She reminded herself that she was never intended to see these words. Trout was unhappy; what she had written was as much a reflection of her own feelings and flawed character as of Flo's.

Flo blew her nose and sighed.

It was the old question of evil in different guise. Did people intend to do bad? Certainly f.a.n.n.y and Parthe did not. Nor did Flo believe they were evil. That was the essence of the conundrum that the ancient Egyptians had solved millennia ago: Good came out of evil and evil out of good. She could be both saintly and horrid-like Gustave, who had devoted a book to resisting temptation yet patronized brothels. This unfathomable paradox, this engine of history, seemed an impractical way for G.o.d to have fashioned the world. How could there ever be justice if good intentions led to ill? Her head was throbbing.

No, I am horrid, she thought. I simply blind myself to it, inured to others' protestations. That is why I cannot bear my family and why I refused Richard. I am selfish and willful, lacking, severely lacking in humility. She put her head between her knees.

She wished she'd never read the diary, and knew, too, that she'd finish it. She had to find out if there was a happier ending for her, as if her actual future depended on Trout's opinion. Had Trout thought better of her in time? She began to tremble. Her teeth chattered and a few tears dropped onto her hands.

She stood, found her hairbrush, and languidly began to brush her hair, establishing a calming rhythm in the strokes. Trout was no icon of perfection. Her secret life did not bear scrutiny. She had an illicit love affair or at the very least a clandestine friendship with a man. Flo tried to form a picture in her mind of Gilbert, but conjured instead Max. Because they both had cameras? But Gilbert was a poet if Trout could be believed. Her lover!

Stunning. Trout led a double life, cavorting in the evenings with a gentleman who lived in the Temple at the Inns of Court, a dignified address on the Embankment reserved for barristers and judges. How long had Trout known him? How old was he, and what possible interest could he have in a servant? None of it cohered. She wondered if he had a wife and whether he and Trout slept in the same bed. If Trout were morally deficient, Flo might be less inclined to credit her judgments.

Shakily, she picked up the book again.

11 December 1849 Miss N is sinking into one of her moods. Miss Selina knows it I can tell from the looks she gives me.

We had no wind the last two days. Miss N found a tomb in the desert and began to weep, saying it was not the lack of life but the death of life that made the desert unbearable. She hates to see skeletons or any sign of a dead thing. I think she is losing her wits, which has happened before. She gave me a petrified sh.e.l.l that looks like a tiny ram's horn. She keeps calling my name, though she does not need anything. Trout, Trout, it is all dead, dead and evil, over and over. I put her to bed early and she did not read at all and tossed about for a long while as I mopped the floor.

14 December 1849 Every day Mr. Charles goes ash.o.r.e with Paolo to shoot partridges or turtledoves. In the evening, we sit on deck and watch the sunset. Miss N keeps saying I must read the Arabian Nights so I will know what I have seen. I am glad she does not have the book on hand.

Mr. Charles likes to visit other English people, for which I am grateful as there is always good wine and clean food. Miss N says she would rather be the hermit, but then goes and charms everyone.

18 December 1849 I am reading Exodus because I am miserable in Egypt like the Hebrews.

Bennysoof, Benny Hah San, Benny-this-and-that. I am weary of ruins and beset with ailments. Sore feet and knees. Itchy rashes. Tired eyes.

The river is wider now, more like a sea. White Horses, Miss N calls the waves. White Horses, I say back. We make a game of it. We have not seen a house for days, only mud huts with people creeping in and out.

I have become lazy. My hands are lily-white and I have lost my calluses. Miss Selina will not let me wash her clothes. I would feel better if I was a help to her. When I am not in my dirt, I feel useless.

19 December 1849 It scares me that I cannot call your face to mind. I was never afraid at home and here I tremble over the smallest things. I wish I'd of quit my job and stayed in London. How can a gentleman like you love me I am such a plain creature?

I am sleeping poorly. Do I snore in your rooms? Miss N says I am cutting wood in my sleep.

There is bad feeling twixt her and me. Words here and there over little things, like one dog snapping at another. My mother used to say to take care when you sew, even a small needle can draw blood. We stay out of each other's way.

12 January 1850 Aswan nearly kilt me.

The first time you asked me to keep a diary I did not want to and wrote only lists. Do you remember? "Polished 40 pairs of boots, blacked the grates and fenders, scrubbed the flags," and so on. Now the diary is a comfort to me, though betimes it makes me miss you so much my chest hurts.

Here is my close call with Death. Mr. Charles invited three chiefs to the parlor. The oldest one said our houseboat was too big to go up the falls. I liked to cry from joy. But Miss N said it was a trick to raise the price. After many cups of tea, they agreed upon a sum to try the rapids the next morning.

I did not sleep more than five minutes that night. Miss N was so happy she bought ostrich eggs to celebrate. Squawk, squawk, we are going upstairs to Noobia. I had no appet.i.te due to terror sticking in my belly like a knife.

The next morning, we moved everything below so it would not fly away. Furniture, pots, dishes. Miss N said I would stay on board with her and Mr. Charles. I was so scared I could not peep.

Up and up we went six different times, the boat almost standing on end. Once we heard a crack and a rope broke. I was sure I'd drown or be beat to pulp on the rocks. I prayed like mad. A hundred men pulled with all their heart as if they loved us dearly. I cannot tell you how it felt to be dragged up those rocks without speaking of things I have never done, such as falling out of a tree or jumping off a mountain. It is a miracle we did not die ten times over. I was sick and throwing up. Miss N was pleased as punch.

Such horrors of travel. I hope this will put you off ever going to Egypt. I'd never go a second time and if you went, I'd worry myself to death every day you were gone.

Flo was shocked. How had she not noticed that Trout had been ill and too terrified to talk? Or had she simply pushed it from her consciousness? How selfish and insensitive she was! But then the next two entries painted a nicer picture: 20 January 1850 Today Miss N was a help to me, more than she knows. I lost your key and she was kind and found it. When she wasn't looking, I kissed it and pressed it to my heart.

I do so miss doing kindnesses for you. Fixing your dinner and petting your face and especially washing your feet. Oh it gives me a chill to write it, but most of all, licking your boots. Which fills me up with love and humbles me before you and G.o.d and shows I love you as much as any good Christian woman can.

1 February 1850. Derr The Nile is skinny now and we travel close to the banks, like English barge-folk.

Miss N is suddenly pert as parsley, speaking French to me and to herself too. Today I heard her laugh while she was writing.

10 February 1850. Aboo Simbell I feel bad. Shamed and humbled to my bones which is a lot for one who has no puffery. I got stuck in the sand on the way to the big temple. The crew tried to yank me free, but I'd liefer burn to a crisp in the desert than let them touch me.

Miss N tried to lift me, but she is too small. It was Mr. Gustave, a Frenchman, that rescued me. She was so grateful she invited him and his mate Max to dinner. But I had lost my dignity in the sand and was ashamed to see him again so soon. I ate in the cabin.

12 February 1850 Miss N and I had a fight.

I broke the first rule of service, I forgot my place and asked if she knew my name. Oh of course, she says. Troutwine, she says, fidgeting and acting put upon. She blushed and blushed until I told her Christa. I know she would of fired me at home, but she needs me here. We did not go into the spelling of my family name, which I am sure she does wrong-Troutwine like a fish and a bottle of spirits, instead of Trautwein.

She is vexed with me. I think we are not speaking.

I wish I could pick you up and carry you about the room, then set you on my lap to pet. I wish I could wear my chains, that is all I think about.

Flo looked up. Chains? Did Trout mean bracelets and necklaces or great, jangling shackles? And why would she treat a grown man like a child?

28 February 1850 We have visited Aboo Simbell every day the two ladies are so taken with it. Miss Selina draws and Miss N studies the pictures. I am bored. I have seen enough of Egypt for eternity. Because a temple is big and old does not make it sacred if you ask me.

Idleness does me no good at all.

7 March 1850 A toothache for days and only now I am strong enough to hold a pen. Miss N cared for me like a mother, holding my head just so, and brushing my hair and putting her fingers in my mouth. She laid hot towels on my face until the pus ran and the swelling went down. She thinks it was an absess in the root. I am lucky to still have my tooth in my head.

The only other lady that ever touched me was Mrs. Hallam the day before she died. I had brought her a pot of tea and she asked me to take out her frocks so she could look at the prettiest ones, and gave me a sovereign from the nightstand. She said she'd grown fond of me, and wanted to give me advice. Be careful who you marry. Then she took my big red hand in her soft white one and held it.

Miss N's mood is gone dark again, I do not know why. I would comfort her, but now that I am well, we are back to maid and mistress. But I do love her better than before. She was angry before, and now she is kind, though fallen back into herself. I pray for her at night.

It is seven years that I am a slave to my Ma.s.sa and six years of padlock and chain. Dearest heart, I miss you. Your feet will need a good scrub and soak by the time I return. I will bring my soft wire brush for your nails. And the oil and lead to black myself up for you all over like you like.

Black up? Flo set the book on her lap. Padlock and chain?

She arranged the puzzle pieces in her mind: hardworking, independent-minded Trout; her gentleman friend or lover; the key, the chains, the lead and oil; her calling him "Ma.s.sa." All at once it came clear-Trout was dressing up as Gilbert's slave. It was perverse if not downright wicked.

Shocking.

Oh, and that most distasteful detail: Trout licking his boots! But why would stiff-necked, pious Trout do such a degrading thing? Why would she black up and wear chains and probably allow him to photograph her doing it? It made no sense.

Oh, no. Of course. There was only one explanation, though Flo hated to contemplate its terrible, enslaving power: Love. It seemed that everyone in the world but her had a soul mate.

20 March 1850 Miss N has taken to praying morning and night. She has become fond of her Frenchman, Mr. Gustave, and went for a walk with him. Otherwise, she is miserable. We try to cheer her up with card games and stories, but she will not be jollied. All she wants to do is sit in the ruins and study her books. Miss Selina does her best, but she must attend to the Mister, who does not like to amuse himself alone. They love Miss N like their own flesh and blood.

I think we shall be home in August, five more months. It is easier to endure a thing once you are halfway, which I am not yet and very lonesome for you. When I return, please take me right away to the Marleybone for the pantomimes.

I killed bedbugs all day in the cabin. They climb up the walls and watch me from the ceiling with their tiny eyes. I miss the park at Embley, with nary a deadly serpent or crocodile, just spiders and field mice.

5 April 1850 Mr. Charles is starting to get on my nerves with his jokes. Such as when we arrived in Luxor he bought grapes on the sly and put them up his nose like two big b.a.l.l.s of snot and came to dinner that way. Everyone laughed and the grapes went flying across the table. Other times, he makes speeches. I have heard much about the Corn Laws and the Reform Bill. He likes the problems of poor people (not servants) and debtors. Miss Selina cannot control him though she tries. Miss N says he has the biggest heart in all of England.

20 April 1850 I am on my way to the Red Sea with Miss N and the two Frenchmen. I like Mr. Gustave and Mr. Max. They are jolly and act like boys.

We are crossing the desert on camels. They have a hump reckoned to hold water for days. Tonight we had a good supper of lamb and beans. Mr. Max has the best of cameras and wants to make my picture. I shall be the first Christian woman with a photograph in the eastern desert. The picture is for guess who.

24 April 1850. In Koseer I can smell the Red Sea and from the balcony, I can see it. It is blue.

We are stopping with the French consul.

You will laugh to hear that I spent half the day in water, but not the sea. In a big pink tub. A nice morning with Miss N. But then at dinner she had a bad spell and could not speak. I can never tell when she is going to be wretched, but now I know it is not my fault. So I say nothing and do what she asks and try to show her that I do love her better than before. If she was my kin, I should take her home to Shropshire and feed her good country food and ale to make her strong.

The consul has a servant, a pretty young boy. He stares at me when we are at table which I do not like.

When I want to think of you I touch your key.

That entry brought Flo back to where she'd begun. She laid the book aside.

She hadn't noticed Hakim staring at Trout or anyone. He always looked away or down, like any servant, except when he helped her haggle at the market, and then he had looked through her. She could not imagine what it was about Trout that had emboldened him to stare. Simple curiosity? But why stare at Trout and not at her? After reading Trout's diary, the whole world seemed topsy-turvy, thick with intrigue and secrets.

24.

LEMON ICES AND RAKI.

After Trout vanished, everything went to h.e.l.l. Joseph came down with a fever. Fearing contagion, the camel guides kept their distance, polite but guarded behind their kaffiyehs. Mohammed a.s.sured Gustave that, barring further trouble, they'd arrive in Kenneh just one day late. He promised they'd have water by midday on the morrow. However, the next day they found a decomposing camel carca.s.s in the well at Bir es Sidd. Only the caravan crew deigned to fill up their skins. Gustave watched with revulsion as a camel guide lifted a goatskin p.i.s.sing from many holes and gulped down the foul liquid.

That evening, the Ababdeh, also strapped for water, sold them the dregs of a skin of sheeps' milk, a mouthful for each of the Franks, but nothing for the crew, who vowed to continue drinking the polluted water. They could drink their own urine, if necessary, Mohammed bragged. After a poor supper of apricot paste and gamey partridge, Gustave and company went to bed thirsty, exhausted, and demoralized for the second night in a row.

The morning of the third day, Gustave's mouth was so dry it was difficult to form words; his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. Max proposed a remedy. He claimed to have read that a piece of flint held in the mouth slaked thirst. "Water from a stone?" asked Miss Nightingale, lifting an eyebrow as Max handed the flint to her. "That sounds familiar." But she too proceeded to suck on the mineral. It neither dissolved nor lost its sour taste. Gustave found the rough texture and metallic tang particularly unpleasant. The constant urge to swallow involved removing the flint or lodging it in the pocket of the cheek. "Don't spit!" Max cautioned "Swallow."

Miss Nightingale became so quiet and docile that Gustave began to worry for her. Was she despairing again, or merely disheartened from fatigue? He still had her note to G.o.d, which seemed somehow vital, like a chit in a game that could redeem her from any peril. Nevertheless, he determined to cheer up his pucker-faced friends and hit upon a brilliant scheme later that afternoon. "Max," he called as they were picking their way through a rocky gorge, "do you recall the lemon ices at Tortoni's?"

Max sagged on his saddle, his eyes dulled with fever. "Yes."

"If only we had a lemon ice now. Wouldn't you like one?"

Max made no reply.

"Lemon ice, anyone? Gustave called out. "Cold, sweet, delicious-able to quench any thirst."

"You are torturing me," Max grumbled without looking up.

"Torture? Lemon ices? Au contraire, I salivate just thinking about it. Surely, if you could-"

"All right, yes, I'd like one." Max pulled his kaffiyeh up to the bridge of his nose.

"Do you remember the halo of white frost? It melts faster than the rest. When it touches the tongue, it turns to cold sugar."

"Will you please stop?" Max begged. "You're making me thirstier."

"Wait. Imagine just one teaspoonful in your mouth. Let it melt slowly, from your own heat. It glides over the tonsils. By the time it reaches your stomach, you feel like swooning-"

"Mademoiselle, aidez-moi!" Max cried. "Please, shut him up!"

Rossignol, he thought, had been listening with pleasure. Now she looked pained. "Gustave, perhaps-"

But he continued, swept up in his own obsession. "I love to crush the ice with my teeth. That soft crunching, the coolness against the palate-"

"I am going to kill you." Max withdrew a pistol from his belt. "One more word and I shall shoot you."

What a humorless p.r.i.c.k. Max had the imagination of a gnat. Was the gun even loaded? He didn't think so. "Lemon ices! Lemon ices! Lemon ices!" he taunted.

"You provincial s.h.i.t! G.o.dd.a.m.ned spoiled brat. Ride ahead. Joseph and I will follow so I don't have to listen to your unending c.r.a.p."

"All right! I have stopped." He'd never seen Max so furious.

He apologized and pleaded for forgiveness, but it was too late. Max seemed to have erased him. Miss Nightingale, too, was silent.

They were forced to make camp early, before sunset. Not only was Max not speaking to him, he had also developed a high fever and was no more able to sit astride a camel than levitate on a carpet. This development jarred Rossignol from her funk. She tended to Max as he vacillated between delirium and sleep. Then, after another meager supper, she asked Gustave to accompany her on a walk. Looking sad and determined, she trod to the guides' area, halted crisply, and called for Mohammed.

Bowing and bestowing blessings of peace, the guide rose from his bed behind the camels, his demeanor calm, his face expressionless. Pantomiming, she begged him for some of the crew's contaminated water. He shouted something, and one of his underlings promptly handed her a goatskin. Holding her gaze, he shook his head and pinched his nose by way of a warning. She thanked him and curtseyed.

Gustave and Mohammed followed her to Joseph's tent, where both patients were quarantined. She whisked a linen handkerchief from her bodice and, while the men watched, moistened it with the foul water and dampened Max's face and chest. "We must lower his fever," she said to no one in particular, pa.s.sing to Gustave a palm fan to wave over his friend.

Lying nearby, Joseph roused himself to watch. Rossignol placed her small palm on his forehead and shook her head. "Both of them have raging fevers, though Max's is worse. I believe he may be in mortal danger."

"What else can we do?" Gustave was truly alarmed. He'd never cared for a sick person-only kept vigil, first by his father's deathbed, then Caroline's, and lastly, Alfred's. He'd always left it to others to scurry about with treatments and blandishments.

"We must wet them down, do their sweating for them."

And so he removed Joseph's shirt and sponged his chest with it. When Mohammed muttered to them, they didn't so much as glance in his direction. Soon a second goatskin appeared, as malodorous as the first. Then the crew retired.

It was only after the two patients were cooled and sleeping that it occurred to Gustave that without water none of them might survive another day, perhaps not another night. "We must drink something," he told her as she sat in his tent.

"But there is nothing." She was fanning herself. "Sit closer and I can do us both."

"We shall have to drink alcohol," he said wearily. "I wish I had wine or beer, but I have only rak."