VI.

There was not much left of the Alexandria of old; Malcolm, who'd visited the city quite often as a point of entry to Africa, had never bothered to stay long. Stripped of its name and legend, it was, save for what was commonly called "Pompey's Pillar", a current day Arab city without any other notable buildings. The last time he'd been here, Sembene had still been alive, and they'd simply organized supplies and means of transport.

"Ah, but the coffee-houses of Alexandria," Ferdinand Lyle said. "You must admit they are a marvel."

Mr. Lyle, who'd been awaiting them, having been notified of their intent by telegram, at first glance did not appear to be much changed, all extravagant compliments and flamboyant demeanour. But there was a sadness in his eyes that was unmistakable, and when Malcolm found himself alone with him, Mr. Lyle said, entirely without elaboration: "I am, I fear, not a strong man, in body or in faith. And you know her faith is not mine. But I spoke Kaddish for our dear Miss Ives."

Malcolm had not prayed for Vanessa, not when standing at her grave, and not in the days and night since. He had not prayed for any of his family. The last time he'd paid lip service to his nominal membership to the Church of England had been in the early years of his marriage to Gladys. He sympathized with Victor Frankenstein in his rejection of belief, though it had not been a singular event or loss that had turned him atheist; rather, it had been a conclusion he'd arrived at as a student, not departed since, but had not felt strongly enough about to announce. What he had seen since of the supernatural world had not changed his opinion much; he could not believe there was benevolent design to the existence of such creatures as Dracula.

"She needs our help now even more than prayers, Mr. Lyle," Malcolm said. It wasn't meant as a reproof, but he found himself impatient now that they were on land again. There had been no more dreams for him, nor, to his knowledge, for anyone else; he simply relied on his instinct, the instinct that had allowed him to survive for long, and that told him time was of the essence. "We need to locate..."

"Ah, about this," Lyle said, and sighed. "It is, I'm afraid, not a very good time in Egypt right now. The Khedive died in January, and his son and successor resents the British protectorate forced upon his father, and he hates the British consul, who, if I might say so myself, is an incredibly overbearing man. To tell a young man that he needs to ask Britain which cabinet members to appoint! Well, it will not surprise you to learn how young Abbas Pasha reacted. All the archaeologists from Britain are still waiting to have their firmans for diggings confirmed or reconfirmed, and officials don't get received."

"This is unacceptable," Malcolm said furiously. "We need to - Vanessa needs our help now. We cannot twiddle our thumbs while some petty potentate..."

"Sir Malcolm," Lyle interrupted, "as much as I would like nothing more than join you in your splendidly inspiring display of righteous anger, I would appreciate it if you allow me to point a few things out, and even let me make a suggestion or two."

There few things more instantly disarming than Lyle's brand of irony, subtle satire even, interwoven with flattery. Malcolm gave him a look, and then a silent nod. Lyle pulled out a delicately laced hankerchief and touched his forehead before he continued.

"I have seen too much to discount the possibility that Miss Ives is indeed facing now a struggle in a realm beyond our comprehension, or that the creature known as Dracula could be harmed were we to destroy some artefacts, much as the general principle of destroying artefacts offends me as a scholar. Frankly, once one has stood in the presence of a centuries old woman bathing in blood, there isn't much one can discount, in the large scheme of things. But I would like to ask you to consider something, too, Sir Malcolm. You are, forgive me for pointing out the obvious, a man of action, Sir. Not being able to do something in the face of pain, to be helpless, is alien to your very nature, as much as it is a sadly familiar experience to me. Can it not be - and I am merely suggesting the possibility - that presented with a reality as painful as Miss Ives' death, your mind conjured up a way for you to act again? For you to speak to Miss Ives again, instead of admitting her to be lost to you forever?"

"I did not know Vanessa had spoken to both Miss Hartdegen and Dr. Seward about fighting this man in death, or that there are twelve parts in the Egyptian underworld," Malcolm returned, trying very hard to remain calm. "How could I have learned this, but through her?"

Lyle visibly struggled with something, then took a deep breath. "As for the Egyptian underworld, I might not be the most memorable of men, but I think I did explain about the Duat when you first started to consult me, Sir. And if I remember what you told me about your dream, you were simply told to speak to Miss Hartdegen and Dr. Seward, not what they would say. Sir Malcolm, I know them well. Either Lady shares, if I may say so, certain qualities. They do not bow to convention, especially in as much as it involves being dictated to by men. Miss Hartdegen excels at all involving weaponry. Dr. Seward has chosen a field both new and ancient, the most challenging of all, the human soul, and you have watched her mastery of it as well. Now you may never wish to talk to me again of this, but there has been a lady of our mutual acquaintance who united all these qualities, and whom you, as you put it to me as the time, courted."

"At the time when you were her spy," Malcolm said, every word a barely constrained growl, "if it is Mrs. Poole you talk of."

The guilt in Lyle's face did not stop him from nodding and falling silent. He had made his point.

It wasn't implausible, that was the hell of it. Malcolm had tried to deal with his guilt over Peter and Mina by throwing himself into a feverish hunt. He had dealt with the death of Sembene, who had been, save for Vanessa and definitely including his late wife Gladys, the person who knew him best in this world, and whom he felt closest to, by leaving London and returning to Africa. Burying Sembene in the earth that had given him birth had also meant not having to be in London, where Sembene had died, trying to rescue Malcolm. To act, to travel, to leave behind the places where he had experienced loss: this was Malcolm's nature. And Lyle was not wrong about the qualities Dr. Seward and Catriona Hartdegen shared, either, though he was either too innocent or too tactful to mention they did not only share them with Evelyn Poole but with Vanessa, too.

For his black heart to take this and form it into a fantasy of reunion, to provide himself with another quest: was this not far more likely than anything else? Why had he been so certain that it was Ethan who dealt with the unbearable by clinging to an idea, not himself? What if they all were just indulging him in a fantasy, to humor the old man?

This time, don't fail me.

"Should I go and leave you alone now?" Lyle asked gently.

"No," Malcolm said tonelessly, "no."

For a while, they sat in silence. The shops in Alexandria resembled cupboards, rather than rooms. A raised seat of brick, about three feet high, and the same in width extended along each side of the street. The tradesmen were sitting in front of their shops, usually smoking. Only the coffee houses were an exception, as they were not only larger, but had many more people sitting both inside and outside. Lyle and Malcolm were but two of many. He was grateful for the anonymity, as he found his hands shaking when accepting the water pipe Lyle handed over.

"It doesn't matter," Malcolm finally said. "I'll grant you all of this could be true. But even if it is; I cannot do otherwise. I must continue on this path. Help me or not. It is your choice."

"As if I could ever deny a dashing gentleman his wishes," Lyle replied, the wistful humor in his voice echoing better days. "Very well. I have a suggestion or two in this regard as well. Not least because I did visit the museum in Cairo when your first telegram arrived, where all the antiques are that were not whisked away to London, Berlin or Paris. And while the angle of observation was not convenient, so I couldn't be sure, I think I spotted at least two pieces there that could be inscribed with letters familiar to our company by now. Moreover, I have made a list of all the possible locations where worship for Osiris was at its strongest, and where Amunet was worshipped as well; both together are not so common, as she is not regarded as an aspect of Isis, and has fallen into disfavour during the later dynasties, just like Seth. I even have an idea how to get around the fact that our nationality does currently not allow us to engage in official excavations."

Handing the water pipe back to him, Malcolm said: "You are a man of infinite resourcefulness, Mr. Lyle. And a good friend. Truly."

"Well," Lyle replied, sounding pleased, "I try. As for my idea, I must admit my daring adventure at the Royal Society in Mr. Chandler's stirring company has given it to me, when we were liberating artifacts in London. To put it bluntly, Sir Malcolm: some of us must break into the great museum in Cairo. And the rest shall engage in the profession that Egyptians here have practiced not just since centuries but for millennia, if the tablets and warning seals in tombs are to be believed: grave robbery."