The Society of the Ethereal Medallion

When in Egypt

I swayed on my feet, steadying myself on the table to keep myself up. "What?"

"Come on, darling. Your mother needs to be here for this too." His face contorted into one of anguish.

I hated all the secrecy, the suspense; it made me feel left out. I hated not knowing things, I was raised to see the history of the world, religions, ancient tribes, and civilizations, and now I was just as clueless as a dim light bulb. There was no magic crystal glass for me to look into and automatically see the future.

No, that would be too easy, wouldn't it?

We met in the kitchen; my mom had set out teacups and a teapot with hot coffee. Father and mother stayed silent; he had (for the first time in my life) gotten up to help her get the freshly baked biscuits placing other baked goods on the table. 

It was shocking, and it let me know this situation was much more difficult than I could have ever imagined. 

My father was a man who people served; he's never been the one to do. The truth they were so desperately holding onto was both of theirs to bear. Perhaps that's why together, they shouldered the secrets that loomed over me; they would have to have the support of one another.

"So...you're not my parents?" I impatiently asked as they tried to busy themselves with setting up the already full table of sweets. 

My mother baked when she was stressed; my father tended to disorganize himself in situations like this.

My mother spoke up, "We never really planned on telling you." She set a saucer and cup in front of me. 

The smell made me want to vomit. "Why?" I looked back and forth between Ruth and John, or my parents. 

Blast it. What do you call people who aren't your birth parents? 

"Don't you think I had a bloody right to know?!"

"It's more complicated than that, Rose." 

My father looked tired; his eyes had dark circles. His hair was misshapen; he kept running his hands over his face and through his gray hair. 

It made me angry. Maybe it was because I was a selfish, spoiled child. I was the one that was supposed to look disheveled, tired (that was true, I hadn't slept since the attack), and melancholy.

"Please," I gestured for them to continue in an explanation. "Explain it to me because I just don't understand why I'm barely finding out about this now! Now that men are after me and trying to kill me! Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"We promised your parents that we wouldn't." 

My eyes widened at my father...or John's statement. I found my mouth kept opening and shutting. I tripped over words, letting out small beginnings to so many of the sentences I wanted to say. My brain raced with words to spew out of my gob, but nothing came out. I shook my head to clear my thoughts; maybe smashing it into a brick wall would do the trick. For the first time in my life, I had no sarcastic comebacks, no snarky remarks. The silence was all that I could speak. 

"You...you knew my...my parents?"

My mother set a wooden cigar box on the kitchen table and opened it to reveal a set of pictures and mementos. "They were close friends of ours. We worked together in the field." She handed me a picture of all of them and pointed towards them.

I'm sure if she hadn't, I would have been able to spot them immediately. I knew those eyes anywhere, those almond-shaped emeralds that were gifted to me, and those high cheekbones that God allowed me to have. They were in Machu Picchu, sitting at the bottom of the concrete steps.