Page 122 of What the River Knows

I backed away a step. “What are you playing at? Lower it.”

Isadora rolled her eyes. “Now you’re scared. A little too late, Inez.” She swung away, aiming for the scorpion up the bank. She inhaled and pulled the trigger.

The bullet blew the insect apart, sand kicking up from the shot.

Wordlessly, she handed me the gun. “Your turn.”

CAPÍTULO VEINTINUEVE

I approached Trajan’s Kiosk, the sun high in the blue sky. In ancient Egypt, the god Ra reigned over the sun and sky, giving warmth and life. And on the island of Philae, cut off from most modern conveniences, it was easy to imagine him guiding my steps as I descended into the belly of Pharaoh’s Bed. My lesson with Isadora had gone well, and while I wouldn’t win any awards for my shooting, I was reasonably proud of my aim.

Isadora and her reckless streak. After she’d pointed the gun at me, she behaved as she normally did. Observant and thoughtful, cheerful and competent, flashing her dimpled cheeks. She acted as if she hadn’t threatened me with a weapon. But maybe that had been the point.

Was she telling me to be more careful?

“Olivera?”

I returned my attention to the present. Footsteps sounded close by, and a flickering light appeared on the stairwell, followed by Whit’s brawny frame.

“Still in one piece, I see.” He said it in a teasing voice, but I detected a note of relief in his tone.

“She’s a good teacher.”

“What do you think of her?” he asked.

I considered the question. “I enjoy her,” I said slowly. “She doesn’t quite fit the mold of an English rose, well-mannered and buttoned-up, but I think that’s her appeal. She’s crafty and strategic and charming—when she wants to be. I’ve never met anyone quite like her. What about you?”

“She’s hard to read, harder to pin down.”

“Isadora is like… you.”

I thought he’d be offended, but to my surprise, he nodded. “Exactly.”

“So that’s why you don’t like her. Or trust her.”

“Olivera, I can’t trust myself.”

He led the way through the tunnels, until we ducked into a new room, recently found given the taste of dust and smoke from the blast of a dynamite stick. Above, the roof stretched high above us, dark and foreboding. Large boulders were piled along the craggy wall. The chamber was narrow and I coughed, clearing my throat of smoky air. He propped the candle securely between two rocks, and threw his sport coat over a tall boulder, and then turned to face me.

Dirt smudged his cheeks, and the glow from the candle cast his features in shadowed hollows. Only the blue of his gaze shone brightly in the dimness.

“What are we doing here?”

“Let’s call it my Christmas present to you,” he said with a slight smile. He motioned for me to stand next to a long spool of coiled rope on the ground, the other end reaching high upward and disappearing into the darkness of the tall ceiling.

“My Christmas present,” I repeated as he tied the other end of the rope around my waist. His breath brushed my cheek as he worked silently. I lifted my chin and stared at his downturned face, his attention solely on the knot.

Whit pulled out my uncle’s enchanted sandal from his vest pocket and handed it to me.

“Buckle the strap,” he said.

I did so and the tip of the shoe immediately caught fire, a fiery blue. Then without ceremony, he climbed the boulders, up and up, until I lost sight of him in the flat black of the chamber.

“Whit?” I called up.

“I’m here,” he said. His voice echoed down. “Are you ready?”

“If I must be.”

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