City of Jasmine. Deanna Raybourn

wants tombs and palaces, but you can learn a damn sight more from a simple thing like a village wall or a caravansary.”

      “And you’re excavating now?” The inscription on Gabriel’s photograph had said Damascus, but the background was clearly somewhere in the desert, the vast open reaches of the Badiyat ash-Sham.

      “Trying to,” she said with some disgust. “If it weren’t for the bloody French, we’d have had the whole thing unearthed by now. As it is, we’re months behind. Every fortnight they’re out there, taking pictures and poking their noses in and demanding new permits and new reports.”

      Taking pictures. Without planning it, I thrust out my hand. It wasn’t proper for me to introduce myself, but since she had spoken first, I doubted she would be the sort to stand on ceremony. “I’m Evangeline Starke.”

      She took my hand in hers, a wide, capable hand with a surprisingly gentle grip. “Anna Green, although everyone calls me Gethsemane,” she said, almost bashfully.

      “Gethsemane? How extraordinary.”

      “I did my first excavation work outside Jerusalem and had a rather significant find—hang on, did you say Starke? You’re that aviatrix, aren’t you? A relation of some sort to Gabriel?”

      “His widow, actually.”

      “Oh, it is a small world,” she said gruffly. “I met the lad once, years ago. He was digging out here. So young I think he must have still been at school. I heard he went down with the Lusitania.” She paused as if collecting her thoughts and when she spoke again, her tone was brisk. “Well, lots of fine lads lost. Least said about that the better.” We fell into an interesting chat then. She was a lively conversationalist, as happy to discuss the state of the political situation in Damascus as she was the complications of digging in the desert, and we passed quite a pleasant half hour before she looked up. “Ah, your friends look restless,” she said, nodding to where Halliday was studying his watch.

      Her expression was one of avid curiosity, and I seized on the hint she had offered earlier.

      “Would you like to meet Mr. Halliday, Miss Green? Surely the more friends you have in the diplomatic world, the easier it will be for you to secure the permits you need?”

      I didn’t have to ask twice. She bounded up and accompanied me out of the ladies’ corner to where Rashid and Halliday were waiting. I introduced Miss Green and Halliday and we made arrangements to meet for dinner the following evening. Halliday would have seen us to our hotel, but Rashid stepped smartly in front of him and hailed a taxi, bundling me inside and slamming the door before springing up front to sit next to the driver.

      Halliday leaned in the open window and gave me a knowing smile. “I won’t press the matter, then. But tomorrow night you are entirely mine,” he said, blushing furiously at his own forwardness. I waved goodbye, but Rashid kept his profile strictly averted. He offered to show me more sights, but I was tired after the long day of trudging the streets of Damascus, and wanted to look in on Aunt Dove.

      “Thank you for a lovely day, Rashid,” I told him. “It was the perfect introduction to Damascus.”

      “Truly, sitt?” he asked, his eyes wide with pleasure.

      “Truly.” I pressed the coins into his hands, adding more than I should have. To my astonishment, he did not even count them. Perhaps he was less astute a businessman than I had thought.

      “I will come tomorrow,” he promised, and before I could tell him I wasn’t sure I even needed him for the day, he vanished into the crowd, his slim figure slipping into the shadows as easily as a ghost.

      I hurried upstairs to Aunt Dove, not entirely surprised to discover her propped up on the divan, a fashion magazine in one hand and cigarette in the other. She had wound up my gramophone and was playing the newest jazz records while Arthur Wellesley bobbed his head furiously.

      “I quite like this new music of yours,” she said, “although I think Arthur disapproves.”

      “Then you ought to turn it up,” I said waspishly.

      She laughed and waved me to the cocktail pitcher. “Have a drink, child. You must be exhausted.”

      “I shall be grateful for an evening in,” I confessed. “I’ve spent the whole day walking, but it’s been brilliant.” I spent the next hour describing the sights and sounds and telling her about Rashid and meeting Miss Green. I finished by explaining we would be dining with Miss Green and Halliday the following evening.

      “A party!” she exclaimed, her turban wobbling happily. “And that Rashid fellow sounds a first-rate dragoman, although I’m surprised at him charging so little.”

      I had wondered the same, but I felt vaguely insulted that Aunt Dove made a point of it. “I can take care of myself, you know, darling. If he attempts to abduct me into the desert, I promise I will fend him off.”

      She puffed out a sigh of cigarette smoke. “Bedouins don’t carry off their brides as if they were Sabine women, Evangeline, although I will admit they are rather deliciously masculine. I think it must be the diet. They eat few vegetables, you know. I always think a man who eats vegetables loses something of his vigour.” I thought of young Rashid and said nothing. In spite of his tender years, he was decidedly authoritarian. It didn’t bear thinking about what he might be like when he matured. Aunt Dove was still talking. “Very well, child. Enjoy yourself with your little dragoman. Now, speaking of sex, what do you think of that tasty Mr. Halliday?”

      Four

      The next day Aunt Dove decided to stay in the hotel and hold court—something she occasionally did when we arrived in a city. She simply arranged herself in the most public spot, sat expectantly and within minutes she invariably gathered a crowd of people about her. Some were old friends, many were new, and some were merely thrill seekers eager to gape at the famed traveller Lady Lavinia Finch-Pomeroy, a Victorian legend in the flesh. They would ask her for photographs and stories, and she was always delighted to oblige, staying so long as she had an audience, and I was more than happy to let her. Very occasionally her little soirées managed to land us a sponsor or two, and from time to time with a discreet hint she managed to get a little something knocked off the price of the hotel altogether or a free luncheon for her troubles. Hotel managers were usually delighted to oblige as her devotees were quite happy to order quantities of food and drink, but it was the admiration she longed for most of all, I realised. She had been so famous in her youth, and her middle years had been dull ones, tarnishing the bright gleam of her fame. Being out and about again, surrounded by people who would thrill to her adventure stories, was like a tonic to her, and I encouraged her to indulge.

      Of course, in this case, she might just as easily have been intending to get me out of the way to engage in a tender afternoon with the charming Étienne, the hotel manager, I realised, and I hurried out of the suite to find Rashid. To my astonishment, he was nowhere to be found, and in his place Halliday waited, hat in hand, and a broad smile lighting his face.

      “Surprised? I took the day, told the office to go hang because I was going to show a lady the city,” he said, offering me his arm. I wondered what had become of Rashid, but I had often been told the Easterner had a more flexible sense of time and I made up my mind to adopt the habit myself as long as I was in Damascus. I took Halliday’s arm, and together we wandered the souks, each devoted to a different trade—silversmith, bookseller, tailor, mercer, tobacconist. There were coppersmiths and birdsellers, dealers in antique furniture and Persian rugs all calling their wares and bantering, and over it all hung the scent from the perfumers and spice merchants whose fragrant wares brought buyers from across the East. Halliday showed me the souk el-Jamal, the odiferous camel market, and afterwards we braved the din of the souk el-Arwam, where armourers and weapon-makers cried their wares next to the sellers of shawls and water pipes. Through it all wove the beggars pleading for alms, and the public scribes selling their skills for a few coppers. Vendors offered roasted peas and sweet pastries while others carried steaming urns of tea to provide refreshment on the street.

      It