* * *
The oddest part of what followed was watching Belle go to each of their families and tell them that their children were going away. To school, it was explained. The families nodded and wandered off, indifferent. The only emotion provided was by the Guard themselves in support of one another. They stepped up, pressing a shoulder or offering a nod of encouragement.
Ibrahim quietly excused himself from this excursion. Beatrice wanted to know where he went wandering instead, what his lonely soul might be feeling, but they were not linked in a way to share such things.
Late that evening, Mr. Smith called to Beatrice in the sitting room. “Bea, a nice boy is here to see you!”
Beatrice rose from the divan, smoothed her skirts and wondered who had come to call. It had to be a Guard, but which? Weren’t they all spending last moments with their families? She glanced at the trunk she’d just spent hours packing. It sat like a millstone in the center of the room, a weighty crate representing the terrifying unknown.
A “nice boy”? Surely it was George. Her father hadn’t been terribly fond of Jean, and Beatrice had assumed he’d rather she be courted by an Englishman. She wondered what on earth he’d say if he ever actually noticed she spent time with two Egyptian men. Her father worked with the locals, respected their artifacts, and had learned—and taught Beatrice—both Arabic and much of the meanings of their ancient symbols, but his daughter keeping company with their boys? Her study of society had led her to believe that the British were oft masters of hypocrisy.
“Oh!” she blurted when she discovered her visitor, who was waiting for her in the sitting room.
“Disappointed?” Ibrahim asked, sounding almost amused.
“No. Just surprised,” she replied. Her sense of hospitality, a quality evidently inherited from her mother despite her early passing due to cholera, led Beatrice to say, “I could make some tea?”
Ibrahim looked at the tea service and shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“Please, sit.” Beatrice gestured to the fine divan, taking a wooden chair opposite.
Ibrahim sat but did not relax. His back remained straight, his movements showed simple grace, to the point and full of purpose. It was a quality Beatrice admired and wished she had, knowing she fussed and fidgeted too much. To her chagrin, she now found herself fluffing the lace at the edge of her blouse sleeves.
He studied her briefly before speaking. “While my gifts are still expanding within me, and I cannot credit myself with an expert conclusion regarding their meaning, my Intuition is that this trip to London is dangerous. I feel it in my bones. I cannot in good faith allow it to go forward without voicing concern.”
Beatrice took a moment to allow his words to register, then argued, “My discomfort aside, all travel has its dangers. We’ve a mandate from a higher power that expects us elsewhere. I’m as leery of the journey as you, but do we have a choice?”
“Of course we have a choice,” Ibrahim said. “Let the Grand Work choose others to take up our mantle. Others in England. Why us? There are plenty of people in the world to create an odd, ragtag band. They only need six.”
“But we were already chosen. Truly, Ibrahim, I question the Grand Work every minute of every day, yet I can’t deny that it has changed me. If the power that grants it is elsewhere, do I have any choice but to follow? Do I brook further pain, further risk to the world, by staying apart from it?”
“But it won’t be safe. I feel it. I feel some tragedy will come to one of our number, that the goddess, well meaning as she may be—”
“Infuriating as she may be,” Beatrice added.
“She may be playing loosely with our safety, her eyes on some larger future goal. She told us of our fate after we die, with hardly any concern for how we may take such news.”
Beatrice sighed. “What do you suggest?”
“For us not to go. I’ll be more than happy to state my reasons. I was granted a gift. It is warning me. I am only honoring the Grand Work by stating my concerns to you.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Good. Then you’ll understand why I won’t be on that ship in the morning.”
“The goddess may have something to say about that.”
“Should she, I’ll tell her exactly what I’ve told you. As Leader, if you’re interested in protecting your comrades, we should not board that ship.”
Beatrice shook her head. “We’ll talk about it at the docks tomorrow. I’m happy to relay your concerns, or you’re welcome to speak your mind yourself, declare what you think should be done. I’ve no taste for a dictatorship. However, while I respect your gifts, other reasons lead me to board that boat. I am weak and in pain. I believe that is because the tether to my power now stretches across an ocean.”
“Could it be a psychological reaction?”
Beatrice set her jaw, fists clenching. “What are you saying? I’m a credit to my sex. My father and every one of his colleagues at the university would attest to that. I’d like to think I’ve proven myself thus far.”
“I’m not calling into question the quality of your mind or talents. Or your father and his colleagues at the university…” Ibrahim swallowed hard and looked away.
Beatrice recalled that Mr. Tipton had worked at that university. She hadn’t meant to bring up a painful subject. Truthfully, she didn’t want to leave any more than Ibrahim did, but her body felt magnetized toward the West, and she couldn’t ignore the sinking sense that failing to take the steamer wasn’t an option.
“I suppose trust is entirely subjective and a personal choice,” Ibrahim said softly. “My preference is not to board that ship. And because my gifts have labeled Verena as particularly vulnerable, I will share my thoughts with her—which may influence her choice as well.”
Beatrice sighed. “I’ll inform the group of your concerns, but you’d best be prepared to speak to the goddess if she shows up wondering.”
“Indeed,” Ibrahim said. Rising, he added, “I know my way. We need not stand on ceremony.”
Nothing in Beatrice’s life could have prepared her for this circumstance. She commended herself for dealing fairly and calmly with her second-in-command, for letting him go his own way as a benevolent leader. And while she credited him with being respectful despite disagreement, she still had to calm her racing heart. Her discomfiture had nothing to do with the politics of the situation. It was infinitely more personal. Which made it infinitely less agreeable.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
The next morning, Beatrice awoke at first light and dressed in a sturdy skirt and blouse designed for traveling. While there was mutiny afoot, she wanted to be prepared for any eventuality, and if boarding that ship meant her hands would stop burning, she’d take the trip alone if she had to.
Wrestling with sentiment, Beatrice went into her father’s room, kissed his forehead as he slept, and left her home. She stood for a moment looking at the fine building that housed several English families in relative space and luxury in this densely packed city, at its arches and ornate finery, and wondered if she’d ever see it again. She straightened her spine and hardened her heart.
The Grand Work rearranged priorities, keeping many emotions distant, like storm clouds on the horizon. Perhaps that was what Leaders did, looked at everyone’s pain from afar. Especially their own. At some point, surely all that sentiment would come crashing in, and she hoped it would not prove stronger for having been put off.
She flagged down a young man she knew to be a neighborhood errand runner. In moments her trunk was packed into a rickshaw and she was jostling onward to her destination, unsure what fate awaited her.
Other rickshaws with familiar passengers converged at the docks of Alexandria as if a great hand were bringing them all together. George was assisting Belle out of her transport while Ahmed was already standing at the dock, contemplating the vessel in which they would voyage to England.
At least, Beatrice hoped they would. She didn’t remember much of Lond
on from her childhood, just that it was gray and crowded. At this, a pang stung her heart. Cairo was golden.
Glancing about as her hired help carried her luggage onto the platform, Beatrice noted that Ibrahim and Verena were nowhere to be found. She gave the young man a larger bill than was necessary, feeling nostalgic already for her old neighborhood. He beamed, bobbed his head, and disappeared.
At the head of the dock stood a man in a fine suit who was clearly there to assist English and French tourists. Belle strode toward him with George at her side. Beatrice watched the man’s eyes cloud; then she overheard assurances about first-class luxury and such. After George elbowed her, Belle pressed for champagne. Success was soon confirmed by George’s ridiculously large grin.
Before George and Belle directed ferrymen to take their trunks aboard, Beatrice halted them with a word in the Guard language. She was soon encircled by her three comrades.
“Friends, we’ve dissention in the ranks. But it’s not without its just cause. I would let Ibrahim tell you himself, but—”
“And so I shall.”
Beatrice turned. Ibrahim came forward in a finely embroidered tunic and linen coat, his dark eyes confident if hard. Paces behind him stood Verena, shifting on her feet like a frightened little girl and not a woman of eighteen. Perhaps Ibrahim had told her she was destined for danger.
“Friends…”
He spoke the word as if he were still getting used to the idea, even after the many weeks they’d spent on the Grand Work, which rode Beatrice a bit roughly. There was no other word appropriate for people thrust into such strange affiliation, even if they were not those you would choose for yourself. She took a moment to wonder: If George or Ahmed had spoken thusly, would she have thought twice? Perhaps she expected more courtesy and camaraderie out of her second. Again she considered that the Muses must have made a mistake.
“I’ll not be taking this vessel with you. Neither will Verena. My gift of Intuition has warned me that there is danger ahead for the most vulnerable among us. Thus I cannot condone this journey. My foremost commitment is to the protection of our comrade.”
Ahmed stared at Verena, his joyful expression becoming anxious. Beatrice could feel a wave of discord wash through her fellows like strains of music gone terribly off-key.
“But … but the Work will always have its dangers. Is this any different than before?” George asked the question while Belle nodded.
“I fear the danger shall worsen. Cairo is our home soil, the place we were chosen. To uproot ourselves is to run the risk of being tossed to the wind, of becoming groundless, no better than those spirits out there.”
Ibrahim gestured to the sea. It was true; there they were, ghosts like sails without a boat, rigs with no tethers, gray bodies billowing in the breeze, buffeted and hapless. It was a sobering image. Then came the unsettling realization that there were many more spirits at dockside than when Beatrice had first arrived. As if they were gathering.
Was it a farewell committee of the dead? Or was it a cresting tide of conflict that Beatrice felt very truly in her blood, a distinct, uncomfortable sensation that something was not right?
There came a ripple in the air and a burst of light.
“What’s this?” the goddess said, her feet touching down on the dock. Where they did, Beatrice marveled, delicate ferns sprouted up. “Why are you here when you ought to be on that boat? Isn’t it nearing departure?”
Sure enough, a clanging bell made them all jump. Beatrice glanced around to see that their baggage had been stowed; Belle’s lingering magic must have influenced all around her.
Ibrahim and Verena hung back. The Egyptian girl’s face was pinched in a grimace; it was clear that she was torn. If Ibrahim felt the same conflict, it did not show. They had brought no luggage.
Because the goddess had made herself visible, Belle had to make sure the busy docks were dealt with, and so she found herself circling the group like an officer on patrol, waving her hand at anyone who gaped at this prismatic creature of unparalleled beauty and magic. Belle’s gift sent the dockworkers, ferrymen, and passengers drifting to other destinations.
“My Lady.” Ibrahim turned to the goddess. “Intuition warns me there is great danger for us in London. It is my duty to inform the group if we are walking into a trap. While I’d not dare accuse you of duplicity, I fear there are perhaps unintended consequences to this sudden journey that even you may not be able to foresee.”
He spoke with such cool intelligence that it seemed a crime to disagree, thought Beatrice.
The goddess managed. “Danger is always courted by the Grand Work.”
“See?” George said.
“But what sort of man would I be if I, sensing danger, sent my comrades directly into it?” Ibrahim countered.
“I commend you for your caution, Ibrahim, I truly do, but the danger is in staying behind when the pendulum of power has so radically swung elsewhere. When the balance is so terribly skewed against you, the danger here outweighs whatever you feel awaits you.”
“How can you so easily override what is felt in my veins?” Ibrahim asked. “Am I not afforded more proof than words?”
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” the goddess murmured. Waves too tall for the weather rose to slap the docked ship. “I showed you the dread of the Whisper-world only. When you asked me why, before, I should have shown you the whole of the picture. I forget that we ask so much while offering so little.” She closed her eyes, and a wave of pain crossed her face. Flinging an arm forward, she cut a vast rectangle in the air.
Something caught Beatrice’s eye. At the distressing sight of what she could only assume were a few drops of the goddess’s blood dripping down her arm, Verena darted forward, her hand glowing. Persephone opened her eyes and held out a hand, halting Verena and offering a soft, gracious look of thanks for her effort. But it would appear this blood was not meant to dry or fade.
Behind her, a gray rectangle had appeared, as if a gaping wound had been cut into the fabric of reality. On the other side was that wet, gray world they’d glimpsed from their sacred space on that first day, a world of corridors, rushing water, and countless restless dead. They wandered, devoid of any color, existing in monochromatic misery.
Beatrice felt the warm Cairo sun through the muslin of her blouse, yet her heart felt the terrible cold of this other world. Two temperatures she endured, one that was warm upon her skin and another that was internal and yet no less real. The Guard could only gape.
“Again, the Whisper-world,” Persephone said. “It is not down but sideways. It is always just to the left or right of your soul. It was made and fed by mortal misery. If you six should part, it will tear a small hole in the mortal world and a bit of hell will break loose. The longer you are separated, the larger the hole. When the Guard was formed, the Whisper-world reacted. You and it are inextricably tied.”
Some of the ghosts turned to look at the living through the portal. Looking into their hollow-eyed, harrowed faces was like staring at assured doom; it was a contagion of the soul, a festering wound for which there was no cure. Just looking at the Whisper-world was suffocating, let alone stepping across into it or letting it pour out unchecked into …
Ahmed moved among his comrades, bestowing his gift with a slight touch upon the temple. A jolt of fresh air into struggling lungs, and each of them revived.
The gray dead approached the threshold opened by Persephone. Beatrice wondered with alarm if they could step across, so many of them that the Grand Work would be entirely overrun and outmatched. The spirits on the living side approached it, too, blanched white and floating like vertical clouds above the water. Dead looked at dead, all of them in some hazy state of remembrance.
“The unseen Balance all around you,” the goddess declared.
Belle was trying to deter foot traffic and muttering that if they’d had any sense in their heads, they’d have had this conference in private. Looking down at the sound of water slapping more viol
ently against the dock, she squealed. The white caps had taken the shapes of horses’ heads with sharp teeth. The thrown-open Whisper-world was turning nature sour and vicious. The delicate ferns that had grown at the goddess’s feet were now rotten and moldy.
George dragged Belle toward him as Verena rushed to Ibrahim’s side, completing the circle of friends. This small gesture caused a ripple through Beatrice—and, she assumed, through the rest of them—an affirmation that the circle was not meant to break. Ever.
“My friend,” Verena murmured, staring at Ibrahim. There were tears in her eyes. “Do not endanger everything for my sake. You yourself said there’s nothing about your gift that makes this certain. I’ll take my chances … if you’ll help protect me.” She turned to the others. “I don’t mean to be trouble.”
“I’m not going to let you end up a sacrifice,” Ibrahim hissed. “While I comprehend the value of the Grand Work, I am not convinced being at the whim of gods remains in our best interest…”
Beatrice looked at them, wondering, there was something about the way the two of them stared at each other … Surely Ibrahim fought for Verena out of love; the woman was unquestionably beautiful, as the men could not help but see.
Verena turned to Ahmed, who stepped closer to her. She did not wield her loveliness like a weapon, but it invited protection nonetheless. Beatrice wondered which man she cared for more. Then she chided herself for indulging in personal drama when the world of the dead was gaping open and oozing mortal despair into a perfectly nice Cairo morning. A love triangle should hardly take precedence.
“It’s your choice—to weaken the barrier between these parallel places or to fight the good fight as commissioned,” Persephone called out, her eyes now the same gray as the terrible place behind her, that place that had so long ago laid claim to her. Beatrice wondered anxiously if the Whisper-world’s pull was affecting the goddess and if she’d be able to close the gate she’d opened.
“I’m not refusing to fight, I’m refusing to place my comrades in harm’s way,” Ibrahim insisted.
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