“I’m a Copt,” she clarified, extending her wrist again so that I need not sneak a peek at the tattoo I’d only glimpsed before. Definitely a cross. “Coptic Christian.”
Hello. While Christianity in Rome wasn’t sanctioned until the fourth century, it had flourished in Egypt from its very beginning—yet another reason that we’d passed the first monastery. Early writings such as the Gnostic Gospels had also been recovered here.
Rhys said, “The Copts, though a minority now, are the Egyptians who can most directly trace their lineage back to the Pharaohs.” Like Cleopatra?
“And to priestesses of Isis?” I guessed, with a shiver of comprehension. “That’s how you can help us find her chalice.”
Most of the Grailkeepers I’d met, myself included, had learned special nursery rhymes as children. Those rhymes held within them the riddle to where their mothers’ mothers’ mothers had hidden their ancestral grails. Maybe it was the dry heat, or the faint scent of tropical flowers in the air, but I could easily imagine this woman’s ancestors protecting holy relics in the court of Pharaohs.
“Precisely,” said Dr. Rachid. “The truth of the cup’s location has been in my family for centuries.”
“Then the divers are looking in the right place?”
She nodded, but her smile was mysterious. “One could say that. But before I share what I know…I’m afraid I must ask you for some assistance.”
I looked at Rhys, whose brows furrowed. “You said you wanted to meet her,” he protested. “You didn’t say anything about favors.”
“I apologize, but I had to make certain she is as competent as you told me.” Dr. Rachid nodded, seemingly to herself. “And clearly she is.”
My throat didn’t tighten with any premonition of danger, but my bullshit meter was sure in the red. “How could you possibly tell my level of competence just by shaking…my…?”
Oh. My hand. Whatever force the Melusine Grail had imbued me with, Dr. Rachid seemed to have sensed it.
I probably should have asked if she, like Munira at the bazaar, thought I was some kind of champion—but damned if I could force the question out. It was too overwhelming an idea, way too big a responsibility to handle while jet-lagged. Instead, if only to avoid that particular elephant in the corner, I asked, “What kind of assistance?”
“Ah.” She ignored me to stand as her maid showed another woman, holding a notebook, into the room. “Jane. I’m so pleased you’re here.”
“Tala.” If the woman’s red hair, spattering of freckles, and blue jeans hadn’t given her away as a Westerner, the blunt edge of her East-London accent would have. I guessed her to be about my age, maybe a little older. “Father Pritchard, it’s good to see you again.”
I arched a look at Rhys. Father Pritchard? And here I thought he’d stopped practicing.
“I’ve been volunteering as a counselor when I have time off,” he explained, low. “I do have training, because of my previous work, and…”
And old habits were hard to break—especially habits one should keep, like helping others. I could get that, and tried to tell him with my smile that I understood.
In the meantime, Jane was asking, “Tala, where’s Kara?”
“She will be down shortly,” insisted our hostess. “Jane, this is Father Pritchard’s friend, Magdalene Sanger. The one I told you about? Mrs. Sanger, this is my daughter-in-law, Jane Fletcher.”
“It really is Ms. Sanger.” I offered my hand. “Or just Maggie. The ring is a bluff.”
“And I’m an ex-daughter-in-law,” Jane corrected, though her grip on my hand was friendly enough.
“My ex-stepdaughter-in-law,” clarified Dr. Rachid, just to confuse matters more. “It is on her behalf that I request your assistance.”
Rhys frowned. “Dr. Rachid, Jane, I understand how desperate you are, but this is hardly fair to Maggi. This is a…a…”
“A bait and switch?” I suggested. “You get me here by promising the secret of the Isis Grail, then demand that I earn it first?”
“Please, call me Tala.” Our hostess’s dark eyes showed no contrition at all. “And is not the secret of the Isis Grail worth earning?”
Intellectually, I knew the drill—how many of the heroes in myths and fairy tales first have to prove themselves in a series of trials before they get rewarded with the golden apple, the kingdom or true love? But in reality…
In reality, my head was swimming. I’d never set out to be a hero. I just wanted to collect the goddess chalices before the Comitatus could destroy them.
And yet…. Damn it. From either curiosity or kindness—or both—I couldn’t ignore the pain in Jane Fletcher’s eyes, either.
“It couldn’t hurt to tell me what’s going on,” I said, slowly. Reluctantly, even.
Dr. Rachid—Tala’s—smile was, as ever, gracious. Jane raised a fist to her mouth in a failed attempt to smother a hopeful, desperate laugh of relief. But it was Rhys, blue eyes more solemn than usual, who worried me.
And I’d thought I was in over my head when I fell into the Alexandrian harbor!
“Have you ever fallen in love with the wrong man?” asked Jane.
The only man I’d ever loved, besides my father, had been living a secret life the whole time. The only man who’d come close to distracting me from him was sitting right here—and he was a priest. I chose to say nothing and just looked interested.
“I did,” she assured me, opening her notebook. The first page showed a color copy of a wedding photo. “Him.”
I looked. “Sinbad!”
“What?” Rhys looked, as well. “You are right, Maggi. It’s the man from the airport.”
Airport, hell. “And the bazaar!”
He looked at the other ladies. “This is Hani Rachid?”
Tala and Jane exchanged worried looks. Then Jane proceeded with her tale, flipping to more photocopied pictures and then newspaper clippings as if to prove her truthfulness.
She’d been working as a flight attendant. Hani Rachid had attended college at Oxford, the epitome of tall, dark and exotically handsome. Even now, Jane’s gaze softened as she described their courtship. “He was wealthy, and protective. He showered me with gifts and compliments. And he was such the gentleman. He waited until we were married before he would…well…” A small frown marred the bridge of her nose. “I think my virginity meant more to him than ever it had to me. He later told me that if I hadn’t been pure on our wedding night, he would have killed me. I laughed at the time, but…”
He wasn’t the man she’d thought she’d married, at all.
Relieved of the need to win her,
