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corset. Freed of it, her mouth was soft and full.

    He would like to
pick her up, too, and bring that amazing face close to his and test
the softness of those lips…

    But he was not that stupid.

    “ You wished
to interrogate him, I believe?” he said.

    She blinked, and
turning to Wadid, launched into a stream of foreign talk.

    Wadid answered
haltingly.

    While they went
back and forth, Rupert departed, in search of coffee.

    After a few wrong
turns in the maze, he found the stairway, and soon, on the ground
floor, what looked like the cooking area.

    Its occupants had
apparently deserted the place in great haste. He saw evidence of a
meal in preparation. A bowl of chickpeas, partly mashed. Wooden
implements on the floor. A ball of dough on a stone. A pot on the
brazier.

    He found the silver
coffee service with its tiny, handle-less cups, but discerned no
signs of coffee.

    He stepped into a
small, adjoining room, which looked to be a sort of pantry. He
started opening jars. Then he became aware of movement. A faint
rustling. Rats?

    He looked in the
direction of the sound. Several tall crockery jars stood in a dark
corner. He saw a fragment of blue cloth.

    He crossed the
room. The lurker attempted to dart past him, but Rupert caught the
back of his shirt. “Ah, not so quick, my fine fellow,” he
said. “First, let’s have a friendly chat, shall we?”

     

Chapter 3

     

    THOUGH ONE COULD
NOT TELL BY LOOKING AT her, though she seemed her usual controlled
self, it took Daphne a good deal more time than it did Wadid to
recover from Mr. Carsington’s demonstration of brute strength.

    She had felt, for a
moment, like a character in The
Thousand and One Nights who’d inadvertently let a genie out of a bottle. A large,
powerful, and uncontrollable genie.

    She tried to
concentrate on her few clues, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate.
It produced, too clearly, the look on Mr. Carsington’s face
when she raised her veil.

    She had no name for
the look. He was a man far outside the narrow bounds of her
experience. She could hardly name her feelings, either: a wild
hammering within and a chaos of thoughts and no way to make sense of
a single one. There was only a powerful awareness—of the world
having turned wild, unpredictable, and unrecognizable— and the
sense of something dangerous let loose.

    This was
irrational, she knew.

    But she was too
overset to think clearly: Miles gone, the fine papyrus stolen, the
house abandoned, the doorkeeper drugged.

    When her mind
worked in the proper manner, Daphne did not believe in genii, good or
bad.

    She made herself
examine matters logically.

    Mr. Carsington was
merely an English male of above average but by no means unusual
height, she reminded herself. He appeared larger than life because
(a) the average Turk or Egyptian was several inches shorter, and (b)
he had the muscular physique more commonly associated with certain
members of the laboring classes, such as blacksmiths—and
boxers, possibly, although she couldn’t be certain, never
having seen a boxer in the flesh.

    Furthermore, the
demonstration of brute strength proved how well Mr. Carsington suited
her purposes. With him about, no one would dare intimidate her or
stand in her way or refuse to cooperate.

    True, he was a
blockhead, but that, too, was to her advantage. He could not confuse
or cow her as her erudite husband had done so often and easily. Mr.
Carsington would not assume, as Miles did, that she was too
intellectual and unworldly to comprehend everyday life’s coarse
realities.

    Considered calmly
and rationally, in short, Mr. Carsington was perfect .

    Her mind once more
in proper order, she focused on Wadid.

    He was more than
willing to talk now. The trouble was, he didn’t know anything.

    He didn’t
know which coffee shop boy had delivered the drugged tobacco. How
could he? There were scores of such boys inCairo, he said. They ran
away. They died of plague. They found work elsewhere. Who