Chapter One ONE Iris Wentworth found my body, which was unfortunate. I would have preferred it to be one of the men. Although now that I think of it, the men would have made an entertainment of it, a tale to be shared over a drink in rooms where women can't go. They would have made themselves the heroes of the story--my story. So perhaps it is best that it was Iris. She was fierce, in her polite way. We all were. We had to be to survive the rigors of an excavation camp, to prove ourselves deserving of a place that might have gone to a man. We never complained about the scorching heat or the revolting food or the unsanitary conditions or the comments that belittled us and our abilities. We persevered. We shook out our bedclothes every night, making sure nothing had crawled in that might kill us in our sleep. In the small hours, we listened for hoofbeats that might signal a raid from one of the desert tribes. We kept secrets--our own, and the men's. But Iris's guard was down that day. She'd come straight from a wedding in Cairo, surrounded by her old school friends, and stuffed full of fellowship and champagne and food served on fine porcelain for days. She hadn't had time to return to watchfulness. She hadn't put her mask back on, as all women in a man's world must do. Rubi, the headman, took the donkey cart to Beni Suef to meet her train, along with a horse so that she could ride back on her own. Iris was an Englishwoman, and excellent on horseback, and Rubi knew that she wouldn't choose to jolt along in the cart when she could chase the wind. The track from the station was easy to follow; it had been a canal once, before it silted up, and it ran ten miles straight to the excavation house in the village, and another five miles on to the dig site. The ancient waterway had brought all of us to this place. Without the canal, there would have been no city to rise and fall on its banks, and nothing for us to find in the sand. And so Iris arrived at our house alone, opened the door, and found what she could never forget. At least I assume she never forgot. I never saw her again, although I have thought of her often, many times. I would have saved her from the shock, if I could, but even now, I don't have that kind of power. There are some that do. The desert is full of spirits, and not all of them are kindly disposed toward the living. I have always been more interested in the dead. Excerpted from City of the Muse: A Novel by Kate Hilton All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
