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They say that knowledge is power—I used to think so, but I know now they meant money.

LORD BYRON

The next morning, Abigail and I walked across the damp grass toward the dig site.

As we approached the covered area, something caught my eye—small sections of freshly turned earth.

Mr. Perry had clearly been at it again, though I tried to push aside the irritation that prickled at me.

We had more important matters to attend to, such as making the mosaic the talk of London after I submitted my research to the Society of Antiquaries and the Dilettanti.

A realist, my friend didn’t share my confidence that we would avoid Mr. Spencer’s determination to fight the land border issue.

Abigail propped her fists on her hips as she stared at the abbey across the fields.

“That’s if the new viscount doesn’t take Mr. Spencer’s advice.

I visited with Lucy early this morning at the abbey after dropping off a basket of eggs since her hens refuse to lay.

Apparently he’s been in a foul mood since his arrival.

She complained that he’s making them air out the unused wings of the abbey. ”

I had kept my disastrous encounter with Lord Hawthorn hushed, not daring to relive it aloud. But no one could deny the state of the abbey. “She shouldn’t complain,” I said, forcing a smile. “The abbey needs a good airing out.”

“It does. The Hawthorns have been a taint on our valley for many years. Brutes, the lot of them. Papa says the younger brother, the new lord’s father, often whipped his horse. He could hear the whinnies clear across the fields on a frosty morning. Only a cruel man hurts his animals.”

I winced, remembering how the young lord barreled down the road, headed straight for me. Peerage didn’t ensure that a man had honor. Or wisdom.

She continued, despite my silence. “I asked Lucy if he is anything like his father and uncle, but she’s too enamored with him to say anything bad.”

I kept my features neutral. Father always said a closed mouth caught nary a fly.

Abigail eyed me. “She swears she heard a floorboard creak in one of the cloister cells one afternoon when she was alone at the abbey. And then, one night, she heard sounds in the attic.”

I huffed as I folded my arms across my chest. “No doubt there is a bat caught in the eaves.”

Abigail chuckled. “I should have thought you of all people would enjoy a good gothic tale.”

“I enjoy a lurid tale or two, but rarely does life match the adventures caught within the pages of a book. It is far too complicated to end up wrapped in neat endings.” I must have sounded bitter, considering how Abigail arched her eyebrows at my declaration.

She waited, as if to hear an explanation for my mood, but I wasn’t about to describe why my leanings drifted away from the tenets of faith I once held dearly.

Abigail leaned closer to me, almost conspiratorial in her manner. “Will the vicar meet the new lord today? I should like to know both your opinions on the man.”

I fidgeted with the frayed ribbon of my bonnet. “I doubt anything could keep Father from meeting his patron. I suppose time will tell if the viscount is a decent sort.”

“Ah, of course.” Abigail shot me a sly look. “Why speak ill of the hand that feeds you?”

Yes, vicars needed the support of their benefactors, but I disliked her comment immensely for it sounded mercenary.

“Do you think we’ll find any more Roman coins like you and Daniel did?

” Abigail sounded wistful. “It feels so much quieter without him pestering us. If only I had known the value of those denarii.” Then, softer, under her breath.

“It’s a pity he never found something worthwhile to keep him tethered to Bramnor.

But your brother was always a free spirit. Not wanting marriage, I suppose.”

The raw ache in her voice brought a swell of sympathy. “At least we have this dig.”

She huffed a laugh, blinking rapidly, perhaps to hide the tears sheening in her eyes.

“And we have an upcoming dance this May, where you will no doubt charm all the eligible young men,” I added.

The May Day gathering, with dancing around the maypole, enticed many a village lass to wear her best. I suspected Abigail planned to flirt with as many eligible young men as possible.

A sigh escaped her. “I haven’t anything to wear. Nor the money to purchase a new gown.”

“I’m happy to lend you a dress and ribbons,” I hastened to say. I needed Abigail’s favor to continue excavating her father’s field.

She immediately perked up. “Would you? I’d be forever grateful.”

I had more than enough dresses, borrowing what I needed from my mother’s trunk. Mrs. Herriot proved a genius at thread and needle and enjoyed altering older gowns into beautiful creations I had no use for.

I started to fold back the canvas that was stretched over the site and pinned with heavy stakes to protect the priceless mosaic from ruin.

After it was situated out of our way, I surveyed the field.

To my dismay, there were even more new holes than I first realized.

Mr. Perry had taken it upon himself to do extra treasure hunting without my guidance.

Abigail winced when she caught my surprised expression. “Don’t blame Papa for his zeal. It is likely that he came at dawn to dig by himself.”

I mustered my firm voice. “Your father’s zeal is commendable, but you must inform him that he’ll damage the mosaics or shatter an ancient pot. Patience is a virtue. Such carelessness has ruined many a dig. I’ve heard horrible tales of men destroying statues with a shovel.”

Thankfully, Mr. Perry hadn’t disturbed the area around Bacchus. The mosaic appeared relatively untouched. However, at the next freshly dug hole, I sank to my knees, suddenly weak. Beneath the scattered mud were flashes of black and crimson.

While my irritation was still hot with Mr. Perry boldly seeking artifacts on his own—after all, it was his land—I couldn’t stifle the excitement rippling through my veins. He had dug deeper into the earth, and whatever was buried here was a good two feet lower than the other one.

The pit was modest, roughly five feet long and three feet wide, with the earth dug down to about two feet, revealing just a corner of the tiles lined with intricate patterns.

I looked over my shoulder at the canvas. “Go back to Bacchus,” I choked as I gestured to the tarp. “Count your steps carefully and come back to me.”

Abigail frowned, but she did as she was bid, wisps of her blonde hair escaping from a loose chignon. By the time she reached me, we had both counted eighty-three steps.

“This is no ordinary floor,” I gasped as I braced myself with my knuckles while tipping forward. “It sits significantly lower than our friend Bacchus. It might even be within a shallow pool. If so, we may uncover a villa encompassing much of your father’s field. A palace, if you will.”

“A pool?” Abigail knelt beside me to peer into the new hole. “How grand. It’s as lovely as a ballroom floor.”

My heart sang and all former anxieties were forgotten as I stepped into the space. In my eagerness, I had forgotten my trowel.

“Is it made of jewels?”

“No, it’s natural stone, pottery, brick, and tile. Sometimes the Romans used limestone or chalk for soft colors. Purbeck marble for blue and gray, and sandstone for reds and yellows.”

I paused, my excitement mounting as my fingers traced the new scrolling pattern. “I’ve even heard of gold being used.”

“La! Gold! We truly found gold at last!” she cried while clapping loudly until the sound echoed across the field.

I imagined Mr. Perry digging faster at the news and flinging shovels of mud. I could not deny the thrill of such a find—not if Father needed money to hire another Bow Street runner to locate Daniel—but caution must be observed.

“I doubt you’ll want to claw out that muck with your fingernails.” Abigail chuckled as she handed me the trowel. The brush followed, much to my gratitude, then a soft cloth.

“No, indeed,” I murmured. Brushing away the mud left only streaks, yet the face of a beautiful woman soon materialized with each brushstroke and a final rub of the cloth. Instead of Bacchus, Medusa’s cold eyes and snarling lips stared back at me.

Abigail leaned forward for a better look. “A monster?”

“Medusa, I believe. I’ve always pitied her. She became an object of men’s disdain and cruelty.”

Abigail wrinkled her nose as she stared at the Gorgon. “Do I detect a new lecture about to commence?”

Already warming to the subject, a wry chuckle broke free as I fumbled for my satchel and the sketchbook within so I could draw the writhing snakes sprouting from the outraged Gorgon.

“Come now, Abigail. Her story is worth studying since it involves the deepest of betrayals.”

A loud groan escaped my friend, but to her credit, she remained by my side with a tolerant twinkle in her eyes.

“Do tell since you will never let me rest until I hear the end of it.”

“Medusa served faithfully in the temple of Minerva the goddess of... chastity.”

Abigail’s neck turned a rosy hue at my explanation. I decided to spare my delicate friend the more sordid details. “In that temple, Medusa, who happened to be the most beautiful woman with curling blonde hair—”

“You lie,” Abigail interjected as she tugged on a springy curl escaping from her bonnet. Unlike my uncouth locks, which could only be termed a fright wig or frizzled , her hair matched the perfection of Greek tales.

“Nay, Ovid tells the story quite distinctly. She had blonde hair not unlike yours, although her looks could hardly compare to yours. Unfortunately, one of the gods desired her beauty for himself.”

“A male god cursed her?”

I regarded the mosaic, thinking of Neptune’s treachery with the beautiful maiden within Minerva’s temple. The tale was full of twisted motives and misplaced vengeance.

“Actually, it was Minerva who cursed Medusa with snakes for hair and eyes that turned people to stone when they met her gaze. Minerva also later sent a favorite hero, Perseus, to behead Medusa. He had no qualms using her asp-covered head as a weapon to quell monsters and men alike.” Poor Medusa, ruined and abandoned by the ones she had worshiped.

Used and destroyed by her fellow man who ought to have been her hero, instead of her conqueror.

My friend curled her upper lip, not so dissimilar from Medusa’s disdainful expression. “Why would a goddess not protect her own?”

A fair question. I had asked it of God when He took Mama away from me during that season we dubbed the Scarlet Spring when so many succumbed to sickness. He had not heard my cries for her when her fingers slipped from my grasp as she breathed her last. Nor had He saved my wayward brother.

Did God even exist in the shadows of so much pain and loss? Was He just as much a myth as my Greek and Roman legends? I didn’t know if I could trust a heavenly Father when my earthly father remained so distant.

Such traitorous, rebellious thoughts clogged my soul.

Before I could answer Abigail’s question, a pounding shook the ground, scattering debris upon the mosaic.

I leaped to my full height. Mr. Perry had dug deep enough into the ground that I stood lower than Abigail, but I saw enough to make my blood run cold.

“La! We have company!” Abigail struggled to stand, her slipper catching the edge of her gown.

The large black horse, the one I’d dreaded seeing again, galloped across the fields toward us. I spied the new lord astride, with two other men struggling to keep up.

Although my mind demanded that I should do something... Move ... I stood pinned to the spot, helpless as those massive hooves pounded closer and closer.