Chapter One

Alexandria, April 7 th , 1855

To call myself a fish out of water implies that I once knew how to swim. I do not. Water should be properly warm and used for bathing, or nicely cool and used for drinking.

Everything else should be left for the fish.

Yet here I was at the Place El Mansheya, a lovely stretch of green surrounded by buildings whose design showed French fingerprints. Bunches of flowers—hot pink and orange and coral—tumbled over many walls and corners, making it clear I was in Alexandria rather than the South of France.

I was one of a handful of men wearing British Army drab, a costume I'd been instructed to obtain. All around me, men swathed in yards of fabric and men in business suits argued in Arabic, Greek, and French, their occasional use of English drawing my attention if not my understanding.

I knew no one and my presence drew only the mildest of curiosity, so I waited, grateful for the shade cast by the trees lining either side of the square. The place was much warmer than London in May, and a slight breeze came from the direction of the Mediterranean Sea, carrying the scent of salt and fish to compete with the horse manure from the road. It all had the tinge of fantasy, and I patted my breast pocket, reassuring myself the letter did, in fact, exist.

The letter. The missive that had prompted a desperate ride from London to Southampton, then two weeks in a steamship that could have been two years for as slowly as the time had passed.

The letter whose instructions ordered me to send a message to an unfamiliar person. A reply had come. I was to wait here, dressed in borrowed clothing, at the corner of the square closest to the water, with a boutonniere of red carnations pinned to my collar. Someone would approach me and say the word "ridiculous," then take me to find my cousin Randall

Randall MacKinley. Keeper of my childish—and not so childish—secrets.

Ridiculous did seem like an appropriate choice for the situation. I was a doctor, a scientist, not a spy. That was Randall's calling, though I deliberately kept myself in the dark as to the particulars of his profession. As boys, we'd been thick as thieves, quite literally, and while he'd fashioned a more-or-less legal career out of our propensities, I'd long since put such childish things away.

All I knew was that it had been some months since I'd had any word from him at all, and that the letter, when it came, was written in a stranger's hand.

The same hand as the note that had posted me under this tree, where I tasted the dust kicked up by a hundred pairs of horses' hooves.

While I waited, I ran through any number of scenarios of varying degrees of outlandishness. And the situation must have been outlandish, otherwise why send for me under such cloak and dagger circumstances? More likely he needed some manner of rescue, though if I'd ever possessed such skills, they'd long since rusted into disuse. I treated mothers for puerperal fever and active young boys for broken limbs. I eased the symptoms of dropsy and comforted the bereaved when my best efforts were for naught.

I was not a spy, and I possessed neither the skills nor the capabilities to act as a spy. Common sense told me I should have stayed in my London rooms and left Randall to his fate.

Blood, however, had proven thicker than water, so when a nondescript man with faded hair and fair skin approached, I steeled myself.

"Ridiculous weather we're having," he murmured, and I nodded in agreement, not trusting myself to reply. He gestured toward the road, and having come all this way, I wordlessly followed.

We headed toward the water, to a broad walkway that followed the Mediterranean shore. There were people about, though not many, and everyone walked with midweek determination, as if the sparkle of sunlight off the deep aqua waves was not worth noting. After a few long minutes, my companion nudged me with his elbow.

"Don't look so terrified," he said, without looking in my direction. "I'm taking you to MacKinley, not a firing squad."

I tried to chuckle, but it came out closer to a snort. "When it comes to my cousin Randall, anything is possible."

He was silent for another few steps. "I can find no argument with that."

"Quite."

We continued walking, and if we didn't strike up a voluble conversation, we were at least cordial. I learned his name was Will, and he was Randall's secretary. He also had a secret. I could see it in the gleam in his eyes. He wanted me calm and biddable, and while I couldn't point to a specific fault, my jaw and shoulders never truly relaxed.

We'd gone the better part of a mile when he turned off the path, heading into a neighborhood. Here, the buildings were clustered together, holding each other up, and the air grew heavy with the scent of roasted meat and spices.

After so many years in London, I thought I knew what an old city felt like, but Alexandria had been ancient when London was founded. The sense of age added to my tension. There were mysteries in these decrepit clay structures, ghosts that I would not want to meet.

We came to a souk, a crowded market crammed into the space between one street and another. A man stood to one side, his head wrapped in a bright white turban, his dusky caftan a few shades darker than the clay. He played the clarinet, a moody, sinuous tune that did little to relax me.

There were too many people and too little space, and though I'd visited the Covent Garden market more than once, too much of this scene was strange.

Without pausing to comment, Will led me on, each turn taking us onto a smaller street than the last. I was hopelessly lost, disoriented, and should he abandon me, I'd be hard pressed to find someone who spoke English, let alone one who could direct me to my hotel.

One more turn, but this time we came out onto a small square. Low houses lined it on three sides, and no one was about.

"It's that one." Will pointed to a house to our right, sitting a little apart from the others. I'd long since passed the point of no return, yet I had to steel myself to mount the steps and follow him through the carved front door.

He closed the door behind me and murmured, "Wait here."

I did, grateful at least to be out of the sun. Will disappeared through a door that swung soundlessly on its hinges. He'd left me in a parlor of some kind, furnished by someone who idolized the English. The furniture was familiar: a pair of wingback chairs set on either side of a small fireplace, a long, low divan, and a rag rug covering the black tile floor.

The colors, though, were both darker and more saturated than on English soil, as if the sun itself had given them added depth. I took out my pocket handkerchief and wiped the sweat from my brow, wondering if I dared sit, and even less sure if I dared stay.

The only thing that kept me in place was the knowledge that I'd never be able to find my way back.

Tucking away my handkerchief, I attempted to wait without fidgeting. Easier said than done. Tension stiffened my posture, so that when the door swung open again, I all but hopped in place. Will came through, carrying a tray that he set on the small table between the wing chairs.

"Sit, please. Your cousin will be with you shortly. Tea?" He gestured to the delicately painted pot on the tray. I almost declined out of a sense of self-preservation. Who knew what he might have put in the tea? Instead, I took the chair closest to the door. He poured, and I accepted the cup. Brought it to my lips. Took a tentative sip.

The first notes were of some unfamiliar spice, but behind that was the comforting warmth of a good English black tea. Another sip, and I nodded my thanks.

"He wouldn't have sent for you if he wasn't in real trouble."

The words were spoken so softly I hardly heard them. "What—"

My question was cut off by my cousin's arrival. He came through the door, leaning heavily on an ebony cane. The cane's handle and base were brass, polished to a shine, and the handle had a large ruby set right above the place where brass met wood.

"You really are here." Randall's voice was strained, weak, with little of his customary bravado. He continued toward me, moving slowly enough for me to take in the frayed edges to his frock coat, the baggy fit of his trousers. His silk brocade vest had once been fine, but it gapped where it was missing a button. His smile, though, did much to reassure me. Despite whatever trouble he faced, he was still my cousin.

Once we'd been closer than brothers, and that memory brought me to my feet. I wrapped him in a hug, wincing at the sharp angles and planes of his shoulders and the way his spine was little more than a line of hard knobs.

He hugged me back, leaning in and allowing me to support his entire weight, something I was more than willing to do.

When he shifted his weight, I released him, though I kept my hands on his shoulders. "So what was so important that you needed to drag me halfway round the world?"

The sparkle in his eyes was as familiar as his grin. "My weakened constitution, in the main part." He reached for the arm of the chair and I stood by in case he needed help sitting.

He managed without my aid, though Will hovered nearby as well. Once Randall was settled, I took my own seat. Will poured a second cup of tea.

Questions tumbled over each other in my mind, but I allowed my cousin time to take a sip before interrogating him.

He sipped, sighed, and set his cup on the tray. "Before we go any further, know that I am deeply in your debt. The task I'm going to propose is of the utmost importance, and though I do hope you'll accept it, I'll understand if you do not." He paused, seeming to sink into the stiff horsehair upholstery. "Either way, you're here, and I'll be grateful forever."

The physician in me wanted to point out that his appearance didn't give much assurance that forever would be very long, but I left that unsaid as well. "Well, I'm here. Tell me."

He caught my gaze and held it. "I would not ask if I had any hope of accomplishing it myself."

"Of course." I deferred asking him whether he had a name for his illness. There'd be time for that later.

"You can refuse me with no shame."

This time I couldn't hold my tongue. "You're hedging. Tell me what you want me to do so I can decide whether it's within my power."

His grin took on a hint of deviousness. "You're more than capable, if you'll but let yourself. We share the same roots, after all."

"Tell me, Randall." I crossed my arms, refusing to return his smirk.

"All right." He placed both hands on his thighs, bracing himself against whatever he was about to say. "You haven't been here long enough to have much feel for the place. People get along for the most part, but there are always factions. In this case, it's a matter of religion. There are the Muslims, the Coptics, the Orthodox, the Jews, and the Catholics, though there are fewer of them than the rest."

A fit of coughing took him, shaking his shoulders till I thought he would break apart. Will passed him a handkerchief, and it didn't take a physician to see the blood Randall wiped from his mouth. Consumption. A heaviness fell over me, the realization that I'd agree with whatever he asked of me.

Randall was dying, and I could refuse him nothing.

"Sorry about that." He held the handkerchief scrunched in one hand.

I waved away his apology. "As a tactic of delay, coughing is fairly effective." I quirked one side of my mouth so he'd see I was joking.

"Quite." He managed to capture my dry tone almost exactly. "Here's the nut of it. A man who calls himself a priest has been visiting Alexandria for the last few months. I'm reasonably sure he's not a priest, and"—he snorted—"I'm not even sure he's a man, for that." He coughed again, more weakly. "He's set to leave on the steamship Haddington when it sails on the nineteenth, and I have arranged for you to be on the same boat. He'll be carrying several artifacts, treasures from the tombs, stuff pilfered from various churches, that sort of thing."

"And you want me to steal something from him?"

"Yes," he said gravely. "There's an icon, a small image of the Black Madonna. It's said to have fibers from the Holy Mother's mantle, the one she wore at the crucifixion, woven into the frame."

"I'm not a th—"

He cut off my protest. "If this thing leaves Alexandria, the Coptics will accuse the Orthodox, who will blame the Church of Rome, who will point their fingers at the Muslims. They'll all likely turn against the Jews. This icon carries more weight than its artistic value or the stories tied to it. It is part of the web of power that keeps tensions in this place at a manageable level, and if it is gone, there will be war."

His words carried the resonance of something more than truth. In fact, if I hadn't known better, I'd say he was touched by the same spiritualistic visions that had begun to encroach on rational thought in London. Still, "I am not a thief."

Randall's expression turned bleak. "But you were, Hugh. You'll remember how." He paused, glancing at Will. "We've arranged for you to be the ship's physician. You'll have the run of the place, and you'll be provided with a dossier that contains a reasonable explanation for your presence, along with all the information we have to this point. It's just this one thing, and then I can die happy."

I couldn't have looked away from his gaze for all the money in the world. "I'll do it, Randall, but you must live long enough for me to return the icon to Alexandria."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I agree." He offered his hand for me to shake. "You bring the icon back, and I'll live long enough to see it."