The Olympian Relics

Chapter 1

Chapter One

My story ends as it began, with a sacrifice, which doesn’t make mine any different from another woman’s but allows me to convince you why this is not like any other.

When this story began can be up for debate.

The team may say it all started on that fateful night we docked in Crete.

Seeing as this is my story and my retelling, I will start from where I believe my journey began.

It all starts on an ordinary spring day in Wilcrest House…

It’s been raining the past few weeks, in constant waves of hard wind and water crashing against the windowpanes.

My restless mind is fevered from being cooped inside the walls of Wilcrest House, since I received my ancient world history and archaeology degrees at Oxford several weeks ago.

Spring is finally arriving after a terribly long and frigid winter, and with its arrival comes an agonizing downpour, so relentless it could fill up the ponds and lakes tenfold.

Wilcrest House is home to the Earl of Claremont, my grandad, and has been my home for the last nineteen years of my life.

Resting on nearly three acres of land in suburban London, it is one of the few newly built homes among the peerage.

It contains seven bedrooms, a study, two libraries, a conservatory, a greenhouse, stables, a lake house, and a marvelous, well-kept garden.

Yet to be stuck in such an empty house once you’ve experienced life outside of it does something to a twenty-four-year-old woman’s sanity.

My skin craves to be back on the grounds of Lady Margaret Hall, longing for the hubbub of academics around me, the constant chatter of research and philosophies, the energetic pulse of discoveries awaiting to be uncovered.

For nineteen years, my heart has been pumping the same ballad in my blood—a deep longing to travel the world, attend excavation digs, and uncover history with my own hands.

To do what my heart truly desires, without letting my gender dictate what I should do instead.

But as a woman, it comes as no surprise that I did not receive a single excavation invite during or after my years at Oxford, nor when the archaeology department’s post-graduate program rejected me.

Not when graduate students like Henry Ashford are easily accepted and offered numerous spots on excavations.

It’s soul-crushing to witness.

If I had been raised with a demeanor of arrogance, entitlement, and self-righteousness, perhaps I would be the first female Oxford student ever invited on an archaeological expedition.

Maybe, if I had boldly walked into the archaeology department offices without an appointment and demanded a seat on the prestigious India expedition, as Mr. Ashford did, my life would be very different.

But that kind of behavior is only acceptable for a man; for a woman, it is seen as abhorrently unrefined.

Which is why I had to wait weeks to plead my final request before I was no longer a student. Like my several previous attempts, I received my polite, curt rejection within minutes.

If it weren’t for my grandad’s good-natured heart, I would strongly believe that all men—not just in academia—are patronizing chauvinists who view women as the inferior gender, created only to serve them. But there are a small number in the world who think and act otherwise.

A small smile forms on my face as I recall the memory of Grandad’s reaction to my post-graduate rejection.

During his angry rant against the university, he wanted to storm into the department head’s office and make him see reason—why I had earned a spot in the program.

But we both knew his effort would be futile.

In an academic institution like Oxford, where publications and doctoral degrees were valued much more than any title in the peerage, Grandad held no persuasive power.

All because he had no such publication or esteemed degrees, only the title of an earl and an Oxford undergraduate history degree.

Any woman in our high society would question why I would want to endure such an ordeal—especially in academia—knowing I could live a comfortable life as the wife to an earl or a count in the peerage. But why should I succumb to such a bleak, confined life? Only because society tells me I should?

At five years old, I made a promise to never fall into such a trap after reading the myths of the Greek goddess of wisdom and discovering my love for ancient history.

Inspired by Athena’s virtues of courage and justice, I am determined to prove my own worth as a woman, independent of my family’s title.

What better way to achieve such a feat than to study history at a prestigious institution dominated by men and pursue a career in a field where women are scarce?

Glancing at the open notebook beside me, I look over the long list of crossed-out ideas, or pleas, with a lump in my throat.

Paralyzing fear consumes me as the nagging thought takes hold that all my efforts from now on are futile.

That despite my credentials, intelligence, and vast knowledge, I will never receive what I rightly deserve simply because I was born Clara Fairfax.

Instead of remaining on higher ground, of not allowing my motivations to be eroded by the bleakness of reality, I continue to mope in the grand library, rereading my published analysis of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon for the dozenth time, wondering whether there was a different argument I could have made that might have stood my paper out as I hoped it would.

I had planned to write an analysis piece on all seven of the ancient wonders of the world—my life’s obsession—but that idea was forcefully shut down after my first piece failed to attract the academic intrigue needed to launch such a series.

I am about halfway through reading the article when I hear the rain stop against the roof.

A silence so golden it makes my heart thud.

Sunshine peeks through the clouds as they break, bright rays spilling through the tall windows. I run toward the windowpane with a smile on my face. It has been weeks since I last saw—let alone felt—the sun against my skin.

I plop the pages onto a nearby table and run through the double doors leading outside, stepping back into the world.

Frigid air hits my face as I run toward the open field.

I can’t help myself. I spin carefree, arms outstretched, eyes closed, until I finally collapse onto the sodden grass in a state of bliss.

Boisterous laughter escapes me. I feel like a young child again.

Water soaks through my blouse and skirt, seeping into my undergarments, but it does nothing to dull the warmth of the sun on my pale skin. The sound of birds chirping in the distance, of nature reawakening around me, sends me drifting into a tranquil state you reach before sleep approaches.

I don’t know how much time passes before heavy footsteps move from the terrace, across the wet grass, and toward me.

A shadow casts over my face, blocking the sun.

I peek one eye open to see who has disrupted my time reacquainting myself with the warmth.

I can’t see him clearly, but from his outline and the smell of tobacco alone, I know it is Grandad.

“Not the first time I’ve seen you ruin your day clothes after weeks of endless rain have stopped,” he teases.

A mischievous smile forms on my face as I remember the time twelve-year-old me ran into the lake in her sundress after a long summer storm. “I would have taken a dip if the water weren’t so cold.”

He chuckles. “That I have no doubt about, my dear.”

He turns, making his way back inside. “Come inside,” he yells over his shoulder. “I have news to share.”

By the time I’m on my feet, he’s already at the double doors, leading himself back into the house.

Hurrying after him, I wonder what news he could have.

The last time Grandad had such urgent news to share was when he told me I was accepted into Oxford University four years ago.

But now, nothing comes to mind that matches the same urgency, unless it’s about my submission to the post-graduate program, which I doubt it is.

I find Grandad where he always is, in his study.

His enfeebled body stands over his desk, rummaging through papers that have been left in a state of disarray.

His nearly white hair is standing at the ends of his head, with his wire-rimmed glasses now resting on the top of his head.

I know in a few moments he will start looking for them, forgetting where he last placed them.

Grandad stops his rummaging to check himself.

I know he’s looking for his smoking pipe.

Once he finds it and lights it with a match, he resumes what he was doing.

I’ve never known a time when Grandad wasn’t smoking; no matter what he is doing or where he is going, he always has his pipe alight in his mouth.

Yet I can sense a different kind of energy around him as he moves—a frantic yet excited pulse coursing through him.

What happened during his luncheon to change his usual calm and measured demeanor into what I’m witnessing now?

“What is it, Grandad?” I close the study door behind me. I can hear a hint of alarm in my voice. Whether he senses it, I cannot tell.

Grandad meets my gaze, his eyes wild and blazing with energy. An eager grin flashes across his face. “It’s finally happening, Clara.”

Air escapes my lungs, the hairs along my back rising as I grasp the weight of his words.

A dream we’ve shared my entire life, one I never thought could come true.

Slowly, I make way further into his study and take a seat across from his desk, ignoring the dampness of my skirt, bracing myself for the impact of his revelation.

There’s no way this is happening…

With the air still dead in my lungs, I barely get any words out. The words that escape are low and raspy, almost inaudible. “It’s happening?”