Chapter 12
The thrill of the new room’s discovery gave new life to the expedition team.
Alexander hadn’t realized how much the men were already flagging.
He suspected it was because they felt like guests rather than having ownership of the site and its finds—which, of course, they did not.
He struggled to remember that himself occasionally.
Protocols put into place by the Turks had to be followed.
They wanted to preserve the agora as well as possible—a dictate most of the crew could appreciate—and that meant going slowly, carefully.
Each bucket of dirt was sieved and washed.
Every bit of carved rock and artifact was to be photographed, sketched, measured, and recorded into multiple places.
The new room was dubbed the storeroom, and it had soon been revealed there was an additional space off the back.
The potential for what was in that room was thrilling, but they had already waited nearly a full week to have access to it.
Alexander wanted to crack open the new vessels right away, for his own research and for Saffron’s.
She hadn’t been flagging, not like some of the other fellows who complained of the lack of things to do while they awaited the storeroom.
She kept herself busy, so busy it felt like days since they’d gotten the chance to say more than a few words to each other.
When the rest of the crew was resting after lunch, she was on the site, sketching and exploring, usually with Martin Neill.
The other fellows occasionally joked his fiancée paid more attention to the boy than him.
It was easy to laugh off, which was enough to move conversation onto a different topic.
That topic, more often than not, was the latest artifact find.
They were coming quickly now that dirt was being removed constantly to clear the storeroom.
It was mostly broken bits of vessels and the occasional coin, but an assistant had found a fragment of a bracelet believed to be of the fourth century just yesterday, and had been smacked on the back in congratulations so many times that he must have been black and blue.
Dr. Henry, Alexander had noticed, tended to spend a good deal of time staring down at the artifacts smugly, clearly pleased the expedition was going according to plan.
Alexander found him there at the artifact table two days after the stall had been opened.
“You wanted to see me?” he prompted Dr. Henry as he approached.
Dr. Henry’s face showed no trace of smugness now. His icy blue eyes flashed with anger instead. “Look,” he growled, jabbing a finger at the artifacts.
Alexander did. But he didn’t see what Henry clearly thought was obvious. “What is it?”
“Something is missing,” Henry hissed.
Surprised, Alexander looked harder at the objects on the dusty table.
Most had little labels, like “oil lamp shard, 3B, believed sixth century, Clark” and “candle holder, 5C, clay, Wakefield” to indicate where in the agora it had come from, who had pulled it out of the dirt, and any other details they had ascertained or guessed about it.
A dozen pieces were laid out, and now he was carefully looking, Alexander didn’t see the coins that had been unearthed the previous day.
“The coins?” Alexander asked. They had caused quite a stir among the crew; the second-century coins pressed with an image of Zeus battling Athena had thus far only been found near Athens. Already, the historians were debating how they could have arrived in Smyrna.
Dr. Henry glared around the empty tent. “Keep your voice down. The moment the Turks hear something is missing, they’ll put up a huge fuss.
Our presence here depends upon all the artifacts remaining here.
” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and shook his head. “They’ll turn up soon, I know it.”
From the uneasy way he drummed the table, Alexander doubted he truly thought that. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have pointed out the coins were missing to begin with. But Dr. Henry had wanted him on this expedition to keep a cool head, so a cool head he would have. “I’ll keep an eye out for them.”
“What’s the status of the storeroom?” Dr. Henry asked.
“Should be ready by tomorrow,” he reported. “They’re covering it up now in preparation for lunch.”
Despite having people in and out of the storeroom for days, they still took the precaution of covering it with a large, heavy wooden door.
They had the cellar left to excavate, and no one wanted to risk someone pillaging any goods still left inside, or be crushed by a cave-in when there was still structural work to do.
“Good, good,” Dr. Henry muttered, eyes back on the artifacts. “Eyes open, Ashton.”
Alexander took that to be his dismissal.
He left the tent, immediately scanning the field for Saffron’s tan duster.
He wanted to see her. Perhaps they could go into the kemeralti for lunch today.
He’d been neglecting taking advantage of the opportunities here, like showing her around.
It would do them both good to get off-site and have the chance to talk.
Hunger, heat, and a red-faced Martin Neill dogged Saffron all the way across the field and to the pit.
None of them were urgent enough to prevent her searching out the man who’d been playing a game of hide-and-seek with her all day.
Clark had promised to review their notes over the vessels from the first stall, but every time Saffron thought she knew where to find him, he’d apparently “just left,” according to Templeton in the mess tent, an archaeology assistant working on organizing timber on the far side of the site, and Wakefield standing outside the supply tent.
She and Martin had been back and forth across the field three times and had nothing to show for it but a stubbed toe and a bucket of sweat between the pair of them.
Martin nearly ran into her when she stopped abruptly at the top of the steps to the pit. “Have you seen Mr. Clark?” she asked Mr. Apak as he emerged.
The Turk mopped his brow with a handkerchief and looked at her with confusion. “Why, yes. He is below with his team.”
“The biology team is working in that tent today,” she said, pointing to where she’d spent half the morning waiting.
“Ah, yes,” he said, nodding. “I apologize, but I mean the other team. The archaeologists. They just concluded stabilizing the cellar portion of the storeroom—”
Anger flared in her, just as hot as the sun beating down overhead. “So, he’s been putting supports in all morning?” And not in any of the places the others had sent her in search of him.
“Yes,” Mr. Apak said, his confusion clear.
“I see,” she said, and forced a more pleasant tone. “Thank you very much, Mr. Apak.”
She passed by him to descend into the pit.
With so much sunlight streaming down into the wide channel of the pit, she’d felt no trepidation about being down there. Especially with so many workers about, it didn’t remind her at all of the dark, dank places she feared.
She squeezed past a dozen men wielding various tools until she reached the cluster at the far end of the pit. They were all sweating and dirty, and each one looked immensely pleased.
“Mr. Clark?” Saffron called.
He turned to her, and his eyes lit with unpleasant humor. “Tracked me down at last, I see.”
“You said we would be going over the notes—”
“Naturally, you’ve come to see what real work looks like around here.
You can be the first of the rest of the crew to see inside the new cellar.
” He stepped into the stall and looked back at her with a crooked grin.
On another man, it would have been charming.
On him, it looked like mockery. “Allow me to show you.” He glanced behind her. “And your little puppy, too.”
She refused to react. “I would be happy to view the cellar, but we are supposed to prepare to examine the first set—”
He clicked his tongue dismissively. “But, of course, if you’re too—”
“If you wouldn’t mind allowing me to finish speaking,” she said over him.
“We need to review our notes and prepare for the new vessels. If you cannot be bothered to prepare to examine artifacts, then I will find someone else to assist me. I’m sure there are many here who would like to make discoveries. ”
She glanced around at the others, clearly milling around to overhear their argument. They looked pointedly away from her. Heat scorched her already overheated cheeks.
Clark gave her a pitying smile. “I doubt any of my colleagues want to play with your little jars when there is an entire site to explore. Now, do you want to see inside, or not?”
Saffron swallowed. It was obvious she had to go inside. “Very well.”
He smirked. “Don’t allow me to convince you. If you’re too uneasy to go inside …”
“Lead the way.”
Clark retreated into the stall, shadow falling over his face. She stepped inside after him.
Dirt had been cleared from the floor and shelves, illuminated by a single lamp left burning on the floor in one corner. Three rows of vessels sat there, waiting to be opened in the coming days.
“Well, go on,” Clark said to her before turning to Martin. He began questioning Martin about his knowledge of the agora and its history in the manner of a tutor quizzing a student. It soon gave way to something of a lecture.
It was a pity, Saffron thought as she carefully stepped across the uneven floor toward the cellar, that Clark was so rude. His speech was insightful, amusing, and had it not come from him, Saffron would have enjoyed it.
Despite this lively academic commentary in the background, the cool, humid air settled heavily on her, clinging to the damp patches on her back and collar. The gloom and smell of musty damp burrowed into her senses, leaving behind holes for fear to seep in.
“Steady on,” she whispered impatiently to herself. She went to the corner to retrieve the lantern. The moment it was in her hands, she felt better, and willed herself deeper into the stall.
Though the back room was little more than a closet, there was just enough room to step inside. Memories of being encased by dirt washed over her, and, heedless of protocol, she planted a hand on the wall to ground herself while old fear rose up within her.
The past few months she’d struggled to keep herself from pushing away memories of her mother, Bill, and the ice cellar at Ellington.
Burying them would only make them grow into fully fledged fears, and she had no desire to connect her idea of her mother to bloodshed and terror.
It was the reason she’d ensured she regularly spoke to her mother, despite the strain on their relationship from all Saffron had learned of her mother and her secrets.
It was the reason she and Alexander had returned to Ellington in June, to have lunch with her mother and grandparents—albeit an awkward lunch—and share their vague plans for their wedding.
She was trying to mend things with them all, her mother especially, though she’d much rather retreat into her life in London.
Just as she was trying now, standing in this tiny, underground room, to mend something inside her that felt broken.
A strange sound, a heavy scraping noise, reverberated in the space.
She peered around warily. Dust from the ceiling drifted down, catching in the light of the lantern.
The thin white glow of daylight was fading, and a massive thunk cut it off entirely.
Panicked, she stumbled from the stall’s back room.
Distant thunder perturbed the still air.
By God, was it a cave-in?
Her breath caught in her throat. She hurtled forward before pain exploded in her toe and she fell to the ground. There was nothing but silence and still air. The smell of cool dirt filled her senses, tinged with the tang of iron.
“No,” she gasped.
Images of darkened stone steps and fog intruded into her vision. She wrapped her arms around her legs, pulling them close and clutching the fabric of her trousers so she didn’t have to touch the dirt, didn’t have to remind herself of the press of it all around her.
Her breath came shallow and fast. A cool voice filled her head, soft and threatening. Alexander, covered in blood. The crack of a gun. Blood seeping into the stone floor. Her mother’s eyes, blank.
Saffron was trapped there, in the memory, just as surely as she was trapped in ruins two thousand miles away.
And it went on, a terrible newsreel destined to repeat again and again until it warped, spinning off into variations where she was the one lying on the ground, bleeding out, then buried, then forgotten.
A rumble drew her from her fugue. Then voices.
Throat tight and dry, she managed, “Hello?”
A faint outline of light traced darkness before her. It was there only a moment before light poured inside, blinding her.
She drew back and shielded her eyes.
A familiar voice swore, and then hands were gripping her arms and pulling her upward.
“What happened?” Alexander sounded horribly angry.
She started to speak, only to have another voice speak over her.
“I don’t know, sir!” Martin Neill said plaintively.
She managed to blink several times, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. She was standing against Alexander, his arm pressing her into his side. He faced Martin, who stood at the door, eyes huge and hands worrying the edge of his hat.
“I thought she’d already left,” he told Alexander. “Mr. Clark was telling me all about what he and Wakefield planned—”
“Clark led you off?” Alexander bit out.
“Yes, sir. He told the locals we were finished in the storeroom …” He gulped and looked at Saffron. “I’m so sorry, Miss Everleigh. This is all my fault.”
Alexander jerked his chin at him. “You can go.”
As disoriented as she still was, she wanted to chide Alexander for his curt dismissal. It wasn’t Martin’s fault, but she wasn’t in any state to stand up for him, even against Alexander.
He was silent, his heart pounding hard enough she could feel it in her own chest. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder. Her lungs hadn’t quite caught up to the fact she was no longer trapped in the storeroom.
“Come on,” Alexander said, and gently pulled her from the room.
She walked unsteadily, using him as an anchor. Once outside in the sun-drenched pit, he paused, easing away from her. “I’m going to—you’re hurt.”
She looked down to where his eyes fixed on her. Her knee was bleeding. “Oh,” she said stupidly. Tears flooded her eyes, blurring the red staining the knee of her trousers.
Alexander swore softly, gathering her to him again. A sob broke out of her.
He gripped her harder, and in a dark voice muttered, “I’m going to kill Clark.”