Yet she confidently walked along the narrow street of squat antique shops, her travel pack fastened to her waist, with Bala’s Glass inside. By some random process he didn’t understand, she picked a store, and plunged inside.
Aaron followed on her heels.
The place reeked of spices and Moroccan coffee and hashish, and the only light seeped through the front windows grimy with the dirt of the street.
Rosamund didn’t seem worried. She walked to the back where the light was faintest. She said to a pile of rags, “I want to buy a prophecy.”
The pile of rags coalesced into the owner, clad in a hooded robe called a djellaba. He rose from the dark corner, and smiled with a flash of white teeth. “Of course, most generous of patronesses. You have chosen the right place. I am Hamidallah, and I have many fine prophecies. Are you looking for one in particular?”
“I’m looking for the work of the prophetess of Casablanca.”
Hamidallah faltered. Only for a second, but he did falter, and Aaron’s sharp eyes noted that well. “The prophetess? Ah, yes, I know her. She is very nice.”
“She’s been dead for two hundred years,” Rosamund corrected.
“Come on.” Aaron took her arm. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Aaron didn’t understand how Hamidallah moved so fast, but he was suddenly between them and the door. “I have much knowledge, most honorable and impatient of gentlemen. But these things take time. Come. Sit. Drink coffee with me, and let me show you my wares.”
Aaron would have refused.
Rosamund didn’t give him a chance. “We are honored by your invitation, most knowledgeable of shopkeepers.”
As they seated themselves on the floor, Aaron felt like they were in a forties black-and-white movie, complete with the mysterious, dark-eyed Bedouin spy who would smile as he sliced their heads off with a scimitar.
Well, except that Hamidallah was seventy years old and one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.
Probably Aaron should be more worried about poison in the coffee.
Hamidallah offered them hashish, and Aaron’s mind veered to poison in the hookah.
Rosamund politely declined the hashish, and together they drank the coffee, which was so strong Aaron knew he’d be awake for days, and nibbled on some candy made of sesame seeds, almonds, raisins and spices.
When the polite preliminaries were over, Hamidallah got down to business. “I have only one document that is from the prophetess, and her language was mysterious and twisted. She was a powerful enchantress, famous for her curses, and so I bring this out only for you, miss, and would sell it only for a great price.” He opened a gray metal file cabinet—Aaron thought that took a lot of the woo-woo out of the transfer—and with great ceremony, produced a frayed sheet of paper.
Rosamund accepted it, and looked it over, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
Aaron had seen a lot of fakes in his time. This was a good one. The paper was old and worn; the handwriting was done with a quill and india ink, in ornate, indecipherable script. He waited with interest to see if Rosamund would recognize the con, and she didn’t disappoint him.
With a long disappointed sigh, she handed the paper back to Hamidallah. She folded her hands in her lap, and asked reproachfully, “What have I done to make you have such contempt for me? Why would you insult me with this sad imitation of an old and revered writing?”
“I don’t understand.” Hamidallah spread his hands in an impersonation of bewilderment.
“This paper has been tumbled in a dryer to look old, and the ink was applied no more than a week ago. The writing is a combination of Arabic script and hieroglyphics, put together in a mishmash of styles.” She looked right at Hamidallah. “I am the daughter of Elizabeth and Elijah, and I know of these things.”
With a sigh as weighty as hers had been, Hamidallah returned the paper to his file cabinet and shut it inside. “My apologies, Dr. Hall, I thought you no more than a foolish tourist looking for adventure.”
Aaron almost fell over in surprise. How was this possible? Hamidallah knew who she was, or at least who her parents were. Moreover, his entire demeanor changed, becoming respectful and almost embarrassed.
She stood, dusted off her skirt, and sadly moved toward the door.
Hamidallah bustled forward and pressed something into her hands. “Dr. Hall, please accept this gift as a token of my esteem, and for luck.”
She looked down at the small figurine. “Thank you. I am honored by your esteem.”
“I cannot speak with certainty, but my uncle Mubeen is very old and has collected many treasures in his lifetime. You can perhaps visit his shop, and tell him I sent you.” Hamidallah’s directions were confusing, involving twists and turns that would take them deep into the old city.
Aaron could almost feel the knife against his throat.
But as Rosamund left the shop, Hamidallah caught Aaron by the shoulder. “Listen, young friend, the daughter of Elizabeth and Elijah will need more than my small token to keep her safe. The prophetess was powerful and evil, a trickster and a witch. Hunting her, even so long after her death, invites bad luck. Stay at Dr. Hall’s back. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“She’s probably already halfway to your uncle’s,” Aaron said in exasperation. Then as Hamidallah’s hand tightened on his shoulder, he nodded. “I am not a foolish tourist, either, old friend, and Rosamund is a gem that I greatly treasure. I promise to die rather than allow her to be hurt.”
“Before this quest is over, she will need that,” Hamidallah said.
That was exactly what Aaron did not need to hear. “Are you a seer to know this?”
“No, young friend; not I.” Before Aaron could grab Hamidallah by the throat and shake the truth out of him, the old man bowed and vanished into the back of the shop.
Aaron stood staring after him, wondering how Hamidallah had done that, and why his own head was spinning.
Rosamund stepped back inside. “Aaron, are you coming?”
He looked at her, feeling slightly unsteady on his feet.
Had the old man poisoned him?
Rosamund stepped close and looked deep into Aaron’s eyes, then took his hand and dragged him into the street. “This has started very well, but be careful how much of the candy you eat. Sometimes it contains marijuana.”
“What?” As soon as she said it, he knew it was true, because he wanted to giggle.
She looked left and right, then set out like a blood-hound on the scent. “In Morocco, cannabis is nothing more than an ingredient, and considered a love potion—or in Hamidallah’s case, a little something to persuade the client to accept a counterfeit.”
Aaron wasn’t so stoned he couldn’t figure out the other option. “Or possibly put the client to sleep to be robbed and kidnapped . . . or murdered.”
She didn’t answer—which was an answer in itself.
He had a knife in his boot and one up his sleeve, and a pistol strapped to his chest, and already his head was clearing. He knew all the weapons he could carry and all his vigilance were not nearly enough, not against a battalion of ruffians on the Casablanca streets, the ill will of a malevolent prophetess, and the Others. Yet Aaron and Rosamund couldn’t retreat. The Chosen Ones needed that prophecy. So he had to depend on Rosamund’s knowledge of antiquities and his own nose for trouble to protect them.
“Have you been in Casablanca before?” The streets narrowed as they walked, the women vanished from sight, and the men looked like Hollywood villains.
“Not here, exactly, but in other cities like this. When I was young, and my mother was alive, we traveled extensively.”
“If you haven’t been here, how could Hamidallah know your parents?”
“The world of antiques, real and fake, is very small, and even in this part of the world, they have cell phones and e-mail.” She grinned at him, mocking his perceptions of the primitive conditions. “My parents were well-respected because t
hey in turn respected the cultures with which they dealt. They said if you want to know the truth about the past, you have to talk to the people who care.”
“And the people who care are the ones still living in that culture.”
“Exactly. The West has a habit of dismissing that link, much to its own detriment.” She stopped, looked at the grimy white, two-story building with the narrow green door that looked exactly like all the other grimy white, two-story buildings with narrow green doors, and said, “Here we are!”
Mubeen clearly knew they were coming, for he welcomed them and at once explained he didn’t have the prophecy. But he thought perhaps, if Dr. Hall would permit, he would call to find out what happened to the documents found in the attic of the most honorable Jedidi family.
The call took fully an hour, during which time Mubeen’s wife served them some of the most wonderful food Aaron had ever put in his mouth. The salad was fresh, the tagine rich with spices, lamb and apricots, and Faeqa made the bread in the kitchen and brought it out to them while they ate. They finished with more coffee—Aaron now thought he wouldn’t sleep for weeks—and fresh fruit and yogurt.
Mubeen came back, seated himself, and with a serious face, he said, “The Jedidi family was wealthy and influential in old Casablanca, and to their great misfortune, it was they who held the prophetess while she was imprisoned here. The years since have not been good to them, and upon finding documents written by the prophetess, they sold them to the Hassan II Ain Chok University in the hopes that by that action they would end the bad luck she visited upon their family. The book is now in the university collection, and available for viewing, but until it has been properly studied by Dr. Al-Ruwaili, it can be seen only in a display case and from a distance.”
“I’m an antiquities librarian,” Rosamund said. “Perhaps I can convince Dr. Al-Ruwaili to let me examine the book.”
Even before she finished, Mubeen was shaking his head. “Forgive me, but you are a woman from an esteemed family, and the professor is young and suspicious. He believes that with these papers, it is possible for him to make a name for himself.”
“Nevertheless, I would like to speak with him,” Rosamund said firmly.
“What’s in these papers?” Aaron asked.
“While the prophetess remained in Casablanca, waiting to be sold, she foretold deaths and births and destinies, making all fear her and at the same time, driving her own price up. For many men wanted to own a creature with such gifts.” Mubeen took a cup of coffee from his wife. “The ill will of the prophetess lingers in the Jedidi family and now I fear for our young professor. In the name of your parents, Dr. Hall, please be careful that the prophetess does not taint your life.”
“I search for her final prophecy, my friend, but I do not believe she has powers that can reach across the ages.” Rosamund was very polite, but very firm.
Mubeen looked at Aaron, and Aaron could see the warning he wanted to issue hovering on his lips. Aaron leaned toward the merchant. “I am here to make sure that Dr. Hall remains unharmed by the old malevolence of the prophetess or the current dangers posed by those who would harm her for her knowledge.”
“Good,” Mubeen said. But his face was troubled, and after he showed them out, he locked and bolted the narrow green door.
Rosamund, of course, was oblivious. “I want to go to the university.”
“Of course you do,” Aaron said, and led the way. But until they reached the broad streets of the new city, he kept his hand on the pistol under his coat.
Chapter 19
“I don’t understand how Dr. Al-Ruwaili could be so rude. What did he think I was going to do, steal the prophetess’s manuscript right out from under his nose?” In a rage, Rosamund threw her travel pack on the floor and flung herself on the bed in her hotel room, arm over her eyes.
Aaron lingered by the door. “Mubeen told you what Al-Ruwaili feared—that if the daughter of famous ar cheological explorers looked closely at the book, everyone would dismiss his accomplishments as hers.”
“That is so absurd.”
“Men’s egos are never absurd. Pitiful, perhaps, but not absurd.”
She lifted her head and stared at him in confusion, then laughed. “You’re being ironic.”
“Very good.” Coming to the bed, he placed his hands at her sides on the frayed bedspread, trapping her between his arms. “I’m going to go out and see what I can find. I want you to promise me you’ll lock the door behind me and open it to no one. Not room service, not a messenger, not the manager of the hotel.”
“But if I’m hungry—”
“Before I brought you back to the hotel, I fed you for just that reason. Now, promise you’ll do as you’re told, or I can’t leave.”
Having him lean over her like this and act concerned rather pleased her. She wanted to squirm closer, rub herself against his chest, see if he would kiss her again.
Of course, that was impossible. He wasn’t drunk.
She scooted away. “Why would someone hurt me?”
“Some people are threatened by women who are intelligent. Some people are threatened by women who are beautiful. You are both.”
“Right.” Sitting up, she looked into his eyes, expecting to see expanded pupils or bloodshot whites. “You don’t look as if you’re drugged.”
He sighed. “I’m not drugged. I’m concerned. Now—promise.”
“I promise.”
“Fine.” He actually did kiss her. Lightly. Like someone indulging a child. “Now lock the door behind me, then go to sleep. I’ll be back before morning.”
“Wake up.” Aaron shook Rosamund out of a sound sleep. “Wake up. I have the book.”
She dragged herself into a sitting position, blinked and rubbed her eyes, then grabbed her glasses and shoved them on her nose. His face came into focus: excited, dynamic, vibrant. “How did you get in here?”
“I got a copy of your key from the front desk.” He held a small package wrapped in cheesecloth. “Look. This is it!”
She looked at the clock. It was one thirty in the morning. “What were the people who work the front desk thinking? You could be a murderer or a rapist.”
He straightened in obvious annoyance. “Yes, I could, but we came in together. This is a male-dominated society, and you’re a woman alone. As far as they’re concerned, I’m in charge of you.”
Annoyed in her turn, she said, “That is so politically incorrect. And I put the security bar on. How did you get around that?”
“There are ways. Now—pay attention. Look!” He handed her gloves and placed the package in her lap.
She unwrapped the cloth, and her exasperation evaporated.
This was the slim, leather-bound volume she’d seen from afar in the university library.
Awed, she carefully touched the binding. “This is the prophetess’s book. But Al-Ruwaili was so adamant. How did you convince him to let me examine it? Not just let me examine it, but take it out of the university library?”
“I am a very persuasive soul,” Aaron said.
She opened the book to the fly page, where in ornate French penmanship, a woman had written The Works of Sacmis, prophetess of Casablanca, as scribed by Rasheeda Jedidi. Rosamund leafed through the first few pages. The book had been a journal, blank pages meant to be filled with a girl’s dreams. Instead, it was a recitation of dread prophecies suggested by the prophetess and at first recorded with some excitement by Rasheeda.
But something about this situation with Aaron niggled at Rosamund’s brain, some memory of a similar incident involving her, and a library, and Aaron. “You got my notebook out of the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library, too.”
“So I did.” He seated himself on a chair nearby, a broad, tall, dynamic man with dark, sharp eyes and strong hands capable of loving a woman . . . or killing a man.
She said, “You shouldn’t have been able to get to the antiquities department without me.”
“As I said, I’m very persuasive
.”
She leafed on, looking at the way the precise handwriting began to change, to become a scrawl of worry and then panic as Sacmis’s prophecies began to come true. “Is there something you should tell me?” she asked politely.
With equal civility, he said, “I can’t imagine what.”
She met his gaze with a fierce impatience. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“That is the last thing I think.” But he had the guts to pretend he didn’t know what she was going to say.