Chapter 2
The suite was dim and so full of smoke it was hard to make out anything more than the shapes of a dozen men sitting at tables and milling about.
It was like this each time Alexander had joined the other crew members for cards in the evenings.
Johnson, one of the archaeologists, hosted the game each night, and each night several hundred pounds were lost and won.
It was a closed game, offered only to members of the crew, so the losers had until the end of the expedition to win back whatever they lost instead of settling when they reached their destination.
Alexander didn’t mind; he was content to wait to fill his pockets.
He was immediately offered a seat at the nearest poker table and dealt in.
Geoffrey Kent and Ellis Wakefield sat at the table, too, along with Martin Neill.
It was not the first time Alexander had seen Neill, the assistant his team had been assigned, in the makeshift casino, but usually he played with a less aggressive group.
Today, he’d joined men known to play deep, and he looked like he was barely keeping his head above water.
His brow shone with perspiration, his tie undone.
In an attempt to put him at ease, Alexander asked, “How do you like the journey so far, Neill?”
Neill seemed startled to be addressed by Alexander. “Oh, very much, Mr. Ashton. I’ve never been on a ship like this before.”
This elicited smirks from several of the others. Wakefield barked, “Just don’t dangle over the side of the boat when you’re letting go of your lunch. It’d be a pity if you slipped off.”
They played a few hands, Alexander coming up the better of the others at the table, and he relinquished his seat to speak to a few of his fellows. He was gratified no one tried to force a drink onto him; perhaps this time they would believe him when he said he had no interest in alcohol.
Martin Neill, however, was plied with whatever was being passed around.
Alexander was no stranger to the tactics of some of the more ruthless of the crew; they often chose an inexperienced man to prey on and it appeared this time it was Neill.
It didn’t escape Alexander’s notice that of all the newcomers, it was a relative outsider with no academic connections and a slight lilt in his voice suggesting otherness who was selected as their target.
After a few more hands he looked both exhausted and ready to, as Wakefield put it, lose his lunch.
As Neill was assigned to his team, Alexander felt he had some responsibility for what condition he was in when he arrived in Smyrna, and so when Neill once again suffered a bad beat, he clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get some air.”
He shuffled the young man out of the room and up a floor to the deck, where a curt breeze swept away some of the smoke clinging to their clothing.
Neill gulped down the fresh air and blinked away some of his haze. He couldn’t be more than twenty-one, with just a semester left before graduating in the spring.
“Might I make a suggestion?” Alexander said. “If you plan to continue taking a seat at the table, hold off on the liquor. No one plays well when they’re drunk.”
Neill nodded, then rushed to the edge of the deck and vomited.
“What’s this, now!” crowed Wakefield, approaching with Clark at his side. Wakefield was a contrast to Clark, a compact, energetic man with dark hair cut very short. “We can’t have lightweights bogging down our crew.”
Clark smirked around his cigarette. “We have quite enough extra baggage already.”
“Unless you’re going to be useful, perhaps you should return to the game,” Alexander said. “Last I checked, Clark, you were rather behind.”
Clark released a stream of smoke that quickly disappeared into the night.
He held Alexander’s gaze. “I appreciate the concern, Ashton. However, I’m not the one with a bride-to-be hanging about like a millstone.
You should worry more about stacking up enough chips to provide for your happy life together. ”
“If you continue playing as you have been, I needn’t stay at the table long.”
Clark flicked his cigarette over the rail. “I look forward to plundering your honeymoon fund.” He and Wakefield stalked away.
Neill hung his head. “I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Ashton. I think I’d better go back to my room.”
He watched Neill stumbling to the stairs as the ship rolled slightly, and contemplated his next move.
It was tempting to follow Neill’s lead and turn in early.
He could maybe fall asleep before his roommate started snoring like an old motorcar engine.
He might find some of their party still in the dining room, where music and dancing went on until the early morning hours.
Saffron had already returned to her room, Alexander knew, having escorted her there after dinner.
His lips curved, recalling her latest attempt to coerce him inside.
But Clark’s comments, as harmless as they were, soured his mood.
He’d like to tell Clark to lay off Saffron, but he knew better than to attempt to fight Saffron’s battles for her.
She’d known what she was getting into. She would have to manage him herself, however much Alexander hated to leave her to his poor attitude.
But, Alexander thought as he turned his steps back toward the smoke-filled suite, that didn’t mean he couldn’t do his bit to put Clark in his place, even if it was just by beating him at cards.
“You did what!”
Alexander gave her a quelling look, and Saffron realized she’d come very close to shrieking in the middle of the sunny breakfast room. “Sorry,” she whispered. “But you couldn’t have expected a quiet reaction to you nearly bankrupting Clark last night.”
“It’s bad form to bankrupt a man. I put a dent in his solvency, that’s all.” The smug tilt of his mouth naysaid his statement.
Perhaps it was petty to be pleased Alexander had done something to aggravate Clark, but Clark had been particularly nasty the previous day, outright ignoring her when she’d approached him to begin working on their study and spending dinner scoffing at her.
“Well, one can only hope it encourages him to take our work seriously.”
“This is not an auspicious beginning,” Alexander said. “Clark is refusing to work with you, and our assistant is quickly becoming entrenched with the worst of the bunch.”
“Martin? Surely not.”
Alexander sent her a wry look over his cup of coffee. “Martin? A little informal, don’t you think?”
The man in question walked into the breakfast room a moment later. Martin Neill winced at the bright light streaming in the windows, stumbling as an older couple cut across his path from the buffet.
Saffron bit her lip on a smile. “It feels too formal to refer to anyone that hopeless as ‘mister.’ Martin Neill is the equivalent of a baby duck. A lost, motherless baby duck.”
Christopher Banks paused before the chair he’d pulled out next to Saffron. “If you’re discussing waterfowl, I might as well just go off to sit with Ames and Donnelley. I don’t care what they say, there is simply nothing interesting about livestock farming techniques of the fourth century BC.”
Banks was a linguist and, like Alexander, was the young, strapping sort who seemed to be designed for exploring, with reddish-brown hair and striking eyes only a few shades bluer than white.
He and Alexander had become fast friends.
Saffron enjoyed learning about the paper he planned to write exploring the layered linguistic history of the agora of Smyrna.
With the land having passed hands between several eras of Romans, Greeks, and the Ottomans, Smyrna offered him much to study.
“Agreed,” Saffron and Alexander said simultaneously. Saffron added, “We’re not discussing ducks. I simply said Martin Neill reminded me of a duckling.”
Thus reassured, Banks sat next to her. “Who?”
Saffron nodded to Martin, who was now walking very slowly, both hands full of breakfast dishes, as he surreptitiously peered around the room in search of a seat. Taking pity on him, she called and waved him over.
“Good morning,” he said as he approached, still walking painfully slowly.
Everyone returned the greeting, and when Martin was settled opposite Saffron, Alexander and Banks rose to retrieve their own breakfast. Saffron, having been the first to arrive, had only crumbs left on her plate.
“Is there anything I can help you with today, Miss Everleigh?” Martin asked before he took an enormous bite of eggs.
A tense sort of irritation crept over her shoulders at the innocent question.
It wasn’t Martin’s fault that Clark was being the worst study partner in the history of the university.
She forced a smile. “That’s very kind of you to ask, but no.
I’m sure once we reach Smyrna and get a look at the agora, there will be many tasks to assist with.
” He nodded eagerly, cheeks bulging with food.
“Mr. Ashton mentioned you’re to graduate soon.
Do you plan to stay at the university to pursue a master’s? ”
A panicked look came over him, and his jaws worked to finish chewing quickly. After an awkward gulp, he said, “I graduate soon, yes. In the spring. Of course, when else?” He laughed uncomfortably. “I haven’t decided about a graduate program. I do plan to do one.”
He took another bite, and rather than send him into a panic again by asking another question, she took a moment to really look at him.
They’d met in passing a handful of times as preparations ramped up at the U, but she’d been in such a tizzy that she’d rather ignored him.
For all that he and Alexander shared similar coloring, dark hair and eyes, their similarities stopped there.
Martin was a small man, almost delicate.
If she had to guess, Saffron would have pinned him as an artisan, someone who specialized in small, detailed work from his hunched shoulders and elegant, long-fingered hands.
His eyes were large and expressive, his nose narrow and aquiline, and his lips distinctly bowed and vividly colored.
Elizabeth, Saffron’s flatmate and best friend, would have envied the naturally rosy color.
“What is your degree in?” Saffron asked him when he’d set down his fork to pat his mouth with his napkin.
“Biology,” he replied. “Just biology. General, you know. There are so many things one can do with a biology degree. Zoology, botany, microbiology, even medicine. That’s why I chose it, so I would be set up to choose just whatever I wanted when I was finished, but now I’ve nearly finished and I haven’t a clue. ”
Alexander and Banks returned, setting down plates piled even higher than Martin’s. Where they put all the food, Saffron couldn’t fathom. Neither man had an ounce of fat on him.
“That’s why I was so happy to be selected to join the team,” Martin said, eyes darting to Alexander eagerly. “So happy. I’ll be able to observe so many different disciplines in action. I’m hoping it’ll help me settle on what I want. Academically.”
These last words were more directed toward Alexander than Saffron, but she didn’t mind. Watching Martin’s admiration of Alexander was endearing. He was rather like a puppy.
She clearly had animals on the brain. Perhaps she ought to seek out Ames and Donnelley after all.
It would likely go better than seeking out Clark, but she really didn’t have a choice.
Their ship would arrive in Turkey the next day, and they had absolutely nothing planned.
Saffron had her own study proposal, and she assumed Clark had one of his own, and they were meant to merge them into some cohesive plan to study ancient botanical specimens and their preservation and storage.
Dr. Henry wasn’t likely to give Clark the go-ahead to open the jars found in the agora otherwise.
They had less than two months at the site to get all the specimens, data, and observations they would need to write their paper, and any delay could mean the difference between success and failure.
She’d managed to finish two papers in the year she’d been a researcher in her department, but one she’d relinquished her claim on after learning the study had been funded by the government, something she had a moral objection to, and the other had been decent, but hadn’t gained any traction with publication.
Her own master’s studies were on hold since she’d be abroad most of the semester.
She needed this paper to be solid, a cornerstone of the rest of her career.
And for that to happen, she needed to find Clark and get him working. She briefly squeezed Alexander’s shoulder before departing in search of her wayward study partner.