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Isabella warily approached the breakfast table. Would Arkwright lash out at his wife, especially after her walk with Gawen Tarrant? Did anyone else know of their tryst? The Standings? Petrie? Lamb? Castlereagh? Matthews surely didn’t; he missed most of the interactions and tensions.
She wound up between Arkwright and Miss Grey, neither of them talkative. Miss Grey was occupied with Markey and only snatched bites of her food. She had no time for Isabella. The professor ignored her. She tried hard not to look at Gawen every time Cecilia spoke or at her when he spoke. Every time she answered either of them, she was afraid the knowledge was writ plainly on her face. Yet nothing happened. No tensions woke to new and greater life. Conversation rambled around the table. Gawen looked pleased when she told him she could have the three illustrations finished by tomorrow evening.
After a hearty breakfast, Madoc left for the dig. He trailed a finger down her forearm as he passed on his way out. She stared after him, wondering if he knew how much his simple touch affected her. Bees buzzed around them. Cecilia lingered until the men had gone, then she dropped into a chair by Isabella’s work table.
“You saw us last night. All through breakfast, I could read it on your face.”
Isabella wondered how people learned not to be transparent. “I will not say anything, Cecilia.”
Her laugh was breathy and humorless. “I don’t know if that would be good or bad.” She tied a scarf around her dark hair then put on a straw hat. “I don’t do this. Yet here I am. The brothers Tarrant are so . . . intriguing. We girls should guard our hearts.” With that, she left.
Markey was crying when Miss Grey brought him back from the temple site. While the governess talked to Isabella, the little boy paddled in the pool until his skin shriveled. Then they disappeared upstairs.
By mid-morning the sky had clouded, and the heat became oppressive. Even the bees slowed their unceasing pursuit of nectar. Not liking the slaty sky, Isabella carried her work inside. She wondered what was happening at the dig, but the challenge of the site drawing absorbed her. The details so engrossed her that she jumped when Arkwright stomped past her workspace on his way to the drinks table. He ignored her. Isabella weighted the corners of the illustration. Then she closed the shutters in case the rain came.
Over an uncomfortable lunch, the heat increased. The rain held off. No one spoke very much as they consumed Dorcas’ idea of light fare. Arkwright flung several barbs at his wife; she didn’t respond. When the men returned to the dig, the afternoon was a steam bath. Pleading a headache, Cecilia stayed. She avoided Isabella by taking a long soak then lying down.
Concentration seemed impossible in the oppressive heat. Markey ran along the balcony. Miss Grey ignored him. He splashed in the pool. Even though Isabella’s deadline rapidly approached, she packed up her materials. She bathed in cool water, but as soon as she dried off, her skin was moist again. Her open window caught a stir of breeze. As the afternoon wore on, the clouds darkened. Thunder rumbled. She bathed again and chose her coolest dress.
The men came back at their usual time. Isabella took one look at their sunken eyes and asked Dorcas to squeeze juice. It waited by their plates when they came to dinner. She waited, sensing danger hanging by a thread, but they passed the soup course without difficulty. Cecilia had regained her suave manner and laughed gently at Castlereagh’s sallies. The Standings talked quietly to each other. Lamb looked angelic as ever, and Petrie looked somber. Matthews tried to talk about the Hellenic temple, but no one listened to him. The Tarrant brothers said little but watched constantly.
The storm broke as Dorcas brought the meat course. The drumming rain and thunder drowned all conversation. Isabella started at every flash of lightning. The rain stripped blossoms from the bougainvillea. The vivid pink petals lay drowned on the flagstones. Water rushed off the tiled roof. The downpour and the run-off threatened to flood the terrace. Yet the underground drains managed the heavy flood. The storm eased into rain then a drizzle, and the flood subsided.
The silence after the storm seemed as heavy with trouble as the earlier clouds. Dorcas re-opened the shutters and doors to admit the cooled air, freshening the room. Katherine and Cecilia deliberately ranged the conversation from horse racing to cricket to seaside pleasures without any awkward pauses. If Isabella’s comments sometimes felt forced, if Cecilia’s topics jumped from cabanas to theatre, no one protested. By dinner’s end the dripping mist had turned the air dank. Isabella hoped the trouble had ended as well.
She should have heeded Cecilia’s retreat when they rose from the table and Dorcas brought the coffee. They adjourned to the terrace, taking a lamp to provide a circle of light around one table. They left open the sitting room doors so the late breeze would draft through the lower house.
An unlikely comment by Lamb started the storm. He asked mildly about the dig near Mallia. Arkwright answered, pouring wine into his cup from the bottle he’d brought from the table. “A worthwhile dig. Not a waste of their time. We waste our time here. Finding nothing. Digging dirt.”
Gawen leaned back. Face in shadow, he sounded calm, detached. “You knew our mandate when you agreed to the dig. We are to exhaust the archaeological remains. We’ve not done that. We’re still finding potsherds.”
“Broken fragments. They’re useless.”
Gawen snorted. “You were too hung over to tell the value of anything that came up today. That hangover explains your bad temper this evening, and that bottle you’re drinking won’t help tomorrow.”
“It helps more than anything else. This useless dig is not worth my time or my brains. I’d rather be in Knossos. There I can accomplish some work worthy enough for a trained archaeologist.”
Isabella wanted to slink away, but she sat in full light. She envied Cecilia’s escape. Then she wondered if Cecilia had known this was coming, if this brewing argument was the reason she had worked so hard to control the dinner conversation. She glanced at Katherine. Her expression revealed nothing, but she gripped her husband’s arm. He patted her hand.
“No digging without Evans’ consent, Arkwright.” Standings injected a reasonable note. “He owns that site.”
“He’s neglected it for nearly a decade. He should let someone else dig.”
Standings snorted. “Don’t say ‘neglect’ to Evans or the BSA. Knossos needs work, but your job’s here, working on the palace just as my work is on the temple.”
“You and Tarrant duped me into this expedition. You used my name and connections to get BSA approval and private funding. And you knew this site had no work for me. It’s nothing to build my reputation on. It’s useless.”
“Are you discounting all the early Minoan artifacts we found in the first weeks? You had your half of the dig; now we’re onto the other half, the mandate to exhaust the site and prove Tarrant’s theory about overlooked information. Or is that what’s riding you so hard?”
“What’s riding me is wasted work.” He slammed his enameled cup onto the table. A chip of mosaic flew off into the darkness. “What are we actually doing here? Just digging deeper holes? If anything of value remained, we would have found it. All we have to do at Knossos is scrape the dirt, and we uncover stirrup jars and bronzework and gold.”
“You sound like a treasure hunter.” Gawen sounded weary. His lack of heat pointed out Arkwright’s anger even more strongly. “You’re supposed to be an archaeologist, a scientist, using the stratification here to support Evans’ timeline for Knossos. To fourth millenium B.C., Arkwright, far beyond anything on mainland. That support for the Bronze Age chronology is the primary objective for our grant from the university and the BSA. The potsherds we can identify will validate our work. I need you here,” he repeated. “I need you sober. You know stratification layers for the Bronze Age and Egyptian dynasties better than any of us do.”
“I didn’t go into archaeology to sift dirt. I want to find artifacts. We won’t find any more here. We’re too deep.”
“I wouldn’t call potsherds and metal taglets nothing.”
“Prof. Arkwright has a good point,” Petrie said, entering the debate for the first time. “Another few inches, and we’ll be to rock. What then? Do we blast through to find some Stone Age wonder?”
“Lamb, what do you say?”
He puffed on his pipe. Like a golden demigod, he had stayed above the mortal men’s debate. “We’ve been below the foundation since Friday. We should clear the site on schedule.”
“Standings isn’t digging this deeply at the temple,” Petrie grumbled.
“That’s not his mandate,” Gawen reminded. “He’s plotting the site and recovering what he can. We’re digging as deep as we can at the palace.”
“We’re undermining the foundations of the walls we’ve found. Dig deeper, and the walls will collapse on us. Ask your brother. He’s shoring up the walls. Ask him why. Ask about the landslip last week.”
Madoc propped an ankle on his knee. “I’ve got timbers ready for another collapse. I can shore up where you’re working before you start tomorrow, if you’re that afraid, Petrie.”
“I’m not afraid,” he snapped. “The collapse won’t be on me. It’ll be on you, since you’re so quick to dirty your hands.”
“At least my dirt washes off.”
Petrie had no retort. Gawen said, “We’ll dig until it’s obvious no precursor civilization is beneath. A couple of inches is not enough. One foot is not enough.”
“Eight foot deep—is that enough? You’re digging your grave, Tarrant,” Arkwright glowered. He stumbled into the table as he stood. The empty wine bottle rolled off and broke on the flagstones.
The men leapt up, but there was nothing to do except pick up the broken glass. Dorcas hurried out, exclaiming until Madoc told her to fetch a broom. Then he held the lantern while Isabella picked up the largest bits and put them on the table.
Isabella straightened. As she looked for cuts on her fingers, she realized the other men had melted away, shutting the house doors behind them.
“Have you cut yourself?”
“No. Has it been this acrimonious between the professors from the beginning?”
“Didn’t you notice Cecilia escaped early? Arkwright has simmered since Sunday.”
“Petrie egged it on.”
“You had a good introduction to Petrie yesterday afternoon. You should have expected it. Or maybe I’m used to it. My brother and Arkwright have rubbed against each other from day one. Standings stays in the middle. Arkwright’s drinking doesn’t help, and it doesn’t get any better.”
Dorcas returned with a broom and shooed them away.
“I cannot possibly sleep after that. Walk with me, Isabella.” When she hesitated, he added, “Or you can go back inside with them.”
She didn’t want to hear more arguments. She couldn’t face her room with its one door and one window at the dark end of the balcony. “Walk where?”
“Anywhere.”
She let him lead her from the house. Instead of following the path around the house that led to the dig, he headed for the road. They meandered past the square houses of the village. Lamplight warmed windows. Laughter and the music of a lute drifted from the taverna. They passed the last enclosed garden. Madoc walked with hands in his pockets, occupied by his thoughts. In heels unsuited for this trek, Isabella worked to keep even with him.
Torn apart by the storm, clouds streamed like ribbons across the sky. The moon was bright behind them. They walked the road until a distant crack broke the quiet.
Madoc stopped short. Head up, he searched the darkness. “Must have been a lorry backfire. We better turn back.”
The mountain reared up behind the village. The dig was far out of sight. Dogs barked to each other. The owl hooted before its nightly hunt. They might have walked beneath this cloud-torn sky thousands of years ago with only ancient gods watching. When Isabella repeated the thought, Madoc snorted. When he spoke, she knew how the past two days had preyed on him.
“In the long history of mankind, in all our explorations and inventions, from Plato to Pompey to Charlemagne and on to the giants of today, we are still the same people. We have the same cares, the same arguments, the same desires. Only the trappings of civilization have changed. We are still very much the animal.”
Isabella looked toward the village, where light and song poured from the taverna. “We are human, not animals. Or do you believe Darwin and Spencer and their theories?”
“I don’t much care. I fear that man is only separated from animals by the weapons we use to kill our enemy. We can measure progress only in our ability to kill greater numbers with greater speed and greater devastation.”
He spoke of the war. She didn’t know how to refute that truth.
Madoc laughed. He took his hands from his pockets and stretched. “Morbid thoughts for such a clear night. And a beautiful night. Do you want to trek to the dig?”
“And catch a thief in action?”
“Softly,” he warned. “All I need is proof. Mislabeled boxes. Re-packed crates. Sabotage at the site. Excitement that turns to nothing, a mistake. Cecilia backs me in this, but she thinks her husband is sabotaging Gawen, not stealing from the university.”
“Is this happening at both sites?”
“Our site more often. Standings has only mentioned a few instances of vandalism. The palace has experienced more.”
“For which reason? Because Gawen is in charge? Because this dig won’t feed Prof. Arkwright’s ambitions? Or does he suspect his wife and your brother are having an affaire?”
“All three. Power, greed, lust. Any one of them has been sufficient since the dawn of man. Arkwright’s antagonism is impossible to mistake. Tonight he was looking for a fight.”
“Simmering still from Mallia? I can’t believe that, Madoc. Could he have discovered what happened last night between Gawen and Cecilia?”
“Who knows? Gawen claims there’s no affaire, but the attraction is fierce. As long as it’s unconsummated, it’s more intense. If I know my brother, it will stay unconsummated. She may be our beautiful Helen, but he’s no Paris to steal her from her husband. He’ll stick to the dig and try to ignore her siren wiles.”
Isabella wanted to point out that Gawen hadn’t tried very hard to ignore Cecilia’s siren call last night.
“Let’s go this way. The cedars are heady at night. And there’s a pool on past the dig with a little spillway. After a rain like this evening’s, the fall will be running fast. It’s not often you get such a chance. Night is the best time to see it.”
Isabella considered her high heels before she recalled Madoc Tarrant didn’t seem the type to resort to assault. Neither had her former employer, but she’d had to contend with his pawing hands whenever she’d been unfortunate enough to be alone with him. Remembering last night’s kiss, she reminded herself to keep her head. If she didn’t, he wouldn’t have to do anything but open his arms.
A walk would clear her head. The night had turned delightfully cool. After a day with little exercise, she knew walking would help her sleep peacefully. “Should I get a coat?”
Madoc laughed and held out his hand. “Keep moving, and you won’t get chilled.”
He set a good pace, this time mindful of her shoes. Isabella was well warmed when they reached the site. He tarried a little, scanning the ropes and the tarp covering the sorting trays, the tools stacked to the side. Then, like a big cat through the darkness, he led her safely around. She smelled the cedars before they reached the path. The cedar scent was strong as they threaded through them, careful of the prickly branches.
They reached the stream and followed its bank to a pool. Moonlight shimmered like silver on the water. Sparkling water cascaded over the spillway. Isabella had no words to describe the scene and didn’t try to find any. A magical place, a god’s gift after this evening’s unpleasantness. She drank in the sight, aware that Madoc smiled as he watched her rapt face.
Then he stiffened and dropped her hand. He stepped ahead of her. Like a flash of lightning, he gained a predator’s intent, and Isabella shivered at the sudden change. “Stay here,” he threw over his shoulder.
She looked past him. Near the spillway a dark shape blocked the path. Madoc stopped, touched the form, rolled it back. The chalky path looked black where the body had lain. Isabella didn’t have to see the man’s face to recognize death.
