating a framed picture of a white family. I wondered if they once called this place home and what had become of them.
“Have a seat, Ziva,” the priestess instructed, gesturing to a leather chair across from the desk.
I glanced at the door, but Sayer and Nasira hadn’t followed us in. A part of me felt a little disappointment they weren’t here to provide a small amount of comforting familiarity to me in a strange place. “Forgive me if I seem overwhelmed and confused,” I told Cyrene.
She leaned forward in her chair. “I can only imagine. You’ve been gone many years. We know you as Ziva Mereniset, the name given to you at birth.”
To not have known your true name and then hear it for the first time was a bizarre experience. I felt like I’d lived a lie or lived a dream and had just woken up. I didn’t feel entirely lucid. But I hadn’t lived a lie. Rose Ellison was someone shaped by loneliness and hardship. She was a survivor. She was me. Ziva Mereniset was a stranger, but I wanted to know her and where she came from—to learn who she could become.
“We Medjai are blessed by the goddess Isis,” Cyrene told me, “given sway over the elements of this earth. Thousands of years ago a man named Narmer climbed into the Atlas Mountains of Algeria to where our people lived and chose us to lead his armies. Together, we united Upper and Lower Egypt and Narmer became the first pharaoh. Isis bid us to swear our lives and our magic to the kings and queens of Egypt forevermore. There hasn’t been a pharaoh for a very long time and we have been lost, for lack of a better word. And you have been literally lost. From us, anyway.”
“Who were my mother and father?” I asked her.
“You were born in Cairo and your parents, Qadir and Satiah, vanished with you when you were three days old.”
Knowing my parents’ names felt satisfying, like fitting another piece into the puzzle of me. “But why? Why did they leave?”
Her face fell. “While your parents never spoke to me about their intention before they left, or since, they must have believed they could protect you better than we could. We tried to follow and bring you home, but we lost you all in the chaos caused by the Great War.”
“Protect me?” Confusion filled my head with bubbles. Her words didn’t correlate with anything that had happened to me. “They abandoned me. I grew up in an orphanage.”
“They would never have done that, Ziva,” Cyrene said with earnest. “You are no ordinary Medjai. You’re descended from royalty. You have queen’s blood.”
I shook my head, all understanding lost. “Forgive me—queen’s blood?”
She leaned forward on the desk. “Through your mother, you are descended from Queen Nefertari, the Great Royal Wife of Ramesses II. She was a Medjai of legendary ability and ruled Egypt’s most prosperous period. A god’s magic made it possible for Nefertari to be resurrected after death, but that spell depended on a celestial phenomenon which took three thousand years to occur.”
“And that is where I come in?” I asked.
Cyrene nodded. “One of her descendants had to be born under a planetary alignment with the center star of Osiris’s Crown, the constellation known to the Greeks as Orion’s Belt. This allowed for a piece of Nefertari’s soul, the life essence known as her ka, to be reborn within a mortal vessel. Her ka was reborn in you, Ziva. And your birth in this period of global turmoil is no coincidence. Our world is on the brink of a second Great War and you can help us resurrect Nefertari to reestablish a golden age—help us to bring back purpose to our people. There are, however, forces which would stop at nothing to prevent us from doing so.”
“Like the kriosphinxes?” I asked.
“They, those who control them, and other, more earthly evils,” she said. “You see, Ziva, before the Great War, there were rules and honor while in combat. We fought hand-to-hand, looked into our opponent’s eyes, and the best warrior won. That honor was lost beneath bombs falling from the clouds and in the trenches—in the fields of buried mines, poison gas plumes, and tangled barbed wire. Soldiers fired bullets into nothingness and prayed they weren’t killed from the bullets sprayed by an enemy whose eyes they never
saw. No one living remembers what the glory of victory feels like. They remember only killing and killing more, until an entire generation was wiped out.
“The Great War caused the economy of Europe to collapse. There are no young people to work. The League of Nations has failed, and a hateful, cataclysmic power is amassing in Germany, one far worse than before. This evil feeds on the fear and suffering of its own people. It will swallow this world, leaving behind unfathomable destruction. You alone are the key to resurrecting a leader of the greatest dynasty in history. Is that something you want to be a part of?” Cyrene looked at me from across the wide desk, her eyes watching closely.
The air burst from me in a short laugh, gruff with astonishment. If I went home, the textile factory would be my prison for the rest of my life, if I was lucky enough to keep the job that long. I would go to bed hungry every night as before.
Or I could have an adventure.
I looked up at Cyrene, her hazel eyes glinting in the lamplight. “I’m in.”
She smiled eagerly. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Tonight, we’ll give you a room, draw you a bath, and provide a change of clean clothing. Tomorrow, you’ll begin to receive all you’ve been denied: an education, training, and dignity.”
“Pardon, ma’am,” I said tightly, deeply offended. “I might never have had a soft bed to sleep in, but I have always had my dignity.”
She frowned. “Forgive me. My words were rude and not representative at all of my impression of you.”
“Which is?” I asked.
Her head tilted slightly to the side and a cunning smile threatened one side of her mouth. “I imagine you have an exquisitely ruthless will to survive.”
Unsure whether that was a compliment or not, I said nothing.
“I do mean to train you, Ziva,” Cyrene continued. “Your blood is that of royalty and warriors. You will become the best of both.”
The moment I allowed myself to acknowledge the cold blanket of exhaustion pressing down on me, its weight tripled. I closed my eyes for some relief, but opened them again as quickly as I could, or else I’d pass out in the chair. A warm bed was a thrilling thought, enough to stir me to my feet.
Cyrene rose with me. “Sayer?”
The study door opened, and he appeared. The late hour didn’t seem to drag on him at all; he seemed as alert as ever, his expression blank and impenetrable. He was intense, and I found myself drawn to watching him, which was likely very strange, but I found looking away challenging. The warm lamplight illuminated the amber in his skin tone and gave his dark eyes an otherworldly glow.
“Yes?” Sayer asked.
“Would you please escort Ziva to an available room?” Cyrene requested.
“Of course,” he replied, and turned his attention to me. “Right this way.”
I followed him into the hallway and down a corridor void of paintings or any other valuable decorations. I couldn’t imagine any treasures at all remaining after the mansion’s owners had abandoned it. This neighborhood had to have been a thief’s paradise.
Sayer led me up a narrow spiral staircase guided by a finely carved wooden railing and lit by the warm glow of lamps set into alcoves. We emerged in a hall and made a left down another.
“Did you . . . know my parents?” I asked, bitterly aware of how awkward I sounded, grasping at any kind of conversation.
He slowed his pace and shot me a glance from the side, one eyebrow raised with interest at me. “I was three when you were born. I remember that day in little pieces, how happy everyone seemed. You are my first memory, I suppose, if that isn’t too odd a thing to say.”
“No, we all have a first memory,” I remarked, thinking of my mine, the one with my mother. “Is there only you and your sister in New York?”
“Mum is here,” he said. “She and my dad can tell you about your parents.”
Sayer smiled, his skin warm and golden in the lamplight, and my breath stalled. Tiny flecks of gold in his dark eyes caught the glow and glimmered. I liked him and again I thought his demeanor was gentler than Nasira’s, though I liked her too. My first impression wasn’t that she was unkind, only that he had a softer heart.
He stopped at a closed door and put a hand on the knob. “I hope this will be comfortable for you.”
“Oh—and please have this back,” I said, suddenly remembering his jacket. I pulled it off and handed it to him. “Thank you. For the coat. For your help.”
He gave me a slow nod of solidarity. “I really didn’t believe we’d ever find you. Sure that we’d been chasing a ghost my entire life.”
“Then it seems I am in as much shock as you are,” I told him.
“And I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he started with an apologetic half-smile, “but I heard what Cyrene said about your ruthlessness. She did not mean ruthless, as in cruel. Rather, unyielding. That you will survive at any cost. And she hadn’t even witnessed what I had tonight. She can tell that by examining the way you carry yourself despite the bites this world has taken from you. I can tell that.”
I stared at him like a fool. There were words somewhere in my head, but I couldn’t grasp them. They flitted around like butterflies.
“I am in astonishment of it all,” he continued. “Everything. You. What you did. Maybe there is something to that queen’s blood of yours after all.”
“Sayer.” All I could say was his name.
He backed away from me, ready to turn and leave. “Goodnight, Ziva.”
I watched him go, chewing the inside of my cheek. “’Night.”
The next morning, I woke more rested and invigorated than I ever had before. I lay in that massive bed for a few moments, willing the comfort to soak into my bones, and I listened to birds singing outside the wide window I’d opened last night before I’d gone to bed. My room had access to a private bathroom—my own toilet! No fighting Nonna Tessio. I could use it whenever I pleased on my own time. I’d filled the bathtub with the hottest water I could tolerate, and it had steamed up my suite so thoroughly I couldn’t see my way through the haze. Opening the window had helped, and it had let in the freshest, most fragrant air I could’ve imagined.
I climbed out of bed and had a sudden sense someone had been in my room while I’d slept. I paused and surveyed the floor and furniture. The ruined nightgown I’d left in a wad by the wall was gone. In its place and spread across the back of a leather chaise was a lovely day dress the color of buttercream. A satin mint belt bound the waist and a pair of matching mint pumps sat on the floor in front of the chair.
I changed, happy to find both the dress and shoes fit nicely, and when I inspected myself in the gilded, full length mirror, part of me wished I had cropped hair like the fashionable girls of New York. Like Cyrene. Of course, I’d never had the money for a proper haircut. On the other hand, my hair was long and curly like Nasira’s, and I’d rather look like her.
A bowl loaded with fruit had been placed on a marble sideboard table. My stomach knotted itself and I eagerly approached. Tangy oranges, rich bananas, and crisp black grapes—grapes! I dived in, crushing as much as I could into my mouth, savoring the crash of different flavors all at once. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fruit in front of me, but I thought of Christmas mornings when each of us children at the orphanage found an orange in our stocking. Those oranges had been small and a little mushy, but the oranges I enjoyed now were as big as my whole hand and dense with juice.
A smile pinched my cheeks. The dress hugged my waist, hinting at curves I might have had if I got some real food in me. I swiveled left and right, watching the pleated hem swing around my ankles, imagining myself as one of the pretty girls who went dancing with friends and boys. I was sure I was in a fairy tale, one just like I’d read in books with Jean. I wondered if I’d ever see her again.
I tousled and freshened up my hair before twisting the curls into shape with my fingers, and when I was ready, I opened my bedroom door to find Nasira leaning against the wal
l across the corridor. She surprised me so much I stumbled in my heels.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully, wearing similar combat gear to what she wore last night. When a moment ago I imagined myself a debutante, now my pretty dress felt very out of place and impractical.
“Hello,” I said in return. “Were you waiting for me?”
“I thought of you,” she admitted, “and decided if I were in a strange place full of strange people, I’d like a familiar face to show me around.”
Surprise filled me like sunlight, warm and pleasant. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s very kind. I suppose I’ve never had someone like that.”
Sunlight glimmered gold on her cheeks. “To show you around?”
“To think of me.”
Her smile dimmed a little. “Oh.”
Nasira fell quiet and heat rushed into my face with embarrassment. I must’ve appeared pitiful to her and I hated pity. A poor girl with no family, money, or future. With no one. Nothing. Starved and wary like a stray dog.
“If I seemed cold last night, please forgive me,” she said. “I’m cautious. And protective. I don’t want to see you as an outsider, because you’re not.”
“I appreciate that,” I told her, but wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Well,” she started, “are you hungry?”
My gaze shifted from her to my room and back. “There was a bowl of fruit in my room this morning, so I already ate, but thank you.”
“That’s not breakfast,” Nasira said, her smile returning. “There’s plenty more downstairs.”
“There’s more?”
“Come on.”
She gestured for me to follow her. She led me into a hallway I hadn’t seen yet. Medjai bustled about their morning business and largely avoided eye contact. Their chins and gazes held steady on the empty air in front of them or on whatever they carried in their hands—stacks of books or wooden crates filled with packing paper and stone figures.
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