After Theo’s exit, Semele crashed back to reality. Her first thought was of Bren.
How could she have done this to him? A flush spread over her as she pictured herself with Theo.
She berated herself while she waited for the courier to come pick up the crates. An endless hour of waiting. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. She was half tempted to call Bren right then and confess.
Tomorrow marked their two-year anniversary. Now she had this—this nightmare, this shame—blackening everything.
A million times she questioned why he had kissed her.
Theo Bossard was a client. They had barely spoken the whole time she was here, and now he dared to leave her with that send-off? It wasn’t as if she could have a fling with a man who lived four thousand miles away, even if she weren’t with Bren—and she was.
The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Theo had seduced her for sport. If she hadn’t had that damn wine, none of this would have happened.
For the rest of the evening she tried to forget. She ate dinner back at the hotel without tasting a thing. She packed her suitcase on autopilot and then stood under the shower, eyes closed, hoping Theo’s memory would wash away with the water.
She didn’t know how she could tell Bren or how he’d react. The past year had been difficult for them. They had been about to move in together when her father died and they’d agreed to put their plans on hold. Bren had helped her through her father’s death and the rift that had occurred between her and her mother when, after the funeral, Semele had discovered the secrets her parents had been keeping from her.
She kept thinking at some point she and Bren would return to how they were their first year together, before her family had fallen apart. They had been “that couple” in the park on Sundays, lying on a blanket and taking turns resting their heads on each other’s stomachs, while reading books in the sunlight. They cooked dinner together, went grocery shopping together, and for Valentine’s Day they even took a couples’ massage class to learn each other’s pressure points.
All that had changed after the funeral.
Semele mourned by losing herself in her work. It was perhaps the biggest source of tension in their relationship. Bren tried to be patient. They still had their own apartments even though they usually spent the night together.
She knew talk of the future would come up again tomorrow night over dinner. And here she was, sabotaging everything.
Lost in thought, at first she didn’t register the strange noise outside the bathroom.
She heard the shuffle again and turned off the water. Someone was in her hotel room.
She stood paralyzed in the shower until instinct kicked in and she reached out to secure the bathroom lock.
She waited breathlessly, dripping wet, with her ear to the door.
Outside there was a sudden swoosh of movement and the quiet click of a door closing.
Frantic, she wrapped a towel around her body and looked for a weapon. She grabbed the only hard thing she could find—the hair dryer.
The adrenaline coursing through her was a rush unlike anything she’d ever felt before. She undid the lock and charged out with a scream.
The room was empty.
Still charging, still screaming—she whipped open the door and ran down the hall, clutching the towel around her while holding her hair dryer out like pepper spray.
The hall was empty too.
She stopped running and turned a full circle, then lowered the arm holding the dryer. She looked deranged.
An elderly couple stepped off the elevator, and the three stared at each other for an awkward moment. Then the old man gave her a wink.
With an embarrassed smile, Semele hurried back to her room, but not before hearing the woman whisper, “American.”
Semele locked the door and moved the dresser to block the entrance. If an intruder tried to come in again, they’d find a wall of fake oak. Still frantic, she checked her things and found her purse, wallet, computer, and iPad all where she’d left them.
She sat down on the bed and let out a shaky breath, trying to calm down.
Had she imagined it? Had someone been in her room at all?
At this point, she was willing to believe she had been mistaken.
It was almost eleven now and she had to be up early to make her flight, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Between the image of Theo looping through her brain, her anxiety about Bren, and now fending off a phantom intruder with a bathroom appliance, she just wanted to get the hell out of Switzerland and go home.
She was about to turn off the light when she looked at her laptop and froze. Her computer was on, which was impossible. She had turned it off before she’d left the château. She remembered doing it in the kitchen. But now the screen was lit and staring back at her.
The manuscript file was open.
Someone had been looking at her scan. They knew she had a copy.
Semele stared at the ancient Greek script glowing on her computer screen like puzzle pieces waiting to be fit together.
This entire trip she had sensed an invisible shadow following her, and now it had showed itself. She didn’t understand what was happening. The only thing she was certain of was that this manuscript was more than it seemed.
Marcel had tried to warn her.
I must share with you my last days in Alexandria before I can tell you a different tale. For there is more to this story. My journey as a seer truly began when I read the Oracle’s scroll. The day Ariston gave me his translation was also the last day I would see him in Alexandria.
I found him waiting for me in the library, in a reading room that held works on anatomy. He was usually in that chamber.
Ariston had come to Alexandria to study the great works of Herophilus, the physician who founded Alexandria’s school of medicine hundreds of years ago. The library housed all his research. Herophilus had devoted his life to dissecting the human body to gain knowledge of its inner mysteries, and he had written countless texts on the subject. Ariston had been studying Herophilus’ collection so he could take the knowledge back home. Ariston’s father was a renowned physician in Antioch, and Ariston was expected to follow the same path.
Each year thousands like him made the pilgrimage to Alexandria to research and leave their work alongside masters. They were honored to have their names printed in the library’s illustrious registry. The prestige carried weight, even back in their homelands. Soon Ariston’s time in Alexandria would be over. I could not bear to think of life without him.
When I met him in the reading room that day, he gave me such a perplexed look, as if I had suddenly become a mystery to unravel. Then the question in his eyes vanished and he smiled.
We went outside and headed toward the harbor, which had earned Alexandria its reputation for being the grandest port in the world. The market of vendors with wares from faraway regions stretched along the seawall like bands of colored thread. Spices wafted and danced in the air, obscuring the smell of livestock. We passed by stalls where artisans performed their trades and musicians played for coin.
Ariston bought two roasted dates and we strolled south toward the Gate of the Sun. Lake Mareotis glistened in the distance.
I didn’t think the moment could be more perfect, but when I looked over at him, he was staring at me strangely again.
“I finished the translation,” he said after a long pause. “The scroll was written by the Oracle of Wadjet.”
He let this news hover in the air. For a moment I couldn’t speak.
The Oracle of Wadjet existed thousands of years ago. Wadjet was a goddess, one of the earliest deities ever recorded. She had been the daughter of Atum-Ra, the creator Sun God, and as legends went, she had been transformed into a cobra to protect the pharaohs, the land of Egypt, and the all-seeing Eye of Horus. Regarded as the world’s first seer, Wadjet influenced every oracle to come, including the Greek Oracles of Delphi and Dodona over a thousand years later.
Oracles supposedly had a direct connection to the divine, and the Oracle of Wadjet had been a powerful beacon in the ancient world, but her writings and her prophecies had become lost three thousand years ago when Egypt moved its epicenter to Memphis. Ariston’s discovery was beyond incredible. We had found a set of symbols she had used and a scroll written by her hand.
“She wrote the scroll knowing…” He trailed off.
“Knowing what?” I asked. I was filled with trepidation. He had read something in the scroll that changed the way he looked at me.
“It’s not for me to say. Read my translation when you get home.”
Part of me wanted to go home and read it right away. But that would cut short our afternoon together and I didn’t know how much longer Ariston would remain in Alexandria. I had a sinking feeling his time at the library had come to an end.
“You promised to show me your uncle’s newest invention,” I reminded him, trying to dispel the gloom that had settled over us.
“Are you sure you still want to see?”
“Of course I do!”
We tacitly agreed not to discuss the scroll any further. Instead we took off, hand in hand, toward the Royal Quarters and Emporium, where countless temples encompassed the heart of the city. On any one street people could pray to a variety of deities, Zeus and Jupiter, Isis and Osiris, the Jewish god Yahweh, the Persian god Mithra, or Serapis, a god the Ptolemies introduced to bind themselves to the Egyptians and their mysticism.
Too many temples existed, I thought, for any one prayer to possibly reach its destination. In Alexandria every temple relied on a certain number of worshippers, so the competition to gain the attention of a passerby was fierce. Spectacles rivaling the best theatrical shows would erupt outside temple doors throughout the day. Ariston’s uncle, the one he was staying with, was a purveyor of such wonders, and his work was in high demand. Alexandrians loved anything to do with magic, so each temple’s keeper would try to outdo the others with marvels that often revolved around fortune telling.
Ariston’s uncle had just finished building his latest contraption, a magical fish that spewed gold-painted coins from its mouth. Each coin had a fortune carved upon its face.
We arrived just as the mechanical fish was being hoisted into the air, with an aquamarine banner flying behind its fins like an ocean wave.
The device drew a crowd as coins rained from the fish’s mouth, and a sea of hands reached to catch them. Some came flying toward me, glinting in the light. I caught one and squealed with laughter.
Before I could read the fortune, Ariston cupped my face with his hands and kissed me full on the mouth, a stolen kiss, bold and lustful. His arm wrapped around my waist and he pulled me against him. I came alive and claimed him with equal passion.
“Marry me,” he whispered. “Come with me to Antioch. I leave tomorrow.”
I could not speak. How I wanted to shout yes to the crowd, but I could not. I was a girl of eighteen, several years past the usual age of marriage, and now my father and two brothers depended on me to run their household. The thought of abandoning my family was unthinkable. They would never forgive me.
Ariston took my silence for his answer. He dropped his hands and stepped back.
“My father—” I started.
“Don’t.” He stopped me gently. Words would have tarnished the moment even more.
I nodded, too distraught to speak. He had already known my answer, yet he had asked me anyway.
From his robes he pulled out the codex that contained his translation. “Read the Oracle’s scroll and look for me in your magic symbols.” Without another word he turned away and walked toward the library.
I couldn’t fathom that this moment was good-bye. My hands gripped the codex as I watched him go. He turned back to look at me, his face full of longing, and then disappeared into the crowd.
I ran home and wept for hours. When my father and brothers returned I found it difficult to look at them. They had no idea the sacrifice I had made, that I had changed the course of my life for them by not changing it at all. I tried to join in the playful banter at dinner and listen to them recall the day’s events. But my laughter rang false and the wine tasted bitter. My mother had left her sons and husband in my care, and sitting in her chair that night was the first time I resented her for forcing me to take her place.
Later, in my room, I lit my reading lantern and opened Ariston’s translation to find out what a seer from thousands of years ago might have to say. As I read I began to understand why Ariston had looked at me so quizzically.
The Oracle of Wadjet had known my name.