Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Twenty

But as it turned out, Trelawney wasn’t wearing wizard’s robes at all when Hermione walked out of the examination classroom that afternoon, but rather what appeared to be her version of Muggle mufti: a man’s-style white Oxford button-down shirt, tucked into a long narrow wraparound skirt made of navy gabardine which tied at the waist and was secured further on one side by a large decorative silver safety-pin. Her graying, flyaway hair had been wound up into a wide-brimmed straw hat with a navy band that matched her sandals, and there were modish silver hoops at her ears.

An eccentric look, perhaps, but still – not a flutter of chiffon or gleam of Mystic Beadery to be seen. Go, Sal, go! Hermione thought, and tried not to goggle too hard at the transformation.

Neila nudged her from one side.

"That’s your aunt?" she whispered into Hermione’s ear. "But she’s so young."

It was true – without the fussy robes or the old-lady hairstyle, Trelawney looked fifteen years younger. For a moment, Hermione heard a flash of her conversation with Maxie the night before pass through her head – Thirtyish, blonde, red silk suit cut up to her cootchie – but then dismissed it.

Nah. Couldn’t be.

Plastering on a smile, she stepped forward. "Auntie," she said, "I’d like you to meet my school friends."

**

Having ‘Auntie Sybil’ along for the afternoon had changed their plans somewhat, but the Egyptian girls had proven to be surprisingly flexible.

"Let’s go to my house instead, then," Ivonne had suggested that morning before class; "it’s the closest, and my mother is always happy to talk to an anglaise – especially if she speaks French." She’d looked enquiringly at Hermione. "Does she?"

Good question.

"Tr – um, that is, Auntie?" Hermione had said doubtfully, catching her slip just in time. "Not sure. Maybe a little."

"Well, then." Ivonne had nudged her gleefully. "They’ll muddle along, I daresay. And while they do, Neila can give you that belly-dance lesson that you’ve been putting off for the last two weeks." She aimed a laughing look over her shoulder. "Sah, Itmana?"

"Da sah," Itmana had agreed dutifully, but her tone made the other girls look at her in surprise – she seemed listless, and rather more subdued than usual. Examination stress, Hermione had thought, and let it go at that.

But even now that the test was over, her friend’s mood hadn’t lifted.

They were walking along en masse across the Al-Gamaa Bridge toward Ivonne’s house in Manial. The Al-Gamaa was a major road; because of the crush of foot traffic, they couldn’t all walk abreast, and Hermione and Itmana were lagging behind the others. Normally, Hermione thought, Itmana would be in the thick of the playful interrogation taking place in front of them: How long are you staying? How do you find the weather? Your Arabic is so good – have you visited before? Have you bought your souvenirs yet? – but today she was silent, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes darting back over her shoulder, to the other side of the street.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione asked her in a low voice, and Itmana jumped – then jerked her head in the direction she’d been looking.

"Do you see a man?" she asked quietly. "Tall, turbaned, in a white galabeyya? About two metres behind, on the other side?"

Hermione nodded. "What about him?"

"He’s following us."

Hermione swallowed hard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that he’s following us," Itmana hissed back at her. "He’s been waiting outside the front doors of the medical building since eight o’ clock this morning – I saw him there myself, on one of the benches, reading a newspaper. He made it a point to catch my eyes." She shot Hermione a quick scared glance. "And now he’s tailing us. He’s been getting closer and closer, the longer we walk."

Hermione felt a spiral of alarm begin to writhe in her stomach. Ruthlessly, she forced it down.

"You saw his face?"

Itmana nodded. "Just a bit – he had the end of his turban drawn over his mouth. But I saw his eyes."

"What does he look like?"

Itmana thought for a moment. "Pale," she said finally. "Either he stays out of the sun, or he’s a European, an orrobi. I couldn’t tell." She shuddered. "I couldn’t see what colour his eyes were, either – he was in shadow. But the way he looked at me …" She trailed off, glanced over her shoulder again. "Unsettling."

Malfoy.

It’s got to be Malfoy, Hermione thought, and dug her fingernails into her palms to blunt the edge of her rising panic. Stay calm, Granger. You can’t afford to be afraid right now.

"What do you think we should do?" Itmana whispered, and Hermione took a deep breath.

Here we go.

"Well, I’d say we’re pretty safe," she said lightly. "Six of us together – and we’re all in hijab, except for Auntie, that’s the other thing. It’s one thing to hassle tourists, but we’re in headscarves – you four are Muslim, and I might as well be. If he tries anything, the crowd will rip his throat out, and he’s bound to know that."

She elbowed Itmana playfully in the ribs, forced a note of teasing into her voice. "He’s just overcome by your beauty and your impending medical degree, that’s all – probably he’s trolling the campus looking for a wife who can support him. Don’t worry about him."

"Mm." Itmana didn’t look convinced, but she managed a wan smile. "You’re probably right."

"Here," Hermione said brightly – Merlin, could I sound any closer to the edge of hysteria? – and dug in the pocket of her robes. "This’ll cheer you up – I got a care package from Mum. You’ve got to try these; they’re Belgian."

"Belgian? Is that chocolate you’ve got, Hermione?" Samiya, whose sweet tooth was legendary, had twisted around to look. "Oooh, don’t those look good. Can I try one?"

They were off the noisy, crowded bridge by now, and had turned onto a quieter residential side street. Their stalker wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there – if anything, they were in more danger now, Hermione realised, and almost fumbled the packet of chocolates while passing them around.

Thumbing off one of the lozenges for herself, she held out the last piece to Trelawney, who hesitated.

Oh, no, you don’t.

So help me, Hermione thought, if you develop a sudden allergy to cocoa beans now, I’m going to throttle you where you stand and save Malfoy the trouble.

"Go on, Auntie," she urged, trying to sound more-sweet, less-anxious, and nearly stamped her foot when Trelawney bit her lip doubtfully.

"I don’t know, dear …"

"Auntie has a weak stomach," Hermione informed the others, then turned back, doggedly beaming, to Trelawney. "But I’ve just been reading that chocolate has tremendous curative properties –" here she sent Trelawney a meaningful, exasperated look – "and I must say, I highly recommend it."

Their eyes met with a click and held for a long moment, challenging brown against cool pale blue.

If you were really a Seer, Hermione thought frantically, you’d know why this is important, and not keep standing here with a bloody target painted on your back … and, at that, thought that Trelawney’s gaze might have narrowed fractionally, perhaps even flashed in annoyance.

Huh. The old fraud couldn’t possibly have read her mind, could she?

No.

It’s the clothes – they make her seem more like a person with a brain. Remember the tea leaves? That fucking useless glass ball? You’re still dealing with a Fruit Bat here, Granger.

Take the sodding chocolate, for Christ’s sake, and let’s get on with it.

"Go on, Auntie," she urged again, and Trelawney shot her an outwardly fond smile, undercut with steel.

"Well – just this once, then," she said.

And might have looked just the tiniest bit amused, as Hermione sagged in relief.

**

The tall turbaned man in the white galabeyya watched from his hiding place as the little group of females he’d been tailing turned into the sheltering courtyard of one of the street’s old stone houses, and disappeared from view.

No use following them further, he knew – this was a neighbourhood of traditional old harem houses from the twenties and thirties, thick-walled and windowless and impregnable, the only way in or out through the single gate. Paradoxes, these houses – outside, the plain mud walls; inside, fountained and landscaped and tiled in mosaics bright enough to rival a Byzantine chapel. Behind those high wooden lattices that shielded the balconies from the curious eye, the girl he sought and her four friends would flit like caged finches, in rooms as glowing and lush as the heart of fire.

Safe.

For now.

No matter – he knew where to find her now, and he’d know the moment of action when it arrived. It wasn’t here at her friend’s house – not here, on this quiet middle-class avenue, oh no.

No, he’d take her in the middle of the din, snatch her right out of the crowded souk and spirit her away kicking and flailing (no matter how many friends she surrounded herself with; they were of no account), a Bedouin prince bearing the tender, toothsome spoils of war.

War.

The metaphor made him smile to himself, and the smile was thin and cold and hidden completely behind the fold of his turban. Oh yes, this was a war; one she’d started rashly and continued unwisely, far beyond the pale of reason.

But no matter. He would be the one to finish it.

Enjoy your freedom, he thought with a last glance backwards toward the blank stone walls of the house that held her. Because I’m going to enjoy stealing it from you.

And then, you’re going to wish you had never been born.

**