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“How do you know she isn’t?”

“And if they can’t communicate with her, they might put her in a mental institution, which is just as bad. No, worse.”

“This is complicated. Why can’t she communicate?”

“She refuses to—at least for now.”

There was silence at the other end.

“It’s Friday. Best case, they’ll lock her up somewhere for the weekend. No one will lift a finger to do anything for her until
Monday.”

“Is that so bad? At least she’ll be safe and off the street,” her uncle maintained, trying to appeal to her common sense.

“There’s only one thing to do. If I can’t get anywhere with her by the end of the day, she’ll have to come home with me.”

The response was a heavy sigh.

“Are you still there?”

“These things you do, mijita, they’re just not safe. I know you mean well, that you want to help, but why does all this responsibility belong to you?”

“You mean I’m not my brother’s keeper?” she asked, knowing that it was unwise to use religion to sway a bad Catholic like Elias. As a further testament to her hypocrisy, she reached for the chain around her neck, from which was suspended the delicate golden cross that had belonged to her aunt. She rubbed it between her thumb and index finger like a worry stone.

“It’s only that you seem to go out of your way to have so many brothers! And you make us worry.”

“It’s only for the weekend. I promise.” Victoria made a visual sweep of the parking lot and let the chain fall.

Elias sighed again, but this one was not quite as long. “What can we do to help?

“Let Marta know I’m bringing a guest to dinner tomorrow night. Give her my love.”

“After talking to you, I need a brandy.”

“Wish me luck?”

“Don’t I always?”

She ducked back inside. Now she could concentrate.

In her office, she flopped down next to the girl on the sofa.

Rubbing her hands together, she offered an encouraging smile and said, “Let’s get to work.”

Though her eyes were full of questions, the girl said nothing. Victoria sensed her every move being followed as she grabbed books from the shelf, scattering a few on the floor, hoping one of them would spark a comment, a memory, something. But the girl just stared, mostly into her lap but occasionally out the window, her expression so apprehensive that Victoria felt sorry for her.

A while later Gracie entered, silver bracelets tinkling as she pushed books from the desk to the chair, and set down two cartons of Chinese takeout. “That border patrol agent you’ve been pestering finally called,” Gracie announced, offering one of the cartons to the stranger on the couch.

She hesitated and then shook her head as she inhaled the spicy smells drifting from the boxes. “They just raided a chicken farm in New Mexico, and almost sixty workers were found handcuffed to pipes inside a tin shack. Some of them had legitimate visas.”

“Get a list of who’s been detained,” Victoria ordered, grabbing a carton and plunging her chopsticks deep. “Not hungry?” she asked the girl. “Well, suit yourself,” she mumbled between mouthfuls.

The girl’s eyes widened.

“They’re chopsticks, see?” Victoria explained, snapping them together and sending a blob of orange sauce through the air and onto the lapel of her suit.

Gracie muttered under her breath and handed Victoria a towelette.

“Start with this.” Gracie handed a carton and white plastic fork to the girl, who wasted no time finding the source of the delicious citrus smell, though there was some initial hesitation in using the fork. She took a small, cautious bite, but was soon slurping and gulping, the noodles smacking loudly against her cheek.

“You two have something in common—bad manners,” Gracie pronounced, shook her head, and left. The girl smiled but offered nothing more.

She perched on the sofa with the books for the entire afternoon, although her eyes didn’t rest on any one page for too long. She seemed to prefer the view of the room’s only empty corner, staring into it so unflinchingly that Victoria was uncomfortable. The least she could do would be to move every hour or so, she thought. The young woman sat with her knees at perfect ninety degree angles, feet primly side by side, fingers laced neatly in her lap.

“No help here,” Victoria proclaimed, looking up briefly from the stream of replies on her computer. “I’ve called in all my favors. Not a single government agency has reported you missing. No embassies, either—at least, not yet.” The words of the coyote rang truer by the minute. “I’m not the one who got you into this jam; I’m the one trying to help. Are you understanding anything I’m saying?”

More than once she thought the girl was on the brink of reaching out, but she would only shake her head, sigh heavily, and go back to staring into her lap.

Gracie arrived to clear away the ravaged cartons. “Any progress?” she asked, regarding the stranger on the sofa. “I didn’t think so.” Greasy boxes in hand, she hesitated for a moment, allowing her vaporous black garments to catch up to her generous curves. “There’s no need to tell you that you should drive straight to the police station and drop her off, is there? You can’t help her, but you’ve never listened to me yet. Mark my words; this stubbornness of yours will get you in the end.”

“On Monday. If nothing changes, I’ll call the authorities on Monday. Promise.”

Gracie closed the door harder than usual.

Victoria sank back into her desk chair and pulled the clip from her hair. “You’re going to have to give me something. Anything. I’ve got feelers out, looking for someone who might be looking for you, but I haven’t put them in the right places, have I? You’re certainly not the typical immigrant, but you’re intentionally not helping. Gracie’s right; I can’t do anything more for you.”

In her frustration, Victoria gathered the books from the carpet and placed them back on the shelf. She rearranged the order of several of them before stuffing a pile of untouched case files back into her briefcase and retrieving an afternoon’s worth of ignored messages. Lastly, she grabbed her handbag from the bottom desk drawer. To her surprise, when she sat up, the girl stood directly across the desk from her.

“You must help me,” she pleaded. Lifting her dress, she loosened a wide band wrapped in dirty cloth from around her thigh. With the expression of a blackjack dealer, she removed the item and set it on the desk with a solid “thunk.”

“All right, I’m listening,” Victoria insisted in a calming voice, though her heart was racing. “What have you got there?”

She unwrapped the ragged strip of fabric from the item. What remained was a crude bangle of clay, adorned with tiny rocks and pieces of dried grass. As the girl pushed it toward her, it left a trail of dirt. Victoria ran her fingers lightly over the hard, uneven lumps. “A souvenir from your adventure in the desert?”

The girl did not reply, but scooped it up along with a cup of unfinished coffee. She took a few steps back and poured the liquid over the object in her hand. Chunks of mud and dirt splattered onto the carpet.

“What the hell?” Victoria yanked a handful of tissues and started for the mess. “Totally my fault. Really. I wasn’t sure before, but you’ve just made it perfectly clear that where you belong is at the loony—”

As she blotted furiously, the girl thrust her muddy, coffee-scented palm under Victoria’s nose. The clay covering had been a clever disguise, possibly to keep the bangle’s value hidden from the coyote. Patches of the mud shell had washed away, exposing the unmistakable luster of gold.

“Take it,” the girl said, pressing it into Victoria’s hand, “I beg you.”

A brisk rub revealed a golden cuff almost three inches wide with a gigantic scarab on one side. The heavy clasp lay protected between the two curved, toothed hind legs.

A soft whistle was all Victoria could manage. She stroked the beetle’s shovel-like head, the sturdy ridges of its folded wings. The cuff was superb, elaborate, and heavy.

“Where…where did you get it?”

The girl leaned over the desk, retrieved the massive bangle, and then clutched it to her chest. Victoria would never forget the utter panic in her eyes. “How did I get here?”

“You crossed the river. Illegally, I might add. Don’t you remember?”

She looked around the room and shook her head. “This is not the Underworld. I should not be here.” She rubbed the last bits of dirt away from her treasure. “This means more to me than I can say, but it is yours if you help me. Please, much depends on my return.”

Victoria could not take her eyes from the golden cuff. “Where did you get it?”

“From my guardian.” Her voice spoke of terrible loss. “I,” she lowered her eyes, “am Khara.”

“Forgive me. My name is Victoria Barrón.” She held out her hand. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. Your English is perfect. Why didn’t you speak up earlier?”

Ignoring Victoria’s outstretched hand, she said, “As long as
I hold this,” she held out the cuff for a moment, “I understand and can speak your language. Nandor said that any language would belong to me, but who could believe in such things?”

Her bewilderment struck Victoria’s heart. She knew exactly how the girl felt.

“You’d best put it away, then. No loony bin tonight, girlfriend.” Slipping her bag over her shoulder, she ushered the girl outside where she viewed the car with reluctance. Victoria opened the door and helped her with the seat belt.

Chapte
r
Five
Khara

A
s
the horseless chariot lunged forward, Khara squeezed her eyes shut and took rapid, shallow breaths.
If not in the Underworld, where am I?

“Hey, hey. There now,” Victoria consoled. She reached over and pried the girl’s clammy hand loose from the seat, and gave it a squeeze. “Haven’t you ever ridden in a car before?”

Khara shuddered and shook her head.

“If you open your eyes, you’ll see I’ve slowed down. Isn’t that better?”

She swallowed. “Yes,” she agreed, but it was a lie.

“It’s hard to be new in a strange place, isn’t it?” Victoria asked. “People think you can just pick yourself up and shake the dust off. Of course, in your case, you haven’t said where the dust came from.”

Victoria pointed to a place where one jagged range of mountains ended abruptly and another began. A river snaked through the narrow pass, reflecting the orange glow of evening. Trees grew sparsely along the banks, and boulders lay exposed like stepping stones in the shallow waters.
At home, this would be the time of Shemu, the season when waterways shriveled into dust
.

“Harmless looking, isn’t it?” Victoria remarked, glancing toward the river. “But four hundred years ago, the conquistadores lost many men in those waters. They claimed everything north of the Rio Grande for Spain, which makes El Paso the second oldest city in the country.”

“Please, what country do you speak of?”

“The United States, of course—though I can see how the proximity to the Mexican border might be confusing. You do remember crossing the border, don’t you?”

Khara was trapped in some cruel, lucid dream. The sights and sounds, all of them terrifying, brought on sudden waves of nausea. “I remember almost nothing,” she whispered, eyes closed. “I was too frightened by his conveyance.”

“His truck. They’re called trucks. And what we’re riding in now is a car.”

“Thank you for correcting me,” Khara said sincerely. “He put me in the back, in a secret box he used for hiding tools. He claimed there was no other way since I had no papers.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Have papers.”

“A citizen of Egypt has no such requirement.”

“Oh.”

Victoria’s chatter was calming, and for this kindness, Khara felt truly grateful. The car seemed to float over the road. Except for the melodious whirring sound it made and the perpetually changing scenery, they might not have been moving at all.

They sailed away from the cluster of lumbering buildings and through the tangle of cars and trucks on an endless ribbon of road. They passed many fine houses, some with elaborate rose gardens. There were smaller, more modest homes, too, with blue frames around the windows. These were similar to homes in Egypt.

The road narrowed and they climbed higher and higher, until Khara’s hands tightened into fists and beads of sweat formed on her upper lip. Below them, as far as the eye could see, lay an ocean of brown. If not for the evening breeze, the scent of which promised rain, she would surely have been sick to her stomach.

Soon they arrived at an ornate black gate which opened mysteriously, allowing them to pass. Victoria turned to her, still holding her damp hand, and announced, “We’re here.”

The conglomeration of buildings nestled into the side of the mountain, connected by walkways and small courtyards, could easily have served as a fortress; the west side offered a lofty view of the desert below. Each building, plastered white with a red-tiled roof, had several doors tucked into corners here and there.
Perhaps
, Khara thought, observing the building’s position in relation to the sun,
it is a system of temples
.
That would explain much about the tall woman. Her spirit of independence was, without doubt, aided by the tunic and breeches she wore. As unflattering as they were, they were well-designed for ease of movement
.

“I’m not home much,” she related, not looking over her shoulder. They paused at an arched doorway littered with withered plants in clay pots and a stubby ladder propped against the wall.

Khara followed her inside, squinting against the sun streaming through a transparent wall. The palace boasted glasswork—urns and cups for special ceremonies—but nothing as extravagant as an entire wall! Helpless to resist, she placed her hand against it. “It’s flawless,” she murmured, amazed by the perfection and warmth of the glass. “You live in such luxury. Surely you must be a priestess.”

“Me? I’m a half-hearted Catholic at best. I parted ways with religion a long time ago,” Victoria responded, unloading her shoulder bag.

Daylight provided the small residence with a spaciousness that would dissolve after sunset. With the exception of a few colorful vases and a large, bright, red-and-blue rug in the center of the room, most of the furnishings were the color of sand. Victoria opened a window and the curtains billowed softly. Khara inhaled deeply. Bathed in sunlight, she began to relax.

“How is it you are allowed to live alone?”

“Who would stop me? Besides, I don’t live entirely alone;
Dante shows up occasionally for dinner. Here, let me show you around.”

The main room included an indoor area for cooking, no doubt required by the inhospitable climate. It featured several cabinets, some featuring shiny compartments and was strangely empty for a place where food was prepared. Victoria went so far as to reveal her sleeping quarters, her bathing area and closet. Afterwards Khara followed her up a narrow staircase to a small upper story where they passed a room completely lined with bound manuscripts. At the end of the short hallway, they stopped in front of a door.

“Your bathroom. Towels are under the sink.”

Khara instantly understood the purpose of the throne-like chair, its surface smooth and white, but raised her eyebrows at the empty vat nearby. “And that?”

“A bathtub.” Victoria turned knobs that caused both hot and cold water to come forth. “I’ll bet you’d like to freshen up a bit. Take your time; I’ll be downstairs.” She smiled and pulled the door closed.

A few minutes later Khara emerged. With her face washed and damp hair smoothed away from her face, she felt better.

“I hope you don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” Victoria offered, “I converted the guest room years ago so I could have more space for my books. Wine?” She handed Khara a glass goblet. Seemingly, this woman’s wealth had no limit. “Come, I’ve saved the best part for last.” Victoria led her onto a balcony just large enough for a heavily padded chair that could have accommodated a small family.

“Indian summer; best weather of the year. The sunsets are spectacular before the cold weather sets in. Look at the way the fuchsia goes gray,” Victoria observed, pointing to the sky.

“I probably ought to follow my uncle’s advice—stop renting and buy a proper house.” She took a long drink. “But my work keeps me so busy…”

A fleeting shadow of sadness darkened Victoria’s eyes. In her, Khara sensed something familiar, and for a time she forgot the horror of the last days.

Night fell quickly, and they went inside. Victoria removed her shoes and stretched out on the sofa while Khara contemplated how to tell a story she herself could not comprehend.

“As I told you,” she asserted with some hesitation, “I am Egyptian.” Her mind racing, she asked, “Do you know of Egypt?”

“Of course.” Victoria’s smile reassured her. “One of the greatest civilizations.”

Hearing this, Khara’s shoulders began to shake as she sobbed her relief.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Khara shook her head. “No, it’s only that…forgive me. The last days have been an ever-worsening nightmare.”

“Then the coyote was right. You were taken against your will.” Victoria set her drink down and leaned forward. “It’s all right; you can tell me.”

“There were strange lights and sounds. I could not move.”

“You were probably drugged. Kidnapping is big business on the border. Young women are snatched off the street, sometimes even from the safety of their homes, and sold as sex slaves. Most are never seen or heard from again. You were very lucky, Khara.”

“If only what I experienced could be explained so easily.” She took a deep breath. “I am the eldest daughter of Pepy II, Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt.” Khara held her head high.

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Really? Go on.”

“Two days ago, at my coronation ceremony, my father—” “Wait, wouldn’t that make you some sort of princess?”

Khara lowered her head. “It does. That is why I must return. As quickly as possible.”

“Who else have you told this story?”

“Only you.”

“Let’s keep it that way for now,” Victoria cautioned and then fell silent, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. It was an expression Khara knew well; it was the same one she had given Nandor when he told her he had witnessed winged fish flying over the ocean, or great lizards that changed their colors whenever they wished.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Let’s just say that in my line of work I hear lots of stories, but yours is definitely a first.”

Khara rubbed the cuff through her dress. “There is no explanation for why I am here. How is it that I’m able to understand you?”

“Isn’t it my turn to ask questions? Look, sometimes it takes a while for the…” she paused, trying to find the right words, “…for things to wear off. I’ll bet that in the morning, everything will be much clearer. By the way, weren’t all the pharaohs men?”

“I am obligated to fulfill my father’s wish, regardless of my sex.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you should be drinking water instead.”

The humiliating silence that lingered in the room vanished instantly when a grey cat strode through the balcony door.

“Hey buddy,” Victoria called in a friendly way as she rose from the couch. “Where you been?”

Clearly she is unaware of how improper her greeting is
, Khara thought,
lacking the attention and respect required for a sacred beast.
Gathering bedding from a cabinet in the next room, Victoria’s insolence continued. “Meet Dante,” she called. “He doesn’t really belong to me; I just provide him an occasional meal and soft pillow.”

Touching her palms together as though in prayer, Khara bowed. “It is an honor to be in his presence.”

“I didn’t hear you, what did you say?”

He approached, his round body swaying from side to side. The presence of a cat was the shining beacon of hope Khara had been waiting for; it meant Victoria could be trusted. “How is it you possess the affinity?” he asked, the pupils of his jade eyes opening wide. Khara reached down to stroke his silky fur. “It must be this,” she replied, and showed him Nandor’s cuff. He sniffed it indifferently. “Of course, I also pray faithfully for the balance, harmony, and intuition the Goddess Bastet promises.”

He stopped in his tracks, turning his spectral gaze upon her. “So the old ways are not completely forgotten.” Moving closer, he pushed his head against her willing hand.

“Old ways? Tell me, all-knowing one,” she whispered, leaning close to his ear. “What kingdom is this?”

“I cannot say.”

Khara knew well that his divinity entitled him to swing from benevolent to cruel in a single moment. It was unwise to press further and risk an undeserved curse, which she had no doubt could be hurled from his paws in an instant.

“Where am I?” she whispered.

He blinked. “In the home of my mistress, where no harm will come to you.”

Victoria joined them at the table. “Here, boy,” she called reaching out to him with her free hand. He ignored her. Stretched out, his head resting on Khara’s foot, he could not have looked more insulted. “I’m not the dogcatcher, you know,” she said, rising to pull a bag of food from one of the cabinets, which she scattered into a small bowl decorated with blue footprints and set on the floor.

“Perhaps if you addressed him in the proper way,” Khara remonstrated gently, instructing the proper position of the hands.

Victoria groaned. “Really? This is too much. Now I have two sets of eyes scrutinizing my every move.” She set the blankets and pillows on the sofa. “You must be exhausted; I know I am. It’s been a rough day for us both. I think I’ll turn in early.” Pausing in the hallway, she added, “You’ll—we’ll both be better in the morning.”

Dante jumped onto the soft pile, showing Victoria his hindquarters and switching tail.

“Judas,” she said under her breath, sweeping by him on the way to her room.

Khara worried Victoria might return to throw her out, but gradually, the noises in the next room ceased. Even the sacred one abandoned her for the outdoors, leaving her blessedly alone.

The moon was well on its path through the sky when Khara tiptoed upstairs. In the light filtered through a single window above the bath, her reflection waited. Remembering how Victoria had made the room light, she pushed the knob up. Before tonight, she had only seen her image in bronze mirrors that tinged everything with an unflattering shade of mustard. Now Khara saw herself as others must see her. Unhurriedly, she explored her lean body, skimming her hands over her hip bones and across her belly before twisting to study her backside. How slight the difference between her and Menefra! Turning to Nandor’s pouch, which hung just below her ribs, she held the blood-stained bag against her cheek before pulling the drawstring open. She removed the tiny packet of folded papyrus filled with the bitter-smelling powder that had caused Menefra’s temporary blindness. Next, she found a vial of scented oil, which she sniffed before setting on the counter. Frankincense, but mixed with something clean and fresh-smelling. Mint, perhaps.