Silence surrounds me. It weighs me down, heavy as a stone lintel. I struggle to breathe, but there is nothing to inhale. Panic circles me, tangles my limbs, constricts my throat. I reach out for something—anything—to cling to. My fingertips brush against something soft, warm, and sturdy.

"There she is," a voice says, its strange lilt familiar and somehow comforting though I cannot remember why.

"Ye're going to be alright, hen."

I open my eyes. Eclipsing the brilliance of Amun's light is the angular outline of a man. With one hand shading my eyes, I sit up. Beneath, the firm, cool, hold of stone. Above, the deep blue sky of home. A lone falcon circles overhead.

A little chirrup greets me followed by the softness of fur against my forearm. I look down, and Oliver's eyes meet mine, curious, and unafraid. He chirrups again, a question.

Luke watches us, though there is no smile on his face. His outer garment is gone, discarded into a heap beside him. All that remains is a thin piece of white material covering his chest and upper arms that fits his every angle and curve in a very pleasing manner. A sheen of sweat beads his brow. His eyes move behind me and with a lift of an eyebrow he says, "I donnae think we're in Kansas anymore, Princess."

At the edge of my hearing, the familiar sandaled footfalls of Wesemkhet hurry towards us.

"My Lady Princess," she cries, falling to her knees beside me, her gown billowing around her, stirring the dust. She examines me for injury, her eyes hot with fear. "Thank Amun you are safe, but the prince . . ."

Her gaze falls to Oliver. "Oh," she breathes as he looks at her gives her a new chirp.

"What of the prince?" I ask as her attention moves to Luke. Her eyes widen as her gaze slides over his tight tunic and even tighter blue garments covering his firm thighs.

"Ohhhhh," she says, her cheeks darkening a little too much for my liking.

"He's mine," I say, though I have no idea why. "He stays with me. As does the cat."

Wesemkhet drops her head in submission. "By your command," she says, though I catch her sliding another look at Luke from under her lashes.

I hold out my hand to Luke to help me up. He rises to his feet and eases me up with the grace of a courtier. As I come to my feet, he says against my ear, "You have my gratitude, Princess. I appreciate ye not throwing me and Oliver into a dungeon, or whatever it is ye call ye're prisons here."

I say nothing, because I don't know what to say. I have no idea how I will explain Luke to my mother. As much as he has annoyed me, I'm not ready for him to be executed simply for the offence of returning with me. His eyes meet mine, wary. The muscles in his jaw clench and his gaze moves to Wesemkhet still kneeling, her head bowed. He exhales, slow, and looks up into the sky, as if searching for a way back. He looks back down at the cat, washing its face, oblivious to the falcon circling overhead. Luke bends past me and sweeps Oliver up into the crook of his arm.

"Ye're safe now," he says to the cat, who ignores him, the ingrate. He looks back at me, the message in his eyes clear of his hope that he will be, too.

He will soon learn the truth. We are in my mother's empire. I may be the pharaoh-in-waiting, but my power is negligible. She will decide his fate, not I. I turn away from him to get my bearings. Massive ashlars stand in solitary rows to either side of us. Under my sandals, an island made of granite monoliths older than time. Around us, a channel filled with water sparkles in the light of Amun. I have never been here in my life, but I know its legendary history, that it has been here since the time of the gods.

We are far from home. And Wesemkhet is here. I want to know why.

"What of the prince?" I repeat, turning as the High Priestess of Hathor and two of my stepbrother's personal guards cross the narrow walkway leading to the island where we stand. They bow low, but not before the raw fear on their faces tells me the truth.

Wesemkhet rises and bows her head. "My Lady," she whispers, "Prince Menkheperre is gone."

The High Priestess unfolds from her bow. I catch the glint of metal in her hand. She approaches and holds an object out to me with both hands. "The goddess Hathor has taken Egypt's prince into her safekeeping. Only this remains."

I take a step back and look away. I have no desire to touch it or look at it. "Cover it," I say. "Keep it away from me."

She obeys with alacrity, tearing a swathe of material from her gown to wrap it in. I catch Luke eyeing my mirror. He cuts a hopeful look at me as the High Priestess hands the covered mirror to Wesemkhet. I look away. I am not interested in any more travels through time.

Luke clears his throat into the silence that falls. "Do any o' ye ken where Nerys might be?"

Wesemkhet's face pales, her hands stilling as she tightens the material around the mirror. "Is she . . . Nereswetekeh?"

Luke's brow creases in that way I like as he works through her words. "Nerys Whitaker is what we call her." He bends down, still holding that ridiculous cat, and rummages through his discarded garment. The tablet slides out from within its folds. He presses on its face with his thumb and turns it towards us. Inside it is a woman. Wesemkhet screams and turns away.

"He's another soul-stealer," she cries. 

As one, the guards and High Priestess turn their backs on us.

"What the—" Luke says, coming back to his feet, showing his tablet to their backs. "Are ye mad? This can't steal souls. It's a photo of Nerys at my bar on her birthday. Princess," he turns to me, "tell them. It's harmless. I showed you the photos of the pyramids, remember?"

"How should I know if it's harmless?" I answer. "It seems extraordinary to assume on a day when Hathor has taken the prince away that anything is harmless."

Wesemkhet nods her head, the beads on her wig clacking. "Prince Menkheperre said Nereswetekeh possessed a magical device she said could steal a soul."

With a sigh, Luke slides his tablet into the back of his leg garment. "At least we ken they found Nerys," he says to Oliver. "A soul-stealer," he scoffs. "Aye, that'll be our Nerys. As inventive as ever." He looks back at Wesemkhet who has turned back around to face us. "So," he lifts his eyebrow at her in a way that I find I wish he would do to me, "would I be able to see her? I've come a long way to get her."

Wesemkhet blinks. "You did not know?"

"Didnae know what?"

"She is gone, too." Wesemkhet says. "She vanished with the prince."

On the long ride back to Waset and my mother, the pharaoh, I have plenty to consider. Wesemkhet briefed me on what transpired while I was in a world where our empire no longer exists. I learned of the message received from the goddess: 'Prince Menkheperre is in mortal danger. If he does not go with the one who has come, he will not live to see his destiny, and the empire of Egypt will fall.'

In the discussion that followed her revelation, Luke appeared to have a better understanding of the magic of the gods than I, saying that we can be certain there is a kind of 'science' at work, that the people of his world are aware of. For a man whose position is to pour drinks for the public, he appears as wise as Egypt's most powerful priests. Therefore, I am considering how to convince my mother how Luke might be useful in securing the return of my stepbrother.

But what troubles me more than anything is that the goddess transported me into a future thousands of years away, incomprehensibly different to our ordered and sacred world. I am unable to understand why I would be made a part of this, and why I was taken instead of the prince if it is he who is in danger. Perhaps my fate rests on his, and I too am in danger. My mother's plans are clear. I am to be crowned pharaoh after her, secured by marriage to my stepbrother. If he were to go to the gods, I would still be pharaoh, though the bloodline would be weakened by marriage to another. No. I cannot see how I would be in danger. My fate is secure even if my stepbrother's is not.

I glance across at Luke riding in the chariot beside mine, his short dark hair ruffling in the wind, wearing his strange garments, and Oliver bound up against his chest like an infant, the cat looking around, calm and content. It is the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen, and yet . . . I feel something. Something that makes me want to know more about this strange man who followed me here from the future with his strange words, with an eyebrow he lifts in a way that makes me want to touch it.

As we approach the city, I watch his eyes widen and his expression move from wonder to exhilaration. A flock of cranes fly over us towards the sun-sparkled river, elegant and graceful, and as we thunder up to the city's white gates, a pair of gold capped obelisks on either side, he smiles and then laughs with joy. He looks over at me, still smiling, and shakes his head, disbelieving. I bend my head to him, a pharaoh-to-be. His smile fades, and he regards me steadily as we pass the citizens cheering my arrival. He gives me a look that sears my soul. I read the words on his lips. Your Majesty. He bows his head, and I know he believes.

I pray my mother will let him live, though I fear she will not.