The blackbird shouldn’t have been there. Perched on the balcony railing outside Abi’s bedroom, the bird cawed. Its dark eyes fixed on hers, unsettling her. She stepped back just as the muezzin in the distance began the call to prayer, silencing the bird and shooing it back into the night. The chanting continued softly, then intensified as it drifted over the balcony into the bedroom, mingling with the sweet scent of jasmine and finally filling her with a sense of calm. Abi didn’t check her watch; the early evening call to prayer marked the time. Her friends would arrive soon. She shed her white cotton shift and slipped on loose-fitting jeans and a plain black T-shirt, then stuffed her hiking clothes and boots into the backpack on her bed. She pulled her dark brown hair into a ponytail, using pins to secure the loose strands. Glancing in the mirror, she dabbed her lips with red gloss, then threw her backpack over her shoulder and headed down the stairs.

As she descended, her backpack brushed against the wall, knocking loose one of the framed photos. She caught it before it hit the ground: her grandfather, her Gidu, smiling in front of a sealed sarcophagus. Gently, she placed it back in the gallery of memories.

This house was another memory, a gift from Gidu to her grandmother, a consolation for his long absences while pursuing his first love: Egyptology. Though history had tried to erase his name, Mohamed Sayyed’s presence was felt everywhere here: in the brightly colored hand-knotted rugs, the wooden chairs inlaid with ivory, the brass calligraphy coffee tables. The long wooden table where he had once planned his excavations now served as the family’s dining table, and throughout the house were priceless antiquities gifted to him by the Egyptian government.

Abi stood on the stairs, looking at his picture. Her fingers brushed the dust off the black-and-white image. She leaned in closer, peering into his eyes, but saw no darkness, no sadness, no hint of what was to come. “Why did you do it, Gidu?” she whispered.

No answer came, only Noor’s voice echoing down the hall.  “Mama, please, I want to go with Abi!”

Abi trotted down the remaining steps and moved along the hall, pausing outside her mother’s bedroom.

“Binti, I need you here with me,” her mother was saying.

“But, Mama, I dressed up special—all by myself.”

Abi peeked into the room. Noor, her sixteen-year-old sister, had mimicked her outfit—jeans and a black T-shirt. She was beaming with pride at having accomplished a task that would have seemed trivial to many girls her age. She leaned against the bed beside their mother, who was barely visible, in her blue-flowered day dress, beneath the blanket.

The wooden shutters were latched to block out the light and reduce the noise from outside. It was unusually hot for this time of year, early July. They should have all been at their summer house in al-Muntazah, by the Mediterranean, where the fresh air and sea breezes provided a break from the heat and dust of Cairo—both triggers for her mother’s migraines. The failure of the air-conditioners didn’t help matters. Despite the open windows, it still felt stifling inside. It was Abi’s fault that they were here. Of course, her mother could have stayed with Noor at the beach, and Abi could have driven back alone. But her sister had insisted.

Abi could see how hard it was for her mother to say no. She felt the same; it was almost impossible to resist Noor’s requests. She hesitated, then came in and wrapped an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Noor can come with us.”

Noor turned, her smiling, innocent face lit up by the glow of the small bedside lamp.

But their mother shook her head. “No, habibiti. This is your last time with your friends.” She added softly, “You could still change your mind. I’m sure MIT will let you start now instead of waiting.”

Abi took a deep breath, suppressing her frustration. “Mama, please—we’ve been through this. I’ll finish my graduate studies here. Then Tariq and I will marry. That’s our plan, and you agreed.”

“But you’re only twenty. Plans can change.”

“But without Tariq—”

Her mother raised her voice: “Abigail Samar, what have I told you? Do not let a man dictate your future!” Abi looked down, and her mother softened her tone. “If Tariq Suleiman is the right person—”

“He is. And Cairo University has a good program. After all, you and Papa did your Ph.D.’s there.”

“Yes, but—”

A horn beeped outside. Abi rushed to the window and glanced through the shutters.

“Go! Have a good time.” Her mother pulled Noor down next to her on the bed. “We’ll be fine. Won’t we, Noor?”

Abi kissed them both and dashed out, thankful to avoid any further discussion about her future—and Tariq.

The six-hour drive to Mount Mousa passed in bursts of laughter and anticipation among the six friends, a welcome contrast to the tension Abi had left behind.

As their SUV entered the gates of St. Catherine’s Monastery, Mount Mousa towered behind it. They stepped out, gazing in awe at the dramatic edifice, its jaw-dropping cliffs illuminated by the moon. It was a national treasure, one of the oldest mountains in the world, enduring for over six hundred million years. Pilgrims traveled from all around the globe to honor the site where Moses had received the Ten Commandments and to seek forgiveness for their past sins. For Abi and her friends, it represented a new beginning, as they each headed off on separate paths to begin their graduate studies. Only Tariq and Abi would stay in Cairo.

“Let’s go. We need to find Hani, our guide,” Abi said. She waited as the others finished donning extra layers of clothing to stay warm in the cooler night-time temperatures that were typical of this desert environment, even in July.

The group followed Abi up a slight incline to a collection of camels, where tourists were clamoring for the easy way to the top.

A young Bedouin stepped forward, adjusting the red and white keffiya around his head. “Abi?”

She smiled. “Hani, hi. This is Tariq, Sami, Sherine, Amira, and Mustapha.”

Hani looked suspiciously at Amira and Sami, who were already panting after climbing the short incline to greet him. “You told me you wanted to take the Siket Sayidna Musa trail. It’s steep. Perhaps you and your friends would prefer to rent camels for the trek, at least until the last hundred steps.”

“No, I’m hiking,” Abi said.

“Me too,” Tariq added.

The others glanced up at the mountain. “Camels,” they said in unison.

“So much for making amends for your sins,” Abi teased. “I’m not sure riding a camel up counts.”

Hani handed out flashlights and offered each of them a keffiya. “You’ll want these at the top.”

They followed Hani—Abi and Tariq on foot, the rest on camels—climbing past the other hikers and the Bedouin shelters set up to profit from novice hikers who believed that a three-mile hike up a mountain would be easy. The group remained silent, focusing their flashlights on the path to avoid tripping or falling.

After an hour, they stopped at one of the shelters to add more layers of clothing. After three more hours, they reached the last hut and the start of the infamous hundred steps to the summit. Only hikers could proceed. Amira and Sami decided to wait, sacrificing the chance for salvation in exchange for cups of hot tea and sweets.

The rest trudged on, legs wobbling and feet occasionally slipping as they mounted each makeshift step, the stone worn smooth with age and slick from the mist spreading across the valley. By the time they reached the summit, it was nearly sunrise and space was tight. People huddled together, trying to shield each other from the biting wind, which made the air feel even colder.

Abi unwound the keffiya from her neck and wrapped it around her head, covering everything but her eyes. “You were right, Hani. This comes in handy,” she said through chattering teeth.

“You might want blankets as well.” He pointed to a conveniently located vendor. “When you’re ready to leave, I’ll be over there with the other guides.”

Abi took Tariq’s hand and headed to the Bedouin stall.

“Ten U.S. dollars each? For rental? That’s robbery!” Tariq exclaimed.

The Bedouin, unfazed, turned away.

“Tariq, please. I’m cold,” Abi said.

Reluctantly Tariq tapped the Bedouin, pulled out his wallet, and said, “Okay, deal.” He handed over the money and grabbed four blankets.

They were moving away when the Bedouin stopped Abi and handed her a small silver amulet. It was a hamsa, Fatimah’s hand, known for protecting against evil. She looked at him, questioning. Before he could respond, another hiker accosted him.

She curled her fingers around the hamsa and rejoined her friends, who had already covered themselves with blankets. Tariq draped the last one around her as she sat down, and snuggled up beside her.

“My mother started again tonight about MIT,” Abi said, nudging closer to him. “Why was your uncle so opposed to you going away? I thought he would be happy that Columbia accepted you. It’s one of the top medical schools.”

“We talked about this.” Tariq hesitated, then answered as if he were trying to convince himself. “The company is waiting. I don’t need medical school if I’ll never practice medicine.”

“But your dream was to become a doctor.”

“It was, but I owe my uncle.”

“Is this how it will always be? Your uncle dictating your future, and ours when we marry? Or is he opposed to that as well?”

Tariq tightened his grip around her. “We will marry, I promise. I love you.”

Abi looked at his face, wondering if love would be enough. She reached for his hand and pressed the hamsa into his palm. “Take this. You’ll need its protection more than I will.”

Tariq pulled his blanket over their heads and kissed her. Their lips lingered passionately together until excited voices around them interrupted. They peeked out from beneath the blanket to find the sun rising, casting a beautiful, red-orange glow over the jagged mountain edges and layering the Sinai Valley with ribbons of light.

Mustapha tapped them on the shoulders. “Come on, let’s go. Penance achieved—time to start our new slate of sins.”

Laughing, the four descended, gathering their guide and their two unrepentant friends along the way.

Their laughter still echoed in Abi’s ears as she headed home hours later. Emerging from the car into the night air, she inhaled the fresh scents of jasmine and mango trees. Then she paused, looking up at the house. Something wasn’t right.

The house was dark, but their family car was still in the driveway. Umm Ali and the rest of the staff were away for the night, but even if her mother was sleeping, she would have left a light on for Abi—and Noor usually waited for her in the sitting room. Her stomach tightened.

She turned the doorknob. Unlocked. The door creaked as she pushed it open. She dropped her backpack by the door. “Mama? Noor?” She walked cautiously through the entranceway.

Then, turning the corner, she froze. Noor lay sprawled on the floor outside the bedroom, still dressed in her black T-shirt and jeans. A few feet away lay their mother in her blue-flowered dress. Their faces were turned away.

Abi squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them, her mother and sister were still there. Blood covered their clothes, pooling all around them, seeping into the Oriental carpet.

Abi rushed over, dropping to her knees. Noor’s slim body was still. Leaning close, Abi saw the slash across her neck. The blood had stopped flowing. Noor was no longer breathing.

Her mother’s lips moved. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Abi.”

Abi scrambled to her mother’s side and crouched down beside her. “Mama, I’m here!”

“Noor?” Her mother’s voice trembled; her fingers reached for her younger daughter.

“I’m calling for help.” Fumbling through her bag, Abi pulled out her cell phone and dialed emergency. She took a deep breath and attempted to explain what was happening. “Please come, come now! Bleeding, blood everywhere,” Abi pleaded to the dispatcher. She rattled off their address.

Next she dialed Tariq. “It’s my mom, and Noor—I need you!”

“Abi, slow down.”

“Aqd.” Her mother’s voice was desperate; she was struggling to say more.

Abi leaned down, unaware that blood was soaking through her white sneakers. She glanced at her mother’s neck. There was no wound, but her necklace was missing.

Tariq’s voice crackled in her ear. “Abi, what’s happening?”

“Come, please!” Abi yelled, ending the call.

“Aqd, aqd.” Her mother feebly grabbed Abi’s hand.

 “Shh, it’s okay. We need to get you to the hospital.”

She tried to lift her mother, but stopped when she saw the rip in the blue dress, the stab wound in her mother’s abdomen. Blood was still flowing. Moving her anymore might make it worse. She sat down instead and held her mother’s hand, reciting the opening surah of the Quran and rocking as if it were a chant, trying not to cry: “In the name of Allah, the most gracious, most merciful…”

After several grueling minutes, she finally heard the sirens. “Hold on, Mama, help is here.” She rushed through the house to the front porch. Two medics jumped out of the ambulance with their medical bags in hand. Behind them was Tariq.

“Please, my mother, my sister, they need help!” She hurried back with them, Tariq running behind.

He stopped when he saw the scene. “Oh my God.” He wrapped Abi in his arms and tightening his hold each time he felt her tremors.

One medic checked Noor and shook his head. The other medic worked feverishly, trying to save her mother. Abi gripped Tariq’s arms, barely breathing. Then—stillness. The medic working on her mother exhaled deeply, paused, and turned to Abi. “I’m sorry.”

Abi leaned on the balcony railing, staring down at the vendors below who were calling out their wares as if it were just another ordinary day. Her phone buzzed again, but there was still nothing from Tariq. He had left the night before, saying, “A shower and a change, then I’ll be back.”

“Habibiti, it’s time to go,” Umm Ali said, joining her on the balcony. She took Abi’s hand and led her back inside.

“Tariq?” Abi asked.

Umm Ali shook her head.

Abi followed her downstairs, steering clear of the blood-stained hallway, which was now cordoned off with yellow tape. Her mother and sister were gone. The medics had taken their bodies to the hospital, where she and her aunt had waited until the remains were finally released to the funeral home for the ritual cleansing. Still, she felt their presence.

“Miss Samar.” An officer approached her. “I’m Inspector Ismael Mohy. My condolences. One of my men found this in the back garden.” He handed Abi her mother’s gold pendant.

“It had a gold chain.”

“I’m afraid they took it,” Mohy replied.

Umm Ali stepped forward. “You don’t need it for your investigation?”

“No, we have what we need.”

Abi tucked the gold pendant into her pocket and walked toward the front door. After embracing Umm Ali, she joined Aunt Mona in the car outside.

The rest of the day was a blur: the burial service, the mosque, and countless well-wishers—family, friends, her mother’s colleagues. Tariq was notably absent.

Days turned into weeks, and still there was no sign of Tariq. Abi’s friends tried to contact him, but his phone went straight to voicemail; their texts and emails were left unanswered. Umm Ali visited the Suleiman house, but the guards refused to let her in.

Finally, at the start of the fourth week, Abi received an email from him: “Uncle Hussein needs me. It’s best we move on.”

Only two sentences.

Abi replied, but her email bounced back. She tried calling, but his phone was no longer in service. Tariq Suleiman had vanished, taking with him their dreams for a future together.

Abi secluded herself, rarely leaving the house. Umm Ali and others offered her comfort, but nothing could ease the ache of her broken heart. She had mourned her father’s loss when she was young, but it wasn’t the same. Cancer had claimed him, not a random act of violence, as Inspector Mohy suspected had taken her mother and Noor. “Unexplainable,” he responded, when Abi pressed him for more.

July turned into August, and soon August slipped into January. She stood in her bedroom, taking one last look around the space that had been her private sanctuary. She was about to leave the place where she had grown up, the only home she had ever known.

Weeks earlier, she had overheard her aunt arguing with Umm Ali: “It’s too soon,” Umm Ali asserted. “It’s been months,” Aunt Mona retorted. “But she’ll be all alone in a foreign country,” Umm Ali countered. Ultimately, though, they both agreed. Too many tragedies had befallen Abi’s family, and although neither woman was superstitious, they believed she would never be safe in Egypt.

The car was waiting. Her bags were packed and loaded into the trunk, and Brahim, their driver, would take her to the airport. She felt resigned to leaving. The sounds and smells she had once loved—the muezzin chanting, the fresh scents of mango and jasmine trees at dusk, the boisterous calls of the vendors—all of these now brought only torturous memories that she desperately wished to forget.

Abi glanced at the photo of her mother and sister on the dresser. They were smiling, unaware that they would have no more happy moments together. She slipped the photo into her bag and headed down the stairs. She descended slowly, pausing when she passed the picture of her grandfather standing proudly in front of Sekhemkhet’s sarcophagus. She knew what her friends and relatives were saying; even the police had talked about it. It was the curse: Pharaoh Sekhemkhet had avenged the disturbance of his tomb. When the police learned that the gold pendant torn from her mother’s neck had been with Gidu when he was found dead, they had been too quick to give it back, as if it held Sekhemkhet’s curse.

Abi didn’t believe in curses, least of all as an excuse for the police not doing their job and finding her mother and sister’s killers. Now she wore the pendant, attached to a new gold chain. She brought it up to her lips and kissed it. “Mama, however long it takes, I will find out what happened to you and Noor.”

She reached the bottom step. Aunt Mona was waiting on the porch with Umm Ali and Gidu’s old foreman, Abd el-Haq. Abi stepped out, bracing herself for their good-byes.

“Habibiti, it’s for the best,” Aunt Mona said, hugging her. “Your mother would have wanted this for you.”

Next was Abd el-Haq. He handed her a small leather pouch. “Your grandfather would have wanted you to have this.” She accepted it without a word.

Last came her long-time nanny, the woman she considered her surrogate mother. Umm Ali squeezed Abi’s hands, pulled her into her arms, and whispered, “Stay safe, habibiti.” Abi clung to her.

At last her aunt gently nudged them apart. “Brahim’s waiting, habibiti, and you know how Cairo traffic can be.”

Abi nodded and let go. Sliding into the car’s front seat, she looked back as Brahim drove away, finally allowing her tears to flow. At least Abi’s mother was getting her final wish: her daughter was heading to America, to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

The inspiration for THE PROPHECIES came from my husband’s uncle, a renowned Egyptologist who uncovered a tomb in Saqqara and was later found dead in the Nile. His mysterious death, along with other family tragedies, formed the basis of the novel. At the same time, I couldn’t ignore current events, and I’ve always been fascinated by biblical stories of prophets who lived for centuries. I’ve often wondered—if that were true, what has changed? Over time, religions divide, power corrupts, and terrible acts are committed in the name of faith. I started to imagine how different our world might be if we could see the future. Would those who possessed such power choose a path that benefited everyone, or just themselves? How quickly would knowledge advance if there were no divisions among us?

In THE PROPHECIES, twenty-year-old Abigail Samar is devastated by the murders of her mother and sister at their home in Cairo. A few months later, at the urging of her aunt and nanny, who fear for her safety, she heads to the United States to complete her Ph.D. and study the brain. Fifteen years later, neuroscientist Dr. Samar has developed a groundbreaking technology that can restore memories—though, in the wrong hands, it can also rewrite them.

When Abi discovers that the deaths of her mother and sister—and her grandfather’s suspicious suicide—are connected to a hidden tomb and an ancient papyrus, the Book of Prophecies, which can predict the future, she is forced to confront her past. Back in Egypt, she faces the Keepers of the Sword, a secret society determined to weaponize both her invention and the Book of Prophecies. With her covert-operative husband by her side and a child on the way, Abi sets out to stop the Keepers, seek justice for her family, heal her own fractured identity, and uncover long-buried truths in history and memory. She must find the papyrus before freedom itself becomes a relic of the past.

Though inspired by real events, THE PROPHECIES is a work of fiction—an exploration of the unexplainable and a reflection on how much control we really have over the future.