City of Jasmine. Deanna Raybourn

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СКАЧАТЬ us into one of the most beautiful rooms I had ever seen. The walls and floor were tiled in extravagant patterns and the ceiling soared overhead to a graceful gilded dome. Another fountain stood in the center, this one festooned with lush water lilies and the darting flash of goldfish. Lanterns with coloured glass panes hung about the room, interspersed with golden cages full of songbirds. The brass tables were low and surrounded by piles of silken cushions. The proprietor, a plump, jolly sort of fellow, greeted the archaeologist with great affection and bowed repeatedly as he showed us to a table directly underneath the golden dome. We seated ourselves as best we could—Miss Green with a surprising sinuous grace and Aunt Dove with a decided plop. Halliday waited until I was settled with my feet tucked aside before taking the cushion next to me, arranging himself into a languorous posture.

      “When in Rome,” he murmured.

      Just then, a rather shabby character appeared, an Englishman, and from twenty paces I could tell he was another archaeologist from the telltale stoop. His hair was dirty with streaks of dull grey and his teeth, protruding unpleasantly from an unkempt beard, were of the prominent and horsey sort. His eyes—which might have been a pleasant dark brown once—were rheumy, and his features were set in a scowl.

      “All right, Green. I’m here to make nice. Introduce me before I change my mind.”

      Miss Green jumped up with alacrity. “Rowan, I’m so glad you could join us. Lady Lavinia Finch-Pomeroy, Mrs. Starke, Mr. Halliday, may I present the co-leader of our expedition, Mr. Oliver Rowan. Rowan, you might have met Mr. Halliday before. He’s attached to the British diplomatic delegation. This is Lady Lavinia Finch-Pomeroy and her niece, Evangeline Starke, the aviatrix.”

      Mr. Rowan seated himself next to Miss Green. She graciously served as hostess, ordering local specialties for us and instructing us how to eat politely—with the right hand only. Almost as soon as we sat, waiters began to appear. The first came carrying brass bowls of hot, perfumed water with petals floating lazily on the surface. We dipped our fingers and dried them on soft linen then turned our attention to the food. Platter after platter was set before us, rich dishes of stewed meats and vegetables and tiny, delectable meatballs, and heaps of couscous jewelled with pomegranate seeds. There were smaller dishes of spicy sauces and savoury pastries as well as nuts and olives and dried fruits, all of it accompanied by discreet but potent glasses of arak, the anise-flavoured liqueur of the region.

      When we had eaten our fill of the savoury courses, the desserts came—more pastries but these filled with nuts and citrus custards and drizzled with honey. There was a sorbet of pistachios and another of rosewater, and we ate ourselves into a stupor. The conversation, which had ranged from books to travel, turned more serious when Miss Green addressed Mr. Halliday.

      “I think you might be a useful fellow to know. Those Frenchies think because they’ve sponsored part of the expedition they can send their government advisors out from Damascus to harass us on a routine basis. Could do with a bit of British support in getting them to let us be,” she told him firmly.

      “Hear! Hear!” Mr. Rowan grunted through a mouthful of couscous. A few bits of it were stuck in his beard and I turned away with a grimace.

      Halliday put up his hands. “Dear lady, I am the most minor sort of functionary, I assure you. My days consist of reading and composing the lowliest of memoranda, which I am given to understand are sent to very unimportant people and where they are quickly filed away never again to see the light of day. My influence would be less than nil.”

      Mr. Rowan made a noise that sounded like “hmph.” Aunt Dove leaned over to put a hand on Mr. Halliday’s sleeve.

      “Now I don’t believe that for a minute,” she drawled flirtatiously. He ducked his head with a worried expression and I smiled behind my glass. I had warned him she would try. Her seduction techniques varied from the painfully direct to the engagingly subtle, but her single most effective strategy was persistence. In this case, it afforded me a chance to hint to Miss Green that an invitation to her dig would be most welcome. I turned to address her, but she was busy giving instructions to the waiter. I held my tongue, watching Mr. Rowan. He was contentedly munching his way through a pile of flatbreads, washing them down with quantities of arak.

      The waiter bowed and left and Miss Green turned to me, her cheeks flushed and her hair standing on end. “I say, this is a jolly meal,” she said happily. I wondered if she had sampled too much of the arak; if so, I had chosen my moment well.

      “What do you think of Damascus, Mrs. Starke?” Mr. Rowan asked suddenly.

      “It’s enchanting,” I told him honestly. “My husband and I meant to come together, but we never had the chance.”

      Miss Green looked a little uncomfortable at the mention of my late husband, and Mr. Rowan seemed supremely bored as he picked at his teeth. I tried a different tack.

      “How is the excavation going? A caravansary, I believe you said?”

      At this Miss Green warmed immediately, going into painfully detailed descriptions of the site. But I had not been an archaeologist’s wife for nothing. I was able to ask intelligent questions, and when I queried her on the significance of the proximity of the site to an old Crusader castle, she fairly glowed.

      “But civilians never understand that sort of thing! Yes, indeed, it is significant.” After spending another quarter of an hour describing exactly why it was significant, she trailed off. “I say, it is nice to have someone really appreciate what we are doing out here.” Mr. Rowan gave a decided belch and covered his mouth with his napkin.

      I smiled my most winsome smile at the pair of them, but neither of them seemed inclined to take the thing further. “I would think a dig site would be immensely interesting to visit.” There, if that didn’t coax an invitation, nothing would, I thought grimly.

      Miss Green opened her mouth, but Mr. Rowan chose that moment to burp again, this time a little less discreetly, and he lifted his glass of arak in my direction. “To desert endeavours,” he proposed. We all clinked glasses and drank deeply. And somewhere overhead in one of the gilded cages a little bird began to sing.

      At the sound of the glasses, Halliday turned his head. “I say, what sort of toast is this? Are we celebrating?”

      “We are toasting Mrs. Starke’s appreciation of ancient history,” Mr. Rowan proclaimed, his vowels only slightly slurred.

      “She does indeed,” Halliday agreed. “What was that bit of poetry you quoted at me? Something mournful about all human things and decay and monarchs?”

      He wrestled with the words for a moment before I cut in and repeated the quotation.

      “‘All human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.’”

      Mr. Rowan nodded into his arak. “Donne, isn’t it?”

      “Dryden,” I corrected, baring my teeth in a smile. He smiled back and I saw his own teeth were almost aggressively yellow.

      Miss Green flapped a hand. “All those metaphysical poets—they all run together in one’s head after a while.”

      “Dryden wasn’t metaphysical,” I told her quickly. “He was Restoration.”

      “Was he?” Her tone was polite, but she was clearly bored talking of poetry.

      Mr. Rowan perked up. “I know a bit of poetry.” He cleared his throat. “‘There once was a man СКАЧАТЬ