Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

“I think he likes surprises,” Miles said. Like heads in baskets. He sat up fully, dragging his hand through his hair.

“You look frightful,” she said.

“So do you,” he said. It wasn’t because she was dressed like an Egyptian man, minus turban. Her face was dead white, and shadows ringed her eyes.

She glanced down at her clothes. “I hadn’t time to pack.”

“I don’t mean your clothes,” he said. “What’s happened to you?”

“They killed Rupert Carsington,” she said.

“Say again?”

She repeated the sentence. Then she told him how she’d occupied herself during the last month.

Miles lay down again, clutching his head and trying to take it in. His bookish, reclusive sister had set out — with Rupert Carsington! — Lord Hargate’s hellion son! — to find Miles. He could hardly follow the rest of her adventures, when his mind couldn’t compass the first simple facts.

Quiet, studious Daphne. Chasing up the Nile. With Rupert Carsington!

“You should not have drunk so much,” she said. “I have never known you to get into that state. You are developing very bad habits. I hope it isn’t Noxley’s influence.”

He dragged himself up again. “It’s the curst papyrus,” he said. “He takes it out every night and wants to talk about it. I think he thinks I know something I don’t.”

“Well, you don’t know anything about it,” she said.

“I mean, I think he thinks what the French lunatic thinks.”

“That you can read it,” she said.

“I’ve told him no one can read it. I’ve told him I went to Giza to study the entrance to Chephren’s pyramid, to try to discern the clues Belzoni saw, the ones that told him where the entrance was. Something about the way the rubble lay. I thought, if I could see what Belzoni saw, I could apply the knowledge in Thebes, the way Belzoni did, and find a royal tomb. I told him the papyrus got me itching to find another one. But Noxley keeps picking at my brain, as though he thinks I’m keeping secrets from him.”

“You are,” she said. “My secret.”

“He thinks it’s the key to decipherment. I drink because his delicate probing is driving me mad.”

“Well, then, we shall have to clarify matters,” she said. “He’s asked us to join him in the qa’a. Shall I go ahead or wait for you?”

“Wait,” he said. “I’d rather not leave you alone with him.”

She gave a short laugh.

“What’s so amusing?” he said.

“I’ve looked a viper in the eye before,” she said.

He didn’t understand. She was behaving strangely. This wasn’t the Daphne he knew. It must be the shock, he thought. She’d seen a man killed, and she’d traveled across the desert with Ghazi and his band of merry murderers. Not to mention the river journey. With Rupert Carsington!

She rose. “I’ll wait for you in my room,” she said. “I have a fine view.”

It was only after she left that he became aware of the distant sound. A screech or shriek. Some sort of bird, perhaps.

HE LOOKED SO innocent, Daphne thought. Golden curls and clear blue eyes. He was dressed Arab style though minus the turban and beard and all in white instead of the bright colors the locals favored.

All in white, like an angel.

Smiling, all sunshine, as though all were right with the world.

She smiled, too, because she did not plan to make anything easy for him. She settled onto the divan and said, yes, she’d slept well, thank you. And no, she had no objections to native food, and yes, coffee would be just the thing — very strong, please, as Miles needed a stimulant.

Miles sat next to her, protective, though he was so ill and weak, he could scarcely sit upright. He’d never had a head for drinking.

Noxley apologized for her limited wardrobe. “I cannot think why the men failed to collect your belongings,” he said.

“They were too busy killing people,” she said.

“Daph,” Miles murmured, giving her a nudge.

She ignored him. “Speaking of which —”

“Daph, could we postpone unpleasant subjects until after I’ve swallowed some coffee?” Miles said. “Good gad, what’s that horrible noise?” He clutched his head.

Even without an aching head, she, too, found it disturbing. She’d heard it earlier, but faintly. She’d thought it some exotic bird or animal. Or maybe peacocks.

“The screaming, you mean?” said Noxley.

“It’s human?” Miles said.

“Oh, yes,” Noxley said. “It appears the Turkish soldiers are interrogating the man who shot Mr. Carsington.” He brought his innocent blue gaze back to Daphne. “Naturally, as soon as you informed me, I questioned my men and ordered the culprit brought to justice.”

“It sounds as though they’re torturing him,” she said.

“The Turks’ notions of justice are different from ours,” he said. “If the noise troubles you, I’ll request they remove him out of earshot. It will not go on very much longer, at any rate. They must take him back to Cairo. Muhammad Ali will want the English consul general to witness the execution. Doubtless the assassin’s head will be sent to Lord Hargate.”

“Gad, another one,” Miles muttered. “In a basket, I don’t doubt.”

A servant glided in, bearing an enormous tray. He set it down upon the elaborately carved stool near the divan and glided away.

“You had wanted the matter dealt with promptly,” said Lord Noxley. “I wished to spare you the ordeal of reliving the experience.”

As though she could ever stop reliving it.

He looked down for a moment, at his hands, then up at her again, all blue-eyed innocence. “I cannot apologize enough,” he said. “My men were obliged to act in haste, for they’d word that Duval’s people were coming for you. The trouble is, thinking is not what they do best. In their eagerness to protect you, they were impatient, clumsy, and stupid. They are unaccustomed to defiance from the common people. It gave them a shock that disordered their lamentably limited wits.”

“I see,” she said. “I had wondered why I had to be forcibly removed from my boat. I should have thought an armed escort would have sufficed as protection. But your men were not thinking clearly — or at all.”

He bowed his head again and pressed two fingers to the place between his eyebrows. “I do see your point. It is so difficult to explain the way of things here.”

“Suppose you don’t,” she said. “Suppose you say plainly that you are the Golden Devil, the terror of Upper Egypt, and you want us here for a particular reason, not necessarily altruistic.”

She heard Miles suck in his breath.

Noxley winced and shut his eyes.

“Daph,” Miles said, touching her arm.

She shook him off. “What is it, my lord?” she pressed. “The papyrus? It does have a curious effect on men. Poisons their judgment. Makes them see things that aren’t there. Royal tombs, heaped with treasure. People who can read hieroglyphic writing. My papyrus could be an account of a battle or a proclamation — no more to do with treasure than the Rosetta Stone. But men see the pair of cartouches, and their imaginations run away with them. You are such romantic creatures.”

Lord Noxley’s head came up. “Your papyrus,” he repeated. “You said —”

“It’s mine,” she said. “Miles bought it for me. Because I’m the one. He is the famous scholar Miles Archdale, but I am his brain.”

AT SUNSET SHE stood at the window of her room, looking out over the river.

Like London, Thebes was built on both sides of the river. There the resemblance ended. This was truly another world. Here, above the fertile plain of the eastern bank rose the immense temples, obelisks, and pylons of Luxor and Karnak. On the plain of the western bank the Colossi of Memnon sat upon on their thrones. Behind them loomed the vast necropolis, with its temples and tombs. The latter, cut into the flanks of the Libyan hills, honeycombed th

e eastern slope. She gazed at the mountains that concealed the Biban el Muluk and its royal tombs.

“Is your mind poisoned, too? Have you completely taken leave of your senses?”

She turned toward the door, where her brother stood. “Has the sun boiled away your brain, Daph?” he said. He came in, slamming the door behind him. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “He is — he is —” With his forefinger Miles made a circular motion near his temple.

“I don’t care what he is,” she said, turning back to the window. “We have no pressing reason to return to Cairo, as he pointed out. He’s most eager to accommodate us. He’s promised to send to Cairo for my books and materials. There may be a difficulty in replacing my Coptic lexicons — they were aboard the Isis — but he’s promised to make inquiries at the Coptic monasteries.”

“Daph, you must have heard how his fellows ‘make inquiries,’ ” Miles said. “They beat the soles of a man’s feet with a stick. For hours. And that’s the mildest sort of interrogation.”

“I’ll ask him not to abuse the monks,” she said. “He wants to keep me happy.”