Desert Rose (Book One of The Medjai Saga)

Chapter One: Artifacts

Language Key:

Arabic

English

Ancient Egyptian

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cairo, Egypt

1926

Molly had snuck away from the museum for a short while, a much-needed break after working meticulously to preserve and catalogue ancient artefacts, whilst her adoptive sister worked at putting books back in their correct places in the adjoining library. Evy loved anything to do with the library. So did Molly, but she also quite liked tending to the ancient artefacts they found at dig sites, imagining their owners back in the past.

Molly had rolled her sleeves up to keep them from brushing against her preservation work, revealing the ivory skin of her forearms, freckled from exposure.

She loved Cairo. She loved the heat, she loved the landscape of sand dunes and pockets of green, she loved the culture, she loved the ancient sites. But most of all, she loved the constant sense of adventure that the place brought, the fact that every day was fresh and new. It was a city teeming with ancient history and wondrous tales.

After finishing her tasks, Molly left Evelyn to her work. She strolled the market, greeting and chatting with the merchants, ones she knew well from her three-year residency in the city. She spoke with the old woman; Amira, who sold lovely silks and wore boisterously coloured hijabs. She greeted Mahmoud who sold beautiful, handcrafted jewellery pieces, he smiled and nodded back at her.

And finally, when she stopped at the stall of spices and herbs, she kept a casual conversation with Hakim in between his service of other customers. She loved the fragrant and delicious herbs and spices, having taken to cooking the local cuisine, learning from Amira; who invited both her and Evy to dine with her family on Thursday nights.

She was aware of a man who had approached the stall and taken up the space by her right side. Dressed all in black, a turban around his head, he was the image of someone not to be messed with, so she gave him space.

Yet she couldn't help but glance at him.

She thought he was quite handsome. His dark hair beneath his black turban curled at his shoulders, glossy. His beard and moustache were well-kept. And though his face was tattooed with what she assumed were the marks of a local village culture, his handsome features still took precedence-- his dark eyes stunning and his lips full. He couldn't have been more than thirty. She withdrew her eyes and went back to scooping some sumac into a small paper bag.

A tattooed hand took hold of her right wrist, "Where did you get that?"

He didn't do it with the intent of hurting or frightening her, only was he stunned by the intricate tattoo on her lily-white skin; a traditional Egyptian tattoo he had only seen a few times before– rare.

And she was very clearly not of Egyptian decent.

Her skin was the type to burn under the desert sun and was otherwise void of tattoos. Her hair was a beautiful shade of copper and curled to perfection, pinned at the back of her head. Her eyes were a stunning grey-blue, even underneath the shade of her wide-brimmed felt hat.

"Get your hand off me," she spoke in the common tongue as if she were a native.

For twenty-three years old, she was a spitfire. With grit and intent, she pulled her wrist from his grip.

"Where did you get this tattoo?" he asked again.

She flattened her palms against her skirt, smoothing it, and spoke, "I got it in a Cairo orphanage when I was a child."