His mouth covered hers in a brief kiss. “Indeed, was your innocence that drew me to you,” he said, and nipped the corner of her mouth before nodding toward Alexandria. “I’ve not been here in years. You?”
Eleanor leaned back into his hold once more, studying the city from the sky. Alexandria sprawled in a way Cairo did not, a far-reaching crescent against the glittering sea. Atop the lotus-shaped flood basin of the Nile, Alexandria clung to the side like a petal about to be flung into deep waters. Within the sky high above the harbor, airships hovered, throwing broad shadows upon the moored ships below. These ships dotted the harbor where Queen Cleopatra’s palace had once stood, and while the lighthouse that rose at the harbor’s mouth was not original, Eleanor had no trouble imagining it to be. She pictured the ancient library and light, didn’t even have to close her eyes to visualize the way the palace had looked so near the waters, brightened by torchlight every evening.
“Never,” she admitted, and perhaps this explained the way she drank the view in. She looked at Alexandria with hopeful eyes, wondering if she might make it her own. A place uncontaminated by her parents’ wishes and footsteps, a city that was not tied to her mother’s disappearance into the past.
“Never,” Mallory echoed, unable to mask the surprise in his voice.
He was a difficult one to surprise and Eleanor took a little pride in the fact that she had done so now, even over so small a matter. “My parents and I passed through Alexandria, but I’ve never been here as an adult. It was always ever Cairo, Giza, points further south, because that’s what drew my mother’s interest.”
Now, Alexandria drew hers.
The Jackal, under the steady command of the ever-conversational Agent Gin, found a vacant slot in the airborne yards above the Alexandrian harbor. They disembarked upon the platforms that for Eleanor called to mind the lattices of the Eiffel Tower. She rather wondered if it was the same for Mallory, given the way his mouth twisted at the sight of it. Auberon preceded them toward the end of the platform to register the ship’s arrival. Beyond this station, Eleanor spied Cleo Barclay, looking a little ill at ease as she awaited them near the elevators to the ground level of the shipyard.
Eleanor was eager to have the opportunity to work with her again. Given that Cleo had overseen the care of her grandmother’s mummy all these years, Eleanor cherished the friendship they were fostering. On the surface, it was a simple thing; the mummy being item kept in storage, one Cleo had not been allowed to examine. But for Eleanor it went deeper. While Cleo had pushed when it had been necessary for Eleanor to admit uncomfortable truths, Cleo had also shown an understanding that Eleanor would not soon forget.
She stepped away from Mallory and Auberon, to move through a variety of passengers, dragomen, captains, and cargo that maneuvered about the platform. Through the metal grates, she could see straight down into the harbor waters far below. Cleo looked less at ease than Eleanor felt, holding herself rigidly straight, her own linen duster neatly pressed, revealing only the hem of her black dress beneath. The humidity was having its way with her black hair, fluffing the curls into a cloud around her shining brown face. Eleanor wondered if the tension in Cleo had to do with the setting and a general fear of heights—Cleo had never possessed such before—or the gentlemen who remained busy registering The Jackal for its stay in the yard.
“Egypt does agree with you,” Cleo said as she approached, and the two embraced as if sisters, not mere friends who had only met two months prior.
“And you.” Eleanor kissed Cleo’s cheek and pressed a small wood box into Cleo’s mechanical hands. The hands, made of copper and gold and other fine metalwork, grasped the box perfectly despite its delicate nature, cogs and gears adjusting to the size of the box to leave not a single breath between metal and wood.
“You did not have to bring me anything,” Cleo said, but the smile that split her mouth said she was pleased indeed.
“Oh, but I did,” Eleanor said, and nodded to the box. “Go on. Before they finish with the registrar.”
Cleo slid a metal finger beneath the simple gold latch; the box opened to reveal an interior lined in violet velvet. Nestled within the velvet walls was a small ceramic inkwell. Cleo drew it out and laughed softly at the sight of it; it depicted a nude woman cradling an eggplant that was nearly as large as she was, gazing tenderly at its frilled stem.
“Eleanor! It’s…” Cleo’s cheeks grew pink.
“It’s entirely French and otherwise unexplainable,” Eleanor said.
“I cannot thank you properly. It’s wondrous.”
“You can,” Eleanor said, “every time you send a letter.”
While Cleo collected inkwells, Eleanor didn’t think this one would go upon the shelf with the others, but would see good and constant use. It was too amusing to put away. Eleanor glanced at the gentlemen, then back to Cleo, who had not wanted Auberon to know they had maintained any kind of correspondence. Given her collection, the gift was not entirely strange, but Eleanor was not surprised when Cleo slipped the box into a pocket. She wanted to tell Cleo that Auberon had missed her, but believed Cleo already knew this, too. It was in every line of her body as she lifted her chin and stood straighter at their approach.
“Gentlemen,” Cleo said.
“Lady,” Virgil said and made her a sloppy bow. The bow from Auberon was more formal, reserved.
“Miss Barclay.”
Cleo’s lips pressed into a firm line before she said, “Our auction is this evening—at the entirely improper hour of eleven P.M., so I am positive we will encounter all manner of unsavory people in this endeavor.” She turned and headed for the elevator. “In the meantime, I thought we could see you all fed and settled at the hotel.” Her mouth moved into an unexpected smile. “Boiled eels are on the menu.”
Eleanor blanched but didn’t miss Auberon’s echoing and unexpected smile.
* * *
January-February 1887 – Alexandria, Egypt
The palm-sized bee might have gone unnoticed but for its color. Cleo crouched amid the rubble and smiled down at the carnelian that peeked beyond the ordinary brick and stucco that had been tumbled by British assault.
“Hello, pretty,” she said.
The British attack on Alexandra was still evident five years later depending on where one wandered. As debris was yet cleared away, as buildings were reclaimed and repurposed, the ancient Alexandria was still giving itself up bit by bit. The Sirocco branch of Mistral had been contacted after the discovery of the carnelian bee along with a few other items that couldn’t be easily explained. Cleo hoped that she along with her team, could assemble the puzzle of what was here, of where the items had possibly come from.
She did not mind the heat of the day, letting the sun bake against her back while she sketched the position of the bee amid the rubble and streets. It was not the bee’s original position, to be sure, but she believed some context was better than none when it came to projects such as this. She didn’t want to look back years from now and wonder how she had come to find it.
Once done, she slipped her book into her duster’s jacket and drew on her work gloves, to begin moving the bricks one by one. A worker had spied the carnelian and had wisely left the debris alone, fearful of what he might destroy if he continued moving it. Cleo thought she owed that man a thanks, a bottle of wine, a something. These days, it was far too common for the old to be swept away in light of the incoming new—especially given the British occupation. Most did not care for Egypt, beyond what they had learned of Napoleon’s conquests and defeats, or Nelson’s great victory.
When at last she could extract the bee from its resting place, she did so with a soft breath, blown upon the stone itself to ease away the last of the debris that clung to it. The fine lines etched into wings, and a proud face, made themselves known as the dust lifted away. Through her gloves, she discerned the line of a broken hinge and carefully turned it over, wondering if it had been part of a necklace, a bracelet, or even an ornam
ent upon a crown.
“What else is here?” she asked herself and surveyed the modern street around her. It was certainly not a place she imagined one would discover treasures of the ancient world.
Once the carnelian bee was safely settled into a muslin lined box, she stood, and clapped her hands together. A cloud of dust rose from her gloves, then dissipated, giving way to the sight of her team walking the streets, taking careful note of what they found. What they found only served to intrigue Cleo more; there was evidence of a temple in the area, but where? Did only fragments remain?
The evening found them settled in the awkwardly-named Twelve Palms Hotel—eight of the twelve palms victims of the British bombing. Cleo was pouring herself tea where there came a knock upon her door. She was not expecting anyone, and certainly not the tall black man she found in the hallway once she had opened the door. She stared longer than was polite, as he removed his hat and brushed a hand over hair that could have used oil to tame itself into order. Beneath his coal black coat, his waistcoat was the blue of the Mediterranean, and this sent a chill down Cleo’s spine; he was unusual, in addition to being unexpected. But when her eyes fell upon the metal Mistral pin that decorated his coat, she reconsidered.
“Agent,” she said, but did not yet step back to allow him entry.
He withdrew a slim leather case and spread it open, to show his Mistral identification, and when Cleo noted that he was from the Paris office, she stepped back to allow him entry, knowing from experience that he would not be turned away.
“Michael Auberon,” he said. “You can call me Auberon, Agent Barclay.”
He strode into the room and Cleo closed the door behind him, watching as he drew his coat off and placed it over the back of the sofa. She exhaled and plucked a second teacup from the cupboard on her way back to the tea service, determined to be polite to a fellow agent, an agent who had possibly come to take her work from her. She sat and poured and did not lean back into the chair, because she knew, just knew, that he had come to take what she had been given.
“Agent Auberon,” she said. “If this is about the discovery—” Cleo broke off, expecting him to interrupt, but he did not. Surprised by this, she found herself on unfamiliar ground. He watched her, in no apparent hurry. “I want to see this through.”
Auberon nodded, and folded his identification into his waistcoat. “And you shall,” he said. When Cleo offered him the tea, he nodded and she poured. “You know how Paris can be, Agent. They prefer someone on scene, in the middle of things, but I’ve no intention of impeding your progress here. If I’m able, and if you would have it, I would be happy to help. From what I’ve overheard, some wonderful things have been discovered already. Unexpected items, to say the least, given what we know of the region.”
Cleo relaxed at this, wondering if she had been sent an ally after all. Talking with Auberon long past the point the tea had gone cold put her further at ease and by the time he left, she was more than eager for the next days’ work, pleased when she found him already on the site, marking a survey line.
His presence lent her stability and confidence in the dig; while she might have complained that her team appeared more willing to listen to instruction from him, Auberon never overstepped his boundaries and never took the reins from Cleo’s hands. While their mornings were always early, to avoid working in the worst heat of the day, they came to spend the evenings together, talking over tea and dinner, and sometimes music. Often, there came to be dancing on the cracked alley patios of the cafés that everyone warned them away from, but where they found the best food.
It was in late February they solved the puzzle, the riddle of the carnelian honeybee in the middle of an otherwise ordinary and modern Alexandrian street. Their work traced a slow and steady path away from the harbor, to a stretch of road that looked like any other. Cleo presumed it to be another dead end, just as the road crumbled to dust beneath her feet.
She could compare the experience to nothing she had known before. She had slipped down countless sand dunes, but this was nothing like that; the world was solid beneath her feet and then, gone. The afternoon sun vanished, a vast underground space opening around her. It was wholly black and humid, and when she landed—hard on her left side—she was drenched in sweat, her hair plastered over her eyes.
“Cleo!”
The terrified scream came from Auberon high above. She lifted a hand, but could not see it in front of her face. The hole she had fallen through looked small—she could not guess how high it was, but Auberon’s shadow was even smaller. The sunlight that pricked through the hole was inconsequential to where she now found herself.
She crawled forward, one hand held before her. The ground grew damp, then puddled, and her outstretched hand pressed against a column, which under her questing fingers revealed itself to be a statue, with a foot and a leg, and the pleated shendyt that could have belonged to anyone in Egyptian history. She examined the statue with both hands, the stone remarkably smooth under her touch, then its base, where she traced hieroglyphics, and discovered the impression of a bird or a…
“Honeybee!”
But at this word, the world around her crumbled again. She did not fall this time, but rather the world tumbled down on her. The ancient statue buckled and fell under the weight of the collapsing cavern.
“Cleo!”
The statue broke at the knees, pressing Cleo forward and down. She could not stop it, and knew this—every bit of her training told her no, no—but she raised her hands even so, pressing against the limestone even as it crushed her down. She screamed only once, as the statue came to rest across her arms; as it pinned and broke her and took from her almost everything she had known.
* * *
1889 – Alexandria, Egypt
The warehouse stood amid countless others identical in façade and form, if not what was collected within. At first glance, one could not tell any of them apart, so alike were their brick and wood faces; Virgil, who had spent a good many hours roaming buildings of ill-repute when seeking opium, found nothing suspect but for the flickering lantern near a door guarded by a man dressed in a flowing linen toga. The evening was warm enough the man was barefooted, bare brown arms gleaming in the lantern light. Virgil raised an eyebrow at this as he, Eleanor, Cleo, and Auberon disembarked from the carriage that had carried them to the docks.
“The rumor proves true,” Cleo murmured to Eleanor and withdrew the invitation she had been sent. “I wonder if they will have Cleopatras inside.”
“You hope they have a thousand Cleopatras, you mean,” Eleanor said with a mischievous smile that tugged at Virgil’s awareness. He reined it in as best he could.
The invitation Cleo held was heavy cream paper, handwritten with an ink the color of a mummy or its wrappings; the gold sealing wax that had secured it was still attached and Virgil noticed now how the wax had been dribbled across the invitation innards themselves. It gave the impression of something old, yet valuable still. The wax sparked in the lamplight as they neared the entry.
Cleo showed the attendant the invitation, but even before she did, Virgil noted the way he had stepped back, giving the door a little push to swing it inward. They were known and expected, then, and this set Virgil further on edge. It was not so surprising, given they had an invitation, however the guard had barely glanced at it, more interested in Cleo herself. Virgil disliked that he had not been able to assess the location prior to their attendance; anything might catch them unawares. He preferred locations he knew, filled with people he knew, so he took in all he could as they passed through the door and it closed behind them.
It appeared to be no more than a warehouse; the alcove they passed through gave way to a four-storied space, every level packed with crates. The ceiling high above was glass, long panes set within wrought iron, ankh-adorned frames. The ankhs were as tall as Virgil himself, throwing shadows over everything below, cloaking the contents of the warehouse in a shroud of apparent immortality. The lowest le
vel of the warehouse was set up for the auction, a space of chairs arrayed before crated and boxed goods; wide doors stood open beyond this space, a ship still docked outside. Virgil wondered if they were unloading even now; it was not unheard of to have last minute additions that would garner larger prices from an eager crowd.
Beyond the dozen or so women dressed as Cleopatra and wandering the floor, he found the crowd somewhat unremarkable and plain. It was as most any other auction would be, a collection of dusty older men, likely curators or fortune hunters, looking to buy what they could not themselves discover. Parting with money was easy for these chaps; doing the actual work of discovery was too dear. There were a good many of these men, in carefully pressed suits and ties, and a woman who sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap. Her dark eyes darted from people to objects and back again, as if she were making a concerted effort not to run from the room.
Eleanor leaned into his arm and whispered, drawing his attention to another woman. This woman stood near a crate, examining its handwritten label. Virgil knew her, but could not immediately say how or where he might have met her. He guessed her Egyptian by birth, though her dark hair had been spun into finest silver, braided into a bun atop her head. She wore a dress that looked somehow out of place, even as it looked properly at home; outdated, but in this room filled with treasures of the ancient world, what did such a phrase even mean?
“Do you know her?” Virgil asked Eleanor and would have sworn she laughed, even though only her brow lifted.
“I do and so should you,” Eleanor said. “She was with the Defenders in the canyon, and later with my mother.”
Virgil’s throat tightened and he could not help the way his arm came around Eleanor, as if the silver-haired woman meant to spirit her into the distant past once more. Virgil didn’t know enough about the Defenders of the Protectorate to not find them suspicious; they loved Egypt without question, but used extreme means to see her protected. Silver-haired Akila and her people of the canyon served Egypt in this time and in the distant past Eleanor’s mother now called home. Akila had wanted to take Cleo and study her arms, had wanted to keep them all prisoner in her canyon home so they wouldn’t unravel the mystery of Anubis’s rings.
The Honey Mummy (Folley & Mallory Adventure Book 3) Page 4