The Isis Knot by Hanna Martine Page A

herself out of it. This farm was an oasis of safety, and though she sensed that she’d never been the kind to retreat in the face of danger, that had been in her world. In her time.
    Now she stood in a brand new country that had a shaky set of morals, and paper-thin laws and security. Viv had warned her of the primitive native people and the escaped criminals and the creatures that could kill you with a single bite. Before, her survival in the U.S. had relied on knowledge of her surroundings and the people within them. Now she knew nothing , and it kept her feet within Viv’s boundaries, even though the cuff and her heart wanted to venture out.
    Answers and danger? Or mystery and life? Both options sucked.
    In frustration, she stabbed fingers into her hair and yanked them down to the ends. The right hand kept streaming all the way through to the tips of her long hair, but the left hand pulled out early, where she’d had to snap off a chunk of strands in order to free the cuff from its tangle eight days earlier.
    She’d jumped to her feet and pounded into the shack before her mind had registered her decision. She found Viv’s knife, dull from him using it on just about anything, and took it back outside. Blade in hand, with no mirror in sight, she started sawing at the long part of her hair. A good six or seven inches had to go to make it roughly the same length as the part she’d ripped off, and with each piece that came off in her hand, she felt a little bit lighter. Emotional and physical weight coming off and being carried away on gusts of wind. The black clumps rolled across the yard like tumbleweeds. The newly ragged ends of her hair brushed her shoulders, and it felt so unfamiliar she realized she’d never worn it this short before.
    Her butt thumped back down to the edge of the porch, and she drew a deep breath of the strange air that tingled inside her lungs. It was the one thing about this place that she loved. That sweet scent from the gum trees.
    She started to drag the blunted point of the long knife through the crusty mud between her feet. She drew nonsense at first, just lines and squiggles that she stamped out with her feet and then started over. Circles and boxes and triangles, like the things she used to doodle on her remedial math notebook during class, because she’d already known the whole school thing was useless…
    She gasped. Then frowned when the blooming memory died as abruptly as it had started.
    The knife had gone still. She dragged the too-large boots Viv had given her over the scribbles and started over. This time with her name. S. E. R. A.
    Sera, if you’re reading this…
    The image of the note was very real, very crisp in her mind. The paper was thick and expensive in her fingers. The handwriting slanted severely—the scrawl of a man who’d been busy and rushed his entire life.
    Sera, if you’re reading this, it means that both your mother and I are dead.
    I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but perhaps the one I’m most ashamed of is hiding your existence. I was young then. Young and stupid and scared of what could happen if my family and investors ever found out about my behavior that night in Las Vegas.
    I have the feeling that your mother never shared with you the money I sent her every month. At first it was to keep her quiet, but then it became for you, when I realized what I’d done and had no other means to fix it. I was a coward. Now it is too late.
    I wanted to leave you something after I was gone, but I had to make sure she or anyone else wouldn’t take it from you. My family may come after you, may demand to know you or try to take your inheritance. Don’t let them. The law is on your side. It’s yours and you deserve it.
    I am leaving you some money and one of my family’s greatest treasures. It’s been passed down through the Oliver generations for over two hundred years, and is now on loan to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. The curator, Malik Elsayed, is