Page 4 of What the River Knows

I linked my arms through Elvira’s and propelled us into the house. We were charmingly grouped, traversing the long stretch of the tiled hall, the three of us arm in arm, my aunt leading us like a tour guide.

The house boasted nine bedrooms, a breakfast parlor, two living rooms, and a kitchen rivaling that of the most elegant hotel in the city. We even had a smoking room but ever since Papá had purchased a pair of armchairs that could fly, no one had been inside. They caused terrible damage, crashing into the walls, smashing the mirrors, poking holes into the paintings. To this day, my father still lamented the loss of his two-hundred-year-old whiskey trapped in the bar cabinet.

“Because she’sInez,” Amaranta said. “Too good for indoor activities like sewing or knitting, or any other task for respectable ladies.” She slanted a glare in my direction. “Your curiosity will get you in trouble one day.”

I dropped my chin, stung. I wasn’tabovesewing or knitting. I disliked doing either because I was so terribly wretched at them.

“This is about your cumpleaños,” Elvira said. “It must be. You’re hurtthat they won’t be here, and I understand. Ido,Inez. But they’ll come back, and we’ll have a grand dinner to celebrate and invite all the handsome boys living in the barrio, including Ernesto.”

She was partly right. My parents were going to miss my nineteenth. Another year without them as I blew out the candles.

“Your uncle is a terrible influence on Cayo,” Tía Lorena said with a sniff. “I cannot comprehend why my brother funds so many of Ricardo’s outlandish schemes. Cleopatra’s tomb, for heaven’s sake.”

“¿Qué?” I asked.

Even Amaranta appeared startled. Her lips parted in surprise. We were both avid readers, but I was unaware that she had read any of my books on ancient Egypt.

Tía Lorena’s face colored slightly, and she nervously tucked an errant strand of brown hair shot with silver behind her ear. “Ricardo’s latest pursuit. Something silly I overheard Cayo discussing with his lawyer, that’s all.”

“About Cleopatra’s tomb?” I pressed. “And what do you mean byfund,exactly?”

“Who on earth is Cleopatra?” Elvira said. “And why couldn’t you have named me something like that, Mamá? Much more romantic. Instead, I gotElvira.”

“For the last time, Elvira is stately. Elegant and appropriate. Just like Amaranta.”

“Cleopatra was the last pharaoh of Egypt,” I explained. “Papá talked of nothing else when they were here last.”

Elvira furrowed her brow. “Pharaohs could be… women?”

I nodded. “Egyptians were quite progressive. Though, technically, Cleopatra wasn’t actually Egyptian. She was Greek. Still, they were ahead ofourtime, if you ask me.”

Amaranta shot me a disapproving look. “No one did.”

But I ignored her and glanced pointedly at my aunt, raising my brow. Curiosity burned up my throat. “What else do you know?”

“I don’t have any more details,” Tía Lorena said.

“It sounds like you do,” I said.

Elvira leaned forward and swung her head around so that she could look at her mother across from me. “I want to know this, too, actually—”

“Well, of course you do. You’ll do whatever Inez says or wants,” my aunt muttered, exasperated. “What did I say about nosy ladies who can’t mind their own business? Amaranta never gives me this much trouble.”

“You were the one eavesdropping,” Elvira said. Then she turned to me, an eager smile on her lips. “Do you think your parents sent a package with the letter?”

My heart quickened as my sandals slapped against the tile floor. Their last letter came with a box filled with beautiful things, and in the minutes that it took to unpack everything, some of my resentment had drifted away as I stared at the bounty. Gorgeous yellow slippers with golden tassels, a rose-colored silk dress with delicate embroidery, and a whimsical outer robe in a riot of colors: mulberry, olive, peach, and a pale sea green. And that wasn’t all; at the bottom of the box I had found copper drinking cups and a trinket dish made of ebony inlaid with pearl.

I cherished every gift, every letter they mailed to me, even though it was half of what I sent to them. It didn’t matter. A part of me understood that it was as much as I’d ever get from them. They’d chosen Egypt, had given themselves heart, body, and soul. I had learned to live with whatever was left over, even if it felt like heavy rocks in my stomach.

I was about to answer Elvira’s question, but we rounded the corner and I stopped abruptly, my reply forgotten.

An older gentleman with graying hair and deep lines carved across the brow of his brown face waited by the front door. He was a stranger to me. My entire focus narrowed down to the letter clamped in the visitor’s wrinkled hands.

I broke free from my aunt and cousins and walked quickly toward him, my heart fluttering wildly in my ribs, as if it were a bird yearning for freedom. This was it. The reply I’d been waiting for.

“Señorita Olivera,” the man said in a deep baritone. “I’m Rudolpho Sanchez, your parents’ solicitor.”

The words didn’t register. My hands had already snatched the envelope.With trembling fingers, I flipped it over, bracing myself for their answer. I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the opposite side. I flipped the note again, studying the strawberry-colored wax sealing the flap. It had the tiniest beetle—no,scarab—in the middle, along with words too distorted to be called legible.

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