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Sheep bleated far off, their soon-to-be-shorn wool dotting the emerald-green landscape, and in front of me, rows of apple trees formed straight lines leading off to the moss-covered abbey in the distance.

“Look at the tiles, Bridget. So many broken ones. Do you think there are more? Who is he?” Abigail’s curiosity was stronger than her father’s nerves.

I took out my long-handled art brush and swept away the dirt. A roguish face emerged, the tiles of his ivy-crowned head cracked, yet still visible. Faded tones of red, gold, and green peeked through the grime. The workmanship was undeniable, the tiny tesserae fitted together with care.

Abigail leaned closer, studying the mosaic in silence while her father muttered a quiet prayer.

“Bacchus,” I proclaimed.

“Eh?” Mr. Perry squinted as he bent lower to study the mosaic partially hidden within the ground.

“Bacchus. The god of drink and desire and...” I pressed my lips together.

Most people wouldn’t consider Bacchus appropriate knowledge for a young lady.

No need to scandalize Mr. Perry any further, especially as I was the vicar’s daughter.

Abigail winked at me, her rosy mouth turning into a saucy curve.

I crouched lower, my heart racing as I stared at the mosaic.

Something more lay here—just beneath the surface.

The tiles were worn and cracked, but the way they stretched beyond the dirt hinted at a design far grander than the small patch Mr. Perry had uncovered.

A larger piece of the past, waiting to be unearthed.

I could scarcely believe my eyes. Daniel and I had always assumed more artifacts lay within the Bramnor vicinity after I had discovered the Roman coins on the very edge of Hawthorn land.

The advertisement in my latest antiquities journal came to mind, along with the call for submissions of research. Fifty pounds would prove more than enough since most Bow Street runners collected a guinea a day.

I cleared my throat, tucking away painful thoughts of Daniel, who would have so enjoyed this cheeky fellow’s grin. “It’s a Roman god, Mr. Perry, and your field sits upon the ruins of something large, I suspect. An ancient villa, perhaps part of an atrium or another grand room.”

Mr. Perry shifted nervously, muttering something under his breath. “First the crops, now this... It’s those curses again, I swear it. That estate of Hawthorn’s has always brought bad luck to Bramnor.”

I glanced at Abigail, raising an eyebrow. “Curses?” I asked lightly, trying to keep the mood from turning too ominous. Father had alluded to the former lord’s melancholic spirit and penchant for liquor, but as a vicar, Father also never broke a confidence. And I had never cared for gossip.

Mr. Perry waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, the old tales, Miss Littleton. Nothing good comes from this estate, and with the old lord’s passing and this ghoul on my land? How can I remain on my farm when I can scarcely earn enough to put food on the table?”

I shook my head, refusing to be swayed by superstitions surrounding the reclusive old Lord Hawthorn. “It’s history. Not a curse. And this find might bring you much-needed funds since it’s on your land.”

Mr. Perry spat on the ground. “Nay. What man alive has time for such fancies? I’ve got a daughter’s dowry to manage. I must plant the field, not dig up this cursed tile or... atroo? Aloo?” He coughed into his fist, his weathered cheeks blooming red.

“Atrium,” I supplied as I brushed my gloves to remove some of the dirt.

“It was the middle room in a grand mansion with an inner pool to collect water. Only a wealthy Roman would have had access to such a floor. If you excavate properly, you might uncover a statue or pottery you can sell to a museum or private collection. The highest circles collect Roman and Grecian art.”

“Oh, do listen, Papa. An atrium sounds delightful!” Abigail exclaimed as she gestured to the tiles. Her blue eyes glowed.

“Bah!” Mr. Perry nudged at the dirt with the patched heel of his leather boot.

Bacchus continued to leer at us with a knowing grin. I couldn’t let him hide any longer. Not while I devoured every book I could find regarding Greek and Roman history, thanks to Daniel’s encouragement. For as long as I could remember, I’d dreamed of uncovering artifacts.

I turned to Mr. Perry. “Allow me to excavate. I promise to include you in the accolades. I simply want the opportunity to document and catalog the mosaic and submit my findings to Archeologia . They are offering fifty pounds to the best discovery. And whatever I find will belong to you. Bacchus, demon or not, might prove priceless.”

“You need the money?” He frowned.

I nodded, ashamed to admit it, but tithes had been meager in recent years due to the financial strain in Bramnor. “I must resume searching for Daniel, and we have exhausted our savings.”

Abigail crossed her arms as she cast a pointed stare at her father.

“We must help the good vicar and his daughter. Besides, think of the fame when the papers declare you found lost treasure! Consider our family and how we might benefit. Why, we might even travel to Bath, and I—” She bit her lip to stop her words, but I knew what she’d almost said.

For the past several months she had spoken of almost nothing but her desire for a season—a proper season, with balls and gowns and maybe a dance or two with a broad-shouldered soldier.

Or maybe even a squire. Half of the unmarried local farmers, of which there weren’t many, fluttered around her as helpless as flies drawn to a picnic lunch.

Mr. Perry lifted his leg as if to kick aside the soon-to-be mud. I wasn’t certain if he intended to further uncover Bacchus or destroy him.

“No!” I placed a warning hand on his arm, stopping him mid-step. “This is an endeavor for a careful scholar, for a...” A man, my mind immediately supplied. I shook my head as soon as the thought took form. No, I couldn’t let such a discovery go unattended.

Tomorrow I would bring a sketchbook and copy the Roman god at my feet and draft a series of notes for a paper. But would the societies reject me as before?

How unfair that the word dilettare , which meant “to take delight in,” could only apply to men and not to me.

Father liked to remind me that I, as a vicar’s daughter, however admirable that might be, had no place pestering men who insisted on studying pagan artifacts.

But I was determined to try again and make the antiquity societies take notice.

I turned to Mr. Perry, resolve flaring in my chest. “What you need, Mr. Perry, is a lady of quality and intellect. Look no further,” I declared. “Abigail and I shall handle your monster for you, but not with your boot or shovel.”

Before Mr. Perry could respond, the sound of hooves pounding against the dirt interrupted us. Abigail stiffened beside me, her hand clutching her bonnet as we all turned toward the pitted main road.

Emerging from the thick brush, a thin, gangly figure on horseback approached. His face was lined with age, a hooked nose casting a shadow over his pinched expression. The horse trotted toward us, stopping a few feet away with a snort.

Mr. Spencer, the steward of Hawthorn Abbey.

His sharp eyes darted between us and the excavation site at the very edge of Mr. Perry’s field, where the land sloped toward the abbey, no more than a quarter of a mile away.

Mr. Spencer pushed up the brim of his hat. “Pushing into Hawthorn boundaries, again, aren’t we? Don’t you dare be digging posts to fence in your sheep, man. I won’t allow it.”

“This is my land, you toothless gaffer,” Mr. Perry snarled as he placed his hands on his hips. “You are wrong on the boundary lines and you have no proof. Show me the papers that say I’m in the wrong.”

An old feud simmered between Hawthorn Abbey’s steward and Mr. Perry. The former lord, too lost in his cups, had neglected his affairs, and Mr. Perry, unable to read, lacked the proof to settle his claims. An uneasy peace persisted, stirred only by the steward’s overzealousness.

Mr. Spencer narrowed his eyes as he shifted his weight on the horse. “The new Lord Hawthorn is on his way, and this land dispute will be settled soon enough.”

My heart gave a small jolt. Father had mentioned the new lord’s arrival in passing, but it had seemed a distant, almost trivial matter—until now. The idea of someone new, with fresh authority and a claim to these contested lands, suddenly felt more real, more urgent.

Mr. Perry’s face drained of color. “The new lord?”

“Aye,” Mr. Spencer confirmed. “Soon. And I’ll warn you—the new viscount won’t take kindly to any digging or trespassing. Best you pack up and head back home before you find yourselves in more trouble than you bargained for.”

Instead of retreating, I straightened my back, determination swelling in my chest. “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Spencer. But the former lord never took action on those threats. Why would the new lord prove any different?”

Mr. Spencer’s thin lips curled into a tight smile. “We’ll see, Miss Littleton. We’ll see.”

With that, he tugged on the reins, turning his horse with a sharp jerk before riding off, leaving us standing in the field.

I exchanged a glance with Abigail, her face pale. But I felt something else stirring within me—something far more powerful than the fear of curses or lords. It was the pull of discovery, the thrill of history waiting to be unearthed.

Beside me, Mr. Perry scowled. “I won’t be told what to do on my own property.”

I turned back to the mosaic. Bacchus stared up at me from the ground, his smirk daring me to continue, just like Daniel’s wink when he was about to embark on something rebellious.

The land had been waiting for centuries to give up its secrets, and I intended to uncover every last one. My brother would want me to. Whatever the new lord might say or do, neither I nor the Perry family had felt hope for a long while.

I would not abandon it so lightly.