The scent clung to my skin and I walked out onto the balcony that joined my room with the others, restless in the soft night. I heard the muezzin’s call to prayer and somewhere a Christian church’s bells chimed the hour. It was very late, and a cloud crossed the moon, throwing the balcony into heavy shadow. The songbirds in the courtyard below had tucked their heads under their wings and gone to sleep, but I heard a soft sound that might have been a dove coo. A frisson of awareness shivered my skin. For just a moment I fancied I was not alone. I opened my mouth to call a name, but stopped. I was letting the moon and the heady fragrance play havoc with my common sense, I told myself firmly. There was no one in the shadows. I went to my bed then, leaving the shutters open to the jasmine-scented night, but I did not sleep. Not for a very long time.
The next morning, the colonel dictated a chapter of his memoirs, reciting endless details about the First Boer War until I wanted to scream with boredom. I considered faking a faint, but just as I put the back of my hand to my brow, a better notion occurred to me.
“Colonel,” I said quickly. “I do hate to interrupt you—really, it’s all been most interesting, but I must get on with the typing soon and I’ve just remembered the typewriter needs a fresh ribbon. Do you suppose there’s a stationer’s shop or something where I could find one?”
The story was the rankest lie. I had changed the ribbon only the week before. But it was as good an excuse as any, and he nodded.
“Yes, yes, of course” he said, waving a hand. “Bound to be one. You must ask Talbot to go with you,” he added slyly, and I wondered, not for the first time, if he were deliberately playing the matchmaker.
I gave him a prim smile and tamped the pages of notes and tucked them away. In spite of the colonel’s attempt to throw us together, I was rather glad of a little time to myself and slipped out of the hotel alone. Damascus was teeming with life, perhaps more so than any city I had ever seen. A quick chat with the hotel porter had provided the address of the stationer’s shop, and I made my way there on foot, taking in the sights and smells as I walked. A vendor in the street sold kebabs, the meat juicy and succulent and wafting the most extraordinarily delicious aromas, while others hawked cooling sherbets or roasted nuts. A pack of small boys chased a stray dog past a woman who sat on the kerb, crafting paper roses with nimble fingers. I stopped for a moment to watch. Her hands were gnarled but somehow supple, moving swiftly to transform a square of rough paper into something beautiful if fleeting. She scented each with a mist of rosewater, just to heighten the illusion. Behind her, the doors of a local coffee house had been thrown open, and the noise of friendly arguments—in French and Arabic and Turkish—spilled out into the street. I stood a moment longer before I felt a light touch on my shoulder.
I turned to find Armand looking down at me with rueful amusement. “Miss March, what a delightful surprise to find you out and about in my city.”
I lifted a brow. “Is it a surprise?”
To his credit, he laughed. “Not at all. Faruq delivered me to your hotel just as you left. I saw you ask the porter for directions. It took only a very small coin to ask him where he sent you.”
“And now you have found me.”
“That I have.” He indicated the direction of the shop. “Will you permit me to escort you to the shop?”
I felt a flutter of irritation. I was vastly enjoying my time alone, but I couldn’t very well insult a connection of the colonel’s. “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to disarrange your day on my behalf,” I said.
“But it is the greatest pleasure,” he assured me.
He took my elbow and we began to walk. “Tell me, Miss March, what do you think of my city?”
“I like it,” I told him truthfully. “Very much.”
“Is it so? But it is very different to London,” he said.
I darted a look at him, wondering for one mad instant if he knew my real identity, but his face betrayed nothing. He had not mentioned New York, I reminded myself, and if he’d known the name Penelope Hammond, he would have.
He was waiting for a response, and I smiled. “Very different, and that’s what I like. London is very polite and beautiful, of course, but Damascus is full of life and so colourful.”
“You are very kind,” he murmured. “Ah, here is the shop.”
He gestured for me to go inside, but did not follow. “I will await you here, unless you would care for some assistance in making your purchase?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. I pushed my way into the shop, pleased to find it was a wonderful mixture of old and new. There were beautiful marbled papers, so thick and lovely it would have been a crime to write upon them. Wide shelves held finely-tooled leather blotters of every description with portfolios and cases. Another set of shelves held bottles of ink, shimmering like dark jewels in the dim, cool light of the shop. I paused to admire them and the proprietor approached.
“Assalam aleikum, mademoiselle. Good day to you,” he said.
He was an elderly gentleman, bald as an egg but with a luxuriant beard and eyebrows even more lavish than the colonel’s.
“Aleikum assalam,” I returned.
He broke into a wide smile. “Your accent is very good, but you are not a speaker of Arabic, I think.”
“You’ve just heard the only two words I know,” I confessed. “I’m very glad you speak English.”
“But of course, mademoiselle,” he said gravely. “It is a courtesy to my customers. Will you permit me to show you my shop?”
He took me on a tour then, pointing out the beautiful pens from France, the exquisite workmanship of the blotters—“Crafted here in Damascus by the finest leather workers, mademoiselle!”—and opened bottles of scented ink to waft under my nose. “Can you smell the rose in this one? And here, you must try this. It smells of violets, a favourite scent of Napoleon, you know,” he advised as he held out a bottle of ink the colour of crushed blackberries.
“They’re divine,” I told him. “But I really only need a typewriter ribbon.”
He spread his hands. “Yes, this I have, but first you must be cared for. Tea, mademoiselle,” he pronounced. He made a quick click of his tongue and a boy scurried out of the back room bearing a tray with a pot and two glasses. The proprietor gestured towards the corner of the shop, where he had arranged a small seating area. “Here we will drink tea together,” he told me as he plumped up a cushion for my comfort. The seating area was cosy and it afforded an excellent view of the street. I glanced out to see Armand standing, smoking a thin black cigarette. He looked as if he were brooding, and I turned to the proprietor with an apologetic shrug.
“It’s so kind of you, but I’m not sure I ought to. You see, I have a friend waiting,” I told him with a nod towards Armand.
The proprietor smiled. “Is he a Damascene?”
“Yes.”
“Then he understands the proper way that things must be done,” he informed me. He poured out the tea—mint and heavily sweetened. “You see, mademoiselle, it is very important that all things are civilised. You come to my business to purchase a typewriter ribbon. This is a small thing. I could give you the ribbon and take your money and it would be the matter of mere minutes. But I do not like this way. It is impersonal. Now you have seen my shop. You have been made comfortable and been given tea and a place to sit to refresh yourself. The boy will bring your ribbon when we have finished and I will send a bill later. This is civilised,” he finished firmly.
“Very much so,” I told him. “And if you’re sure the gentleman won’t mind—”
The elderly man’s eyes twinkled. “It does not hurt a man to wait on a pretty girl.”
He refreshed my tea then and we sat and talked for some time. He told me about his wife of forty years and his four sons—“Three of them are handsome and stupid. One is clever and has the face of a dog.” He
asked many questions about England in turn, and was particularly interested in Queen Mary. “I think she is a fine figure of a woman. She looks very like my wife,” he told me, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Then you are a lucky man,” I said in a slightly strangled voice. I had never heard anyone call Queen Mary a fine figure of a woman, but the old fellow was very kind and when we had finished our tea, he summoned the boy again and in a very few minutes the ribbon appeared, neatly wrapped in a paper parcel and tied with wax string.
“As you requested, mademoiselle,” the proprietor told me, presenting it with as much ceremony as if it were a jewel.
“Thank you—” I hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
He put his hand to his heart in a courtly gesture. “I am Mohammed, mademoiselle. And you are Mademoiselle March at the Hotel Palmyra,” he recited. “You see, I remember. I am an old man, but I do not forget.”
“And I won’t forget you, monsieur. Thank you for a lovely introduction to your shop.”
“You must come again,” he said, bowing once more. He glanced out the window to where Armand had been standing. “And I was right. It has made your gentleman friend no trouble to wait. He has met an acquaintance,” he pointed out.
I looked past him to see Armand in conversation with Hugh. The conversation did not appear entirely friendly. Armand was listening with a raised brow, his lips thin with irritation. But whatever Hugh said, it must have struck home, for Armand finally lifted his hand in annoyance and made a gesture as if to swat away a fly.
By the time I said goodbye to Mohammed and made my way onto the street, they had smoothed things over. Hugh was looking a trifle flushed, but smiled when he saw me, and Armand was wearing his usual unruffled expression.
“My dear Miss March, I hope you found all that you required?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting for so long,” I began, but he brushed away my excuses.
“This is the gateway to the East, Miss March,” he said lightly. “All transactions take time. It would be uncivilised to do otherwise.”
“So I’ve been told. Hullo,” I said formally.
Hugh inclined his head. “The colonel sent me to find you. He seemed to think he’d instructed you to take me along on your errand today and seemed a trifle put out to find you’d left without me.”
“Did he?” I asked, opening my eyes very wide. “How curious. I must have misunderstood.” That excuse seldom worked with Mother, but Hugh seemed pacified.
“Yes, well, now that I’ve found you, I’ve just been explaining to the comte that I was planning on taking you to lunch.”
He gave the comte a defiant look as if daring him to object, and Armand gracefully ceded the field. He bowed slightly to me. “A charming notion. I can think of no finer luncheon companion than Miss March, as I have reason to know,” he added with a touch of malice.
He lifted his hat and walked away without waiting for a response.
“I do not like that fellow,” Hugh said, his hands tightening into fists.
I tucked my hand into his elbow. “Never mind. I suspect you’re just feeling irksome because you’re hungry. I know I’m famished, and if you really mean to take me to lunch, the proprietor of the stationery shop suggested the most wonderful restaurant just around the corner. Come on!”
* * *
It was scarcely two minutes’ walk to the restaurant, and I was a little surprised to find that we were standing in front of a shabby wooden door where a legless beggar held out a bowl.
Hugh gave me a doubtful look. “Are you quite certain about this?”
“Quite,” I said firmly. “Mohammed’s cousin owns it. It is a traditional restaurant, and he says it serves the most authentic luncheon in the city.” I lowered my voice. “He also said to pay no mind to Selim, the beggar. Apparently, he is here every day. Mohammed said we’re just to step over his stump.” Hugh did exactly that, ignoring the fellow completely, but I managed to drop a few coppers into his bowl on the way in.
Hugh pushed open the wooden doors and I caught my breath. Beyond was a courtyard, very like the comtesse’s but even more magnificent, and past that was the restaurant, part of an extensive palace, but now serving patrons the most delicious food in Damascus, at least the owner insisted so. Mohammed had apparently sent word ahead that we were coming and the owner gave us a perfect table under the centre of a high golden dome. There were no proper chairs, but silken cushions scattered around, and I smiled as Hugh folded his tall body into something more compact.
He was graceful as an athlete, and too polite to notice my own struggles with a slim skirt. But I managed, and by the time I had arranged myself, he had already given in to the owner’s insistence on bringing us his own choices.
What followed was one of the most memorable meals of my life. There was stewed meat of four different varieties, each heavily spiced, and couscous bejewelled with pomegranate seeds and heaped onto a platter. There were bowls of softly cooked vegetables and tiny savoury pastries, hot with spice and crisp. A succession of sweets followed, each more decadent than the last, ending with a bowl of rosewater sherbet with a pistachio sauce and biscuits made with anise served alongside strong coffee scented with cardamom.
“That was magnificent,” Hugh said, patting his stomach with a sigh.
“I won’t ever forget it,” I agreed.
He touched my hand briefly. “I hope you won’t forget anything about this trip,” he said softly.
Before I could respond, he pulled his hand away, smiling a devilish half-smile. “Now, let’s walk off this feast, shall we?”
We moved into the street where things were beginning to stir to life again. There was always a quiet period after the luncheon hour, but we had lingered so long with our coffee and biscuits that the merchants had returned to their shops and the artisans to their crafts. We wandered into a souk, and Hugh’s hand stole into mine.
He paused by another old woman making paper flowers and bought me a rose. “There,” he said in satisfaction. “A proper Damascene flower to wear in your lapel. May I?”
I let him pin it in place and took a deep whiff of the light rosewater scent. “I’ll press it in a book of poetry tonight so I will always remember this day,” I told him lightly.
He lowered his head so only I could hear. “I’d far rather you remembered it because it’s the day you decided you couldn’t live without me,” he teased.
“Hugh, I—”
He shook his head. “Don’t speak. Poppy, I know I am only a valet now, and I have no right to speak to you this way, but you must believe I am not what you think I am. Dash it all, I wish I could tell you the truth. No, don’t ask it of me. It would mean putting you in the gravest danger, and I won’t risk it. I can’t talk about it now, but one day, one day very soon, I won’t be a valet anymore. I hope then I can...well, dammit, a man can hope, can’t he?” he asked, his expression pleading.
I had just opened my mouth to respond when I heard a shriek, and then a horrific commotion as one of the braziers where the coppersmiths worked blazed up and out of control. There were shouts in a dozen dialects and pushing and shoving as people tried to get out of the way. Smoke billowed through the souk, thick and choking, and I blinked hard, wiping soot from my eyes.
I peered through the cloud and realised I had lost sight entirely of Hugh. Before I could panic, there was a tug on my skirt.
“Miss! Your friend went this way,” said a small boy, pointing towards a hole in the wall I had not noticed before.
I peered at it, but the smoke kept drifting into my face. I dug into my handbag for a handkerchief to wipe my eyes. They were streaming so heavily I couldn’t see a thing, and the boy reached for my hand.
“Come, miss. Shall I show you?”
“Oh, yes, please!�
�� He towed me along, through the narrow doorway and into what seemed to be another alley. Here the smoke was thinner, but my eyes still streamed and I allowed my little guide to navigate our way through the market.
“Are you sure this is where my friend went?” I demanded. We had walked for some time and I had seen no sign of Hugh. I had seen little sign of anyone, I realised with alarm.
“Miss has red eyes. I am bringing you to fountain so you may bathe them and they do not hurt,” he told me solemnly.
“Well, that’s kind of you,” I managed. And just at that moment we turned into a small private courtyard where a fountain stood in the centre. He motioned for me to bathe my eyes, and I dipped my handkerchief into the water, pressing it to my face.
“I must look a fright,” I began, but as I looked around, I grasped that my little guide had disappeared. I assumed he had gone to find Hugh and settled down to wait, but as the minutes ticked past, I began to understand I had been abandoned—left entirely alone in a place I could not hope to find my way out of.
“Oh, this is maddening,” I muttered. Just then, I caught sight of something floating in the fountain. It was a little bird fashioned of paper, and as I watched, it floated near to me. I stretched out my hand for it, and it skimmed backwards, just out of reach.
But I forced myself to wait a moment, and the motion of the fountain pushed it back to me again. This time I waited until it was near enough to lift from the water, and to my astonishment, I saw that it was a bank note. A British bank note.
I unfolded it with trembling fingers. I was fluttering with excitement, and I was so persuaded I was on a great adventure, I wasn’t entirely surprised to find a message scrawled upon it.
FOLLOW ME.
I jumped to my feet, peering around, and just at the edge of the court, deep in the shadows, I saw a flutter of a white robe disappearing around a corner.
I took to my heels, running hard to catch up. I hurtled around the corner blindly, and just as I rounded it, I saw a door closing. I yanked hard, and it opened. I dashed inside, only comprehending what I had done when the door slammed shut behind me, and I heard the sound of a bolt thudding home.
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