Clothes. That's what was in the suitcases. Clothes, clothes, and more clothes. And not just any kind of clothes. Ladies' clothes. And not just any kind of ladies' clothes, either, but the kind of ladies' clothes any girl would sell her soul for.

Any girl except me, of course! I'm totally immune to such things, being a feminist and all. I would never sell my soul for something as shallow as piece of oppressive fashion dictated to us by chauvinistic men!

Though, looking at those glamorous garments, I might decide to sell someone else's soul, if I could get away with it. Not the soul of someone I really liked, of course, like my little sister Ella. But I wouldn't really have minded handing my aunt over to the devil to get my hands on one of those dresses. If only...

Only then did it come to me:

These clothes were in my suitcases.

Well, not exactly my suitcases, since they had come from Mr Ambrose, but he had put them into my cabin. Did that mean...?

'Well?' I heard his cool voice coming from right beside me, and yet, somehow, from very far away. 'What do you think?'

Oh my God, oh my God, yes, it did mean what I thought it did! Yes! Yes! But... how? Where? When? And most importantly, why?

'I don't understand,' I said slowly, not quite ready to believe it yet. 'Why is there a case full of ladies' clothes in my cabin?'

'Not just clothes, Mr Linton.' Taking down another, smaller, case from the pile, Mr Ambrose opened it. My eyes nearly popped out of my head as the lid lifted and revealed a dazzling array of jewellery in all sizes, shapes and colours. Pearls, diamonds, sapphires and rubies mounted on rings, set in necklaces of gold and silver. I stared at Mr Ambrose, wondering whether this really was the same man I knew. Maybe it wasn't really him at all, but his generous twin brother. 'A-are you feeling all right, Mr Ambrose?'

'Of course! And if I let you touch those,' he said, gesturing to the jewels, 'be careful. They're only on loan. If one is damaged, you'll work the debt off till kingdom come.'

Thank God! Thank God, he's still himself!

Which left the question of what the heck was happening here. I watched in amazement as Mr Ambrose opened more suitcases, revealing handbags, fans, make-up, hand mirrors, parasols – everything a lady of high society could wish for to go out in style. But what I found most astounding were the clothes – girls' clothes!

'Do I understand you correctly?' My voice was weak. This had come as rather a shock. For weeks and weeks there had been tension crackling between Mr Ambrose and me because he did not want a female employee and had forced me to come to work dressed up as a man. And now this? I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't. 'These clothes are for me? When we arrive in Egypt, you want me to put them on?'

He nodded.

'You can put them on now, if you wish, Mr Linton. You'll have to, eventually, along with some of the rings and necklaces. But I would advise you to wait until we have reached coastal waters. The sea wind can be rather draughty in a skirt.'

Under normal circumstances, I'd have wondered how Mr Ambrose would ever know anything about how draughty a skirt was. But right then and there, I didn't care a penny. I was in shock – stunned by the sudden prospect of my approaching sex change. He would have to call me Miss! He couldn't call me 'Mr Linton' once I was in a dress, could he?

Don't bet on it, said a nasty little voice in my head, but I ignored it.

'You are serious? This isn't some stupid joke?'

He gave me a look. One of those looks. 'The dresses alone cost me fifty pounds ten shillings and two pence.'

Translation: It is not a joke.

'But... why? You've argued with me about this for over a month, never giving me an inch! And now this?' I gestured to the extravagance in front of me. 'Why?'

'For reasons of inconspicuousness, Mr Linton.'

'Inconspicuousness?' Tugging the embroidered lace hem of one of the dresses out of the suitcase, I snorted. 'Don't tell me this is inconspicuous!'

'It is in a way. Think about it, Mr Linton. Two men leave London – and who arrives in Egypt? A man and a girl. If there is somebody watching, somebody hostile, it is less likely the two events will be connected and conclusions drawn.'

I felt a sudden shiver go down my spine. 'Somebody watching?'

'Lord Dalgliesh,' Mr Ambrose told me darkly, 'has many eyes and ears.'

'Oh.'

That might well be true. And from what I had seen of His Lordship, it would be a very good idea to keep out of his line of sight. I still didn't really think putting me in a dress would help a lot with that, but for the moment, I shoved the thought aside.

'This is really going to happen?' I could hardly believe it. There were a thousand sensible reasons whirling inside my head why trousers were actually more practical to wear, but I couldn't ruin this with silly objections. Finally! He had caved in! Even if it was for some stupid reason, finally he was letting me be myself! 'You really mean this? You want me to dress as a woman? You want me to stop pretending to be a man?'

He stared at me, coolly, as if I had misplaced my sanity and he highly disapproved of my negligence. 'Of course not! You will keep pretending to be a man. Only as long as we are in Egypt, you will pretend to be a man who is pretending to be a woman.'

I blinked at him, not sure whether I was hearing right. 'What?'

'You heard me.'

'You... you are unbelievable!'

He nodded. 'I must admit, I have always thought myself that I am quite extraordinary.'

'That's not what I meant, blast you!'

'No?'

'No! You are a chauvinist son of a bachelor!'

His eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. 'Show some respect, Mr Linton.'

'You are a chauvinist son of a bachelor, Sir!'

I don't know how he did it – the tininess of the cabin should have precluded any such movement – but somehow he managed to take a threatening step towards me.

'What is it you want, Mr Linton? Do you want to wear these dresses?'

'I want for you to not call me 'Mister' all the time! I want to be myself!'

'Does being yourself involve wearing women's clothing?'

'Yes, but–'

'Then I suggest you hold your tongue before I change my mind and take these back,' he told me, with a jerk of his hand towards the open cases. 'Do you understand?'

I opened my mouth to argue.

'Do you understand, Mr Linton?'

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, I forced my mouth shut again. 'Yes, Sir!' I managed to get out between clenched teeth.

'Adequate. I shall see you at dinner.'

And with that he whirled around – How does he manage to whirl in a place that isn't big enough to scratch your nose in? – and stalked out of the room.

I glared balefully after him. Then, deciding he was not worth my attention, I slammed the door shut and directed my baleful glare at the dresses instead. Dressing up as man who dressed up as a woman! Bah! How did he imagine that? Did he think I was going to walk around in the heat of the desert in women's clothes with a complete set of men's clothes underneath? Or did he just mean some sort of mindset, wherein I never forgot that although I was wearing girl's clothing, while I was in his employ, I was still technically a man?

Well, if that's what he meant, he could jolly well stick his opinions about gender where the sun didn't shine! I was a girl! Basta!

Maybe it's time to show him that.

My gaze focused on one of the dresses in particular, and turned from baleful to thoughtful. Should I? Should I not? Should I? Should I not?

I hesitated, gazing down at the fabulous dress. Then, suddenly, I dashed forward and grabbed it. Oh, to hell with Mr Ambrose and his breezy skirts! I was going to show him that a girl could fare just as well on a ship as a man could!

I was just finished with dressing, and was gazing self-satisfactorily at myself in the mirror, when a knock came from the door.

'Yes?' I called. 'Enter!'

The door swung open, and a sailor stuck his head into the cabin. 'Mr Linton, Sir, the captain just sent me to tell you that dinner is almost ready and that–'

It was then that he noticed the lack of masculinity in the room. His eyes went wide. I turned towards him with a charming smile.

'That dinner is almost ready and that...' I encouraged him.

'Um... excuse me, Miss, I... I was looking for Mr Linton.'

'Yes.' I nodded. 'So now that you've found me, what is it?'

'Err... you are Mr Linton?'

The sailor was clearly having trouble rearranging his world view.

I shrugged and gave him another encouraging smile. 'In a way. Though it would probably better if you called me "Miss Linton" from now on.'

'Um, yes, Si– err, Miss.'

'Now, what was it the captain sent you to tell me?'

'The captain?' The sailor blinked. He had apparently quite forgotten the existence of his superior officer, and needed a moment to retrieve his memories. 'Ah. Of course. The captain. He wanted me to tell Mr Linton – you, that is – that dinner is almost ready, and he intends to open a box of his best Virginia Cigars today, if you would care to join him for one.'

In his frazzled state of mind, it took the poor man a moment to realize he had just offered a lady in silk and satin the opportunity to smoke cigars. When it dawned on him, he clutched the doorframe, and almost fainted.

'Oh my God, Miss, I... I'm so sorry, I... was supposed to tell Mr Linton, and you... well, and I... Oh God!'

He shot me a pleading glance. I took pity on him.

'Tell the captain I will be along directly,' I told him, curtsying. 'And tell him I will be only too happy to try one of his Virginia Cigars. I look forward to the experience.'

*~*~**~*~*

Have you ever seen the face of a sturdy, conservative ship captain watching a nineteen-year-old girl smoking cigars? No? And have you ever watched the twitching jaw muscles of a financial magnate sitting in the same room, staring so coldly at your cigar that by rights it should be extinguished and frozen? You haven't done that either? Well, then you haven't lived.

It wasn't just this evening that was quite amusing. The rest of the journey to Egypt in its entirety turned out to be rather entertaining, and all thanks to my new attire. True, the skirts were a bit draughty outside, but the sailors' faces as they tried to puzzle out the mysterious transformation of Mr Victor Linton more than made up for it. As did the look on Mr Ambrose's face whenever he caught his men staring at me.

'Land ahoy!'

The cry from the ship's highest mast came out of the blue. I was down in my cabin, and only heard it by luck because the engines were, for once, running at low steam to allow the men a chance to sleep. It took me about four and a half seconds to race up on deck.

'Where is it?' I demanded, materializing beside Mr Ambrose at the bow. 'Where is it, where is it?'

'Not in sight yet, from down here,' was his cool reply. 'If you want to climb up the mast in that dress, be my guest.'

'When will it be in sight? When?'

'I possess no accurate information on the matter.'

'Oh my God... I'm going to see Alexandria with my own eyes! Alexandria!'

'Yes.'

'And the pyramids? Do you think we could visit the pyramids?'

'I hardly think that the bandits we are looking for have their hideout in an ancient pharaonic tomb.'

'Not to look for bandits, of course! Just to see the pyramids!'

'What purpose would that serve?'

'It's sightseeing! It isn't supposed to serve a purpose, you do it because you want to soak up the atmosphere of a long forgotten and mysterious ancient world!'

'I am quite content with concentrating on the contemporary one.'

Despairing of the discussion, I leaned over the railing to peer more closely into the distance. And yes, through the morning haze, I could see something there. Or at least I thought I could. Maybe I couldn't. But then again, maybe...

It didn't take long for my indecision to become certainty. And then, it slowly morphed into awe.

'The Port of Alexandria,' I heard Mr Ambrose voice from my right. And I was so stunned by the sight before me that I wasn't even astounded about him voluntary unclamping his lips to offer information. 'One of the oldest ports in the world, maybe the oldest. The first facilities were probably built over four thousand years ago. There, do you see that stretch of land?'

'Yes,' I muttered, and indeed, I could see it. It was a faint golden line on the horizon. And behind it... No. That couldn't be ships behind the land, could they? Unless the Egyptians had decided to take the expression 'ship of the desert' to a whole new level.

'That's a peninsula,' Mr Ambrose explained as if having read my mind. 'It stretches out into the ocean, and then in a T-shape to both sides, protecting the harbour against the elements.'

I threw him a look. 'You're unusually chatty this morning, Sir.'

He caught my look easily, and hurled it back with double force. 'It's always best to know as much as possible about your surroundings when you're venturing into enemy territory. And make no mistake – this is enemy territory. Dalgliesh has a lot of influence here. We're not on a sightseeing trip.'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Once we land, if you possibly can, try to deport yourself like a proper lady.'

'I always do!'

In answer from him, there came only silence. A very meaningful silence.

'I do,' I repeated in an agree-with-me-now-or-I'll-bash-your-head-in tone. 'Always!'

'Hm. Well. Do your best. We don't want to arouse suspicion.'

'Yes, Sir.'

I did the best I could. I really did. I walked like a proper lady. I smiled like a proper lady. I even held my parasol like a proper lady, quite voluntarily, to protect myself from the merciless sun. But I couldn't keep my eyes from almost bugging out of their sockets. This was it! What I had been waiting for so many years! Adventure and excitement in a mysterious foreign country, far removed from the drab life of London, far away from balls and aunts and pesky suitors. As we sailed into the circular harbour, it seemed to welcome me with open arms. I took a deep breath of the sea air, filled with the smell of spices.

'Let's go!'

The moment we touched land, I was rudely awakened from my dreams. Mr Ambrose grabbed my arm and dragged me down the gangway to a waiting carriage. To anyone else it must have been looking as though he was courteously guiding me – but I felt the tightness of his grip and knew better. He wouldn't let go.

'Get in!' he hissed, under his breath. 'And smile! Pretend we are two happy people on holiday!'

'Is this really necessary?'

'There are three men in kaftans watching us from over there. And another one is watching from the fishing boat to your left. Smile!'

I pulled my lips into a carnivorous grimace. 'How about this?'

'You'll need to work on it.'

'Why don't you smile, too?'

'I'm a man, in the company of a woman. Nobody expects me to.'

'You arrogant, impertinent...!'

'Smile, I said! And get into the coach.'

Reluctantly, I did as he said. Mr Ambrose climbed in behind me and thumped his new cane-and-sword against the roof.

'Drive!'

The coach jerked forward, and I shot him a mutinous look.

'I still don't see why you wanted me to put all this on,' I said, gesturing to my dress, made from the finest blue and red silk, with golden embroidery. The hands with which I was gesturing were bedecked with jewels. 'I mean... it's very flattering, but it's not really convenient for bandit-hunting.'

'I told you: it is more inconspicuous. A man with his secretary – that might arouse suspicion, particularly if agents of Dalgliesh are indeed watching, and they know of me. But a man and a girl...'

'...will be even more conspicuous. Conspicuous? Ha, what am I saying, it will be the biggest scandal of the city within a few hours! People will think I'm your mistress, or even worse, and they'll talk about it from sunup till sundown. It's not exactly considered decent or normal for gentlemen to travel with strange girls!'

'Not with strange ones, no.'

I blinked at him, but he didn't seem in the mood to explain his cryptic answer, so I let it rest. What did I care about my reputation in the city of Alexandria? I would leave this place again in a few weeks and probably never see it again.

The drive to the hotel was long and hot. To judge from the noise, the streets were as crowded as could be. I heard conversations, yelling and cursing in what I assumed to be Arabic, but I couldn't see a soul. Mr Ambrose had pulled the blinds down, and I was too apprehensive of the reasons to ask him to pull them up again.

Spies? Sharp shooters? Something worse?

Finally, the carriage came to a halt. Opening the door, Mr Ambrose revealed a staircase leading up to a... was it a royal palace?

It certainly looked like one, towering above us almost as high as Empire House, with finely crafted statues of ancient Egyptian kings decorating the façade and blooming gardens all around. But the words 'Luxor Hotel' over the entrance, and the uniformed porter already waiting to take our cases, indicated something other than a royal residence.

'You spent enough money to rent rooms in this place?' I raised an eyebrow at Mr Ambrose. 'Are you sure you're feeling well?'

Surprisingly, he didn't try to bite my head off. No, he simply nodded and said: 'It was necessary.'

Suspicion rose in me like a firework rocket. When Mr Ambrose deemed luxury necessary, something was fishy. 'Necessary? For what?'

'For our disguise. We have to fool Dalgliesh's agents, remember? We have to make them believe that I am not Mr Rikkard Ambrose, not the man they have been instructed to look for. Come.'

'I don't see what that has to do with–'

'Come, I said.' And taking me by the hand, he pulled me from the coach, steering me up the steps of the hotel. The driver was left looking after the luggage. We entered a luxurious lobby filled with marble columns and chandeliers, at the end of which stood a portly man behind a dark wood counter. He didn't have the same sallow expression as Sallow-face back home, preferring instead to pester the world with an ingratiating smile, but I immediately recognized him as a colleague of the sour watchdog that guarded Mr Ambrose's front hall. This was the head porter.

'Welcome to the Luxor Hotel,' he proclaimed, rubbing his smarmy little hands. 'Where we fulfil your every fantasy of an exotic holiday while providing every comfort civilized society can offer. Might I enquire after your name, Sir?'

'Richard Thompson,' Mr Ambrose lied with a cool ease that I just had to admire. 'There is a suite reserved in my name here.'

'Only one suite? To share?' The porter's eyebrows rose. 'Yes, there is a suite in your name reserved here, Mr Thompson, but... I hope you will not find it impertinent of me to ask what your relationship with this young lady here is.' He bowed to me, and his little pig eyes sparkled with curiosity for scandal.

I sighed. It was just as I had told Mr Ambrose. A man travelling alone with a girl? Such a thing was beyond scandalous, it was unthinkable! Unless of course the two of them happened to be...

I froze, horrified realization washing over me. My eyes flew down to the rings on my fingers – the rings Mr Ambrose had insisted I put on!

'This,'he said, taking me by the hand and planting a gentle kiss on my cheek, 'is Lillian, my lovely wife.'

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My dear Lords, Ladies & Gentlemen,

Mr Ambrose can shock nicely, can't he? ;-)

My apologies. I'm afraid there shall not be a very long author's note from me today. I've unexpectedly fallen sick, and right now am lying in bed, with my nose swollen to twice its ususal size :-( So all you'll get from me today is a small reminder for all those among you who happen to be interested in Radish coins that the first fans to leave a comment on this particular installment (including their Radish username) shall win a big fat sack full of shiny Radish coins! I wish you the best of luck, and will keep my thumbs crossed for you! :-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Kaftan: A long garment worn by men in Egypt (a little bit like a coat). Quite often, kaftans are made out of bright, striped cloth.

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