“Of course,” I say.
Sameera regains her composure. “In the beginning, Noor sent us two letters a week. She loved her work, but she was homesick for the warm sun, our family. It wasn’t long after she met her new friends that her letters became infrequent—two letters a month. Then only one, which was addressed only to me. It was strange. The writing was all over the page, as if she were doing some sort of calculations. Her own hieroglyphics. I could feel the madness in it. Her fear. She said something about these women and blood sacrifices and conjuring demons. Of reckless magic. She also mentioned A History of Secret Societies by Wilhelmina Wyatt. That was why I sought it at the library when I arrived.”
A man selling popcorn approaches us, tips his hat. He gives us his full introduction, though it should be clear to all that we are engaged in deep conversation and do not wish to be interrupted.
“No, thank you,” I say, and wave him on, and he scowls at us and mutters under his breath.
“After that cryptic letter, there was nothing for ages,” Sameera continues. “My parents wrote to the Metropolitan Museum. They told us that Noor had left months before and taken artifacts with her. My parents were beside themselves with worry and disappointment And then, suddenly, a month ago, a postcard arrived.”
Sameera produces a postcard of Cleopatra’s Needle; from our spot near the reservoir, we can see its sharp stone point. The obelisk’s twin sister lives in London. On the postcard’s other side is a brief note: They have shown me the way. It is beautiful beyond measure. I am with them now until the end.
A cold chill runs through me. It is word for word what the missing Rakshana agent wrote to his brothers. “And this is from her? You’re sure?”
“That is her handwriting,” Sameera says. “I’ve come to retrace her steps. And to find this woman who calls herself Sekhmet. She’s the key.”
“Do you know anything about them?” Ann asks.
“I know that they wear red cloaks.”
I think of the red capes we wore to chapel at Spence. Little Red Riding Hoods, all of us. The world one Big Bad Wolf, ready to eat us down to bones.
“Like yours?” Ann nods at the cloak draped across Sameera’s arm.
“I had this one made in the hopes that I might draw their attention somehow. Noor told me the scarlet capes were a way of recognizing each other.”
“Like a fraternity?” I ask. There are fraternities at Barnard, with names like Chi Omega and Kappa Kappa Gamma. Why aren’t they called sororities? Juliet often harrumphs when we see the sisterhoods traipsing about campus, singing sentimental songs or organizing poetry readings. The sight of those laughing girls always leaves me with a wistful feeling. I am torn between wanting to be asked to join their number and wanting nothing to do with any of it. I wonder if I will always have a foot in and out of every world, never standing in any one for long.
“The red cloaks are also a reference to the goddess Sekhmet,” Sameera says. “She is known as the Scarlet Woman.”
“I rather like the sound of that,” Felicity jokes. When she doesn’t get the desired response, she turns defensive. “Are you saying that these women, this new Order, are trying to conjure Sekhmet? But she’s a mythical goddess. She doesn’t exist.”
Sameera’s eyes narrow. “Does your Christian god exist? Do you believe there’s a white-bearded man in the sky judging your sins?”
I am reminded of Miss Moore, how often she challenged us.
How often we needed to be challenged in our beliefs.
“Sekhmet is not the point. Not entirely,” Sameera says. “The point is that somewhere in this city there’s a secret society of women cobbling together different belief systems and playing with dangerous magic. They are appealing to forces they don’t understand, forces they can’t begin to control. I don’t know about gods and goddesses, Miss Worthington, but magic is real. Magic exists. Both good and bad.”
“We understand that. More than most,” I say. “Did your sister ever tell you this woman’s real name?”
Sameera shakes her head. Her eyes fill with tears again. “But she sent me this.” From her hat, Sameera removes a beautiful pin, silver filigree with engraved initials: E.S. “And I feel that the letter itself is a clue. Here.” She takes it out again, turns it over. The other side is an advert for a charity ball hosted by a women’s club. “These women have my sister. And I will stop at nothing to get her back. Nothing. But I have heard your name before, Miss Doyle,” she says coolly. “In Noor’s last letter, your name was written along the side. Find Gemma Doyle. And now, it seems, you have found me. I can’t help but wonder why.”
The pistol is raised once more. Before I can say another word, a whistle, shrill and insistent, breaks the peace of the park. People scurry past us toward Cleopatra’s Needle, where a policeman blows for all he’s worth. A crowd is gathering, craning their heads to see, asking questions—What is it? What has happened?—whilst the policeman pleads with them to stand back.
Fee breaks into a devilish grin. “Come on, then,” she says, running toward the others, pistol at her back be damned. But instead of shooting us, Sameera hurries after Felicity, and Ann and I follow suit.
“What is it?” I ask breathlessly of a man nearby.
“It’s a dead man, miss. You shouldn’t look. It’s not for women’s eyes.”
Felicity scoffs. “We’ll be the judge of that.”
People shout and shriek, turn away. Others jockey for the chance to see. Policemen on horseback trot toward the lone officer, who has his arms outstretched, trying to keep order. A man near the front of the crowd breaks away, pale and sweating. “He’s torn open. His heart is missing! Animals! Animals!” The information is repeated, carried through the crowd.
We push through the scrum so that we can see for ourselves. The dead man’s chest has been sliced down the middle, his internal organs ripped out. His mouth is open. So are his eyes. They look up toward the cloudless sky. They are a startling and familiar blue. The dead man is none other than my recent tea date, Edwin Dwight. I turn to say something to the others.
And that’s when I see that Sameera Hassan has vanished.
“I met with him only yesterday,” I say to Ann and Felicity as we leave the park, which has drawn a crowd of onlookers eager to be a part of New York’s latest crime. Could the murderer be here among them? I see no red cloaks.
“We’ve been back together less than a full day, and already things have taken a dreadful turn. I’d hoped we could do something ordinary, like eat cake,” Ann says. She stops me with a hand on my arm. “Gemma. Are we going into the realms again?”