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The Old Bull Inn was quite a different place on a Saturday morning than on a Saturday night. Thankfully. Eva was harried enough without having to elbow past patrons, and this early in the day it smelled of freshly washed tables instead of spilled ale. She shifted on the chair, a yawn stretching her jaw, her backside cramped from sitting there the past fifteen minutes. After ten full days of scrambling to pull together a fundraiser worthy of inspiring generous donations, she was weary to the bone.

And dwelling on her money matters didn’t help. Though she pestered Bram daily, there was still no answer on the sale of the relics they’d brought to Cambridge. She’d even suggested they bring another load, this time to the Fitzwilliam Museum instead of the college. He’d been too preoccupied with the dig, though, almost in a frenzy to uncover some proof of Caelum Academia—and she didn’t blame him, especially since his job might depend upon it.

The kitchen door swung open and out stepped Miss Thompson, the Old Bull Inn’s head cook and begrudging miracle worker. Her flour-dusted apron left a sprinkling of white on the floorboards as she strode like a burly stevedore ready to heft a mountain of crates. Truly, with the size of the woman’s biceps and meaty jowls, she looked more suited to a dockyard than a kitchen. Eva would have much preferred to have hired the tried-and-tested Mrs. Havery over at the Coach and Horses Inn, but she had already booked a private dinner for the same night as the gala.

Eva rose. “Thank you for meeting with me, Miss Thompson. Being that it is only a week away from the relief society’s gala, I wished to see how the menu is coming along and that everything on your end is running smoothly.”

“Humph.” The woman planted fists on her hips, her jaw moving as if she chewed on a tough old biscuit. “I’m not sure why ye think I have time for a silly meeting such as this, Miss Inman. I’ve a kitchen to run, ye know, one that’ll soon open for the lunch hour, so I’ll thank ye to be quick about it.”

“This should not take long. The gala is crucial for the society’s fundraising efforts, so I merely need to ensure everything is perfect.”

“Perfect? Ha!” She spit the word like a bitter almond, derision sharpening her tone. “Easy for ye to say, sittin’ in yer cozy parlour up in yer fancy house. Ye have no idea what it’s like tryin’ to make magic happen in a cramped kitchen with a staff who wouldn’t know a mushroom from a potato.”

Eva bit her lip to keep from smirking. If only the woman could see the buckets in the back half of the house catching water whenever it rained. “I am sure you suffer many trials, Miss Thompson, but if you would not mind keeping this to the menu? You are, after all, in a hurry.”

“Aye.” She finally dropped her fists. “About that menu of yers, I’ve made a bit of a change. A hearty tongue and ale soup should be just the thing for yer little”—she swirled a podgy finger in the air—“soiree.”

Eva pressed her hand against her belly. Just thinking about serving such a common meal made her ill. “But that is not what we discussed. I ordered chicken with a garlic-cream sauce.”

“And I landed a great bargain on tongue.” She folded her arms, her ample bosom nearly spilling out the top of her apron. “I should think ye’d be glad fer a savings. This is Royston, not Buckingham Palace.”

“Even so, Miss Thompson, I insist you remain with the chicken. I intend to impress the guests with an elegant experience, not a night out at the pub. No offense.”

A magnificent scowl etched deep lines into the fleshy part of Miss Thompson’s forehead, casting a shadow over her narrowed eyes. “Then I suppose ye’ll not want the croquembouche swapped out for spotted dick either.”

Eva choked, immediately turning the horrified sound into a polite cough. “No. As I said, please stick to the dishes we agreed upon. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Fine, Miss Inman. Have it yer way. But mark my words, ye’ll be singing a different tune when the guests are clamoring for a taste o’ my tongue and ale. Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I don’t have the luxury of standing around discussing lavish menus.” She turned on her heel, a huff puffing from her nostrils.

“I shall expect the food delivered by six o’clock next Saturday. Thank you, Miss Thompson.”

The woman waved her thick fingers in the air.

Eva frowned. Oh, that Mrs. Havery had not been booked!

But there was nothing to be done for it now. Gripping her reticule, Eva strolled down Market Hill toward Campbell and Sons Press. Halfway there, she paused in front of a window with a dazzling jade green evening gown for sale. Longing welled from her toes to her head. How lovely it would be to wear such a dream to the gala instead of the brown gown she’d worn two years previously.

Refusing to sigh, she marched the rest of the way to Campbell’s. She pushed open the door to a small office, the scent of ink and paper thick on the air.

“Good morning, Mr. Campbell.” She smiled as she approached the counter. “I am here to pick up the pamphlets for the fundraiser.”

A fellow as slender as the metal ruler sticking out of his apron pocket faced her, a smudge of ink near his upper lip vying for attention alongside a dark moustache. “Ah, good day to you, Miss Inman. I’ve got your order all ready. If you’ll wait here, I’ll be back in a moment.”

He opened a side door that let out the clack and hammer sounds of printing presses, then disappeared just as the front door opened and in bustled Mrs. Mortimer.

“Miss Inman!” The woman beamed as she approached, the cloying scent of violets a sickening cloud around her. “You have saved me a trip to your house.”

“Oh?” Eva retreated a step. A noble effort, but one that didn’t do much to lessen the flowery reek. “Did you wish to speak with me?”

“I do.” The reverend’s sister pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed her brow. “I have found a suitable position for you.”

“I do not recall mentioning I was looking for one.” Indeed, she’d not even told Lottie she must find some sort of employment if she couldn’t pay the tax bill.

“No matter.” With a flourish, Mrs. Mortimer tucked the handkerchief into her pocket. “Mrs. Eleanor Pempernill of Pempernill Hall is looking for a traveling companion. The old dear wishes to go abroad, you see. Tuscany, I believe. I spoke to her of your many admirable qualities, so all you need do is apply to her by post.”

“Travel abroad?” Eva grabbed hold of the counter, shocked at the thought. “I could not possibly leave my sister. Surely you must know that.”

“But do you not see, my dear? This would be a prime op portunity for you to send Miss Penny to school while you gain some worldly exposure that I daresay will be good for you.” With far too much familiarity, Mrs. Mortimer reached out and straightened Eva’s hat, her lips pursing. “Why, a young lady such as yourself ought not be cooped up way out in the country all alone. Who knows? You may meet some dashing count or baron, or mayhap even a prince, who will sweep you off your feet.”

Bah. The thought of meeting any man other than Bram didn’t interest her in the least, and she didn’t care two figs for traveling the world. The only thing of value in Mrs. Mortimer’s speech was the point she made about Penny, for more and more often she did think it would be good for her sister to go to school.

She traced her finger along the edge of the counter. “How long does Mrs. Pempernill expect to be in Tuscany?”

“I cannot say for certain, but I should think at least the better part of a year. Tut-tut!” Mrs. Mortimer wagged her finger in the air. “I see the objection in the downturn of your mouth. Naturally, you and your sister shall correspond, so there is no need to plague yourself about Miss Penny being heartsick over your absence. I should think it will be a growing experience for both of you. Please, my dear, at least consider this opportunity, for I don’t know of any others. Many a young woman would jump at the chance.”

Eva gnawed on her fingernail, chewing on the information. It might not hurt to at least inquire about the details of Mrs. Pempernill’s employment offer in case Trinity College didn’t agree to purchase those relics and she couldn’t afford to pay the property taxes. Eva had never traveled any farther than Cambridge, and Tuscany did have its charms, or so she’d heard. She could put Penny in the boarding school that was so enthusiastically encouraged by Mrs. Mortimer. After all, her sister had hungrily been learning so much from Bram and the students that she truly would relish the hope of getting a proper education.

And as Mrs. Mortimer had pointed out, there weren’t any other opportunities out there.

Bram leaned over his uncle’s shoulder, eyes narrowing on the bone needle sitting atop the man’s upturned palm. A cool morning breeze wafted through the canvas flap of the work tent. Winter would soon call in earnest, but thankfully they’d had a somewhat balmy reprieve from the recent storm, and the snow had completely melted.

Uncle Pendleton glanced up at him. “What do you think, Professor?”

“I think your assessment is one hundred percent correct. That does appear to be a second-century—”

A harsh grunt of pain came from outside, followed by an anguished cry for help.

Bram took off running, heart in his throat. He should have been out with the students instead of tarrying over his uncle’s latest find. His boots sank into the damp earth with each pounding step, the cries of pain growing louder as he closed in on the huddle of young men at the far side of the field.

Barker was on the ground. Mostly. One of his legs was buried knee deep, the other bent beneath him. Hammet and Wimble each had hold of one of his arms, yanking him upward—and with each pull Barker let out an unearthly yowl.

“Stop tugging on him, lads!” Bram pulled alongside them. “Just support him.”

Sidestepping Hammet, he crouched beside Barker just as Uncle Pendleton wheezed behind him. “Easy now, Barker. We will get you out of here, I promise. Where is the worst pain? Foot, ankle, shin?”

Barker winced. “It’s my ankle. Feels like it’s caught on something.”

Uncle Pendleton laid a hand on Bram’s shoulder, speaking for his ears alone. “We don’t want to exacerbate his injury, yet at the same time we cannot afford to damage any relics that may be down there.”

Bram rubbed the back of his neck as he formulated a plan. Uncle was right. If there were antiquities in that hole, tearing into it would damage the goods. But neither would he subject Barker to further suffering. He glanced at the sky, as if some miraculous answer might be found amongst the gathering clouds. Fabulous. Rain would only compound the problem. He had to do something. Now.

He turned to the other two students. “Let him go, boys. Wimble, grab the long shovel from the work tent. Hammet, get the rope off the wagon.”

As they scrambled to do his bidding, Bram once again squatted next to Barker. “Tell me what happened.”

“I was just digging with my hand trowel, Professor, nothing out of the ordinary, when I decided to explore this pile of rock and scrub.” His curly hair ruffled wild in the breeze, the tips of his ears as red as his cheeks.

Bram topped the man’s head with his own hat for some warmth. “Then what?”

Barker leaned back on his elbows. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure what happened. It was like the earth just opened its maw and took a bite of me. I couldn’t pull out my leg, so I called the lads to help ... and so you found me.”

“Hmm.” Bram’s mind raced as he reached for Barker’s forgotten trowel lying on the rocky soil. Perhaps if he poked around a bit, he’d find the source of the strange sinkhole. He could only pray it was a natural formation and not another act of the cursed acres or, worse, a saboteur.

Uncle Pendleton pawed away some rubble on the other side of Barker’s leg. Shortly thereafter, the other two students returned.

Bram peered up at them. “Hammet, tie that rope around Barker’s waist in case we need to pull him out quickly. Wimble, help me loosen this top layer of soil. Take over where Professor Pendleton has been working. And Professor Pendleton—”

“No need to tell me what to do.” His uncle straightened, pressing his hand to the small of his back with a slight groan. “I shall keep a sharp eye for structural instability lest we all end up in the depths of hades.”

They set to work, carefully, methodically, and after an eternity, Bram finally reached the source of Barker’s predicament—two large rocks pinning his calf in place.

“Egad!” Hammet gawked at the exposed rocks. “How are you going to get his leg out of there?”

“Amputation?” Wimble chuckled.

“Now see here!” Barker bellowed. “I will not allow anyone to—”

“Calm down. Wimble is merely jesting.” Bram shot Wimble a noxious look before dragging his gaze back to the rocks. What were they to do? He’d never had a student caught in such a predicament before ... hold on. Not a student, maybe, but ... He turned to his uncle. “I realize this situation is a bit different than the wedged urn at Verulamium, but what do you think?”

Uncle Pendleton nodded. “Indeed. A pickax will be just the thing.”

“Wimble, fetch the pickax and a pry bar.”

Hammet’s brows shot to the now-sullen sky.

Barker pushed up as far as his jammed leg allowed, bits of gravel beneath him flying from the sudden movement. “What the blazes are you intending? How is mutilating my leg any better than amputation?”

“Be still.” Bram rested a light touch on the young man’s arm. “We shall have you out in no time with legs and feet attached.”

“Caw!” Hammet laughed. “If only the other lads were here to see you caught like a fat rat in a trap.”

“That’s enough ribbing.” Uncle Pendleton frowned. “Or I shall have you write a ten-page essay on the proper manner of behaviour at a dig site—in Latin.”

Hammet’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

Despite his pain, Barker flashed a smile.

Wimble returned with the tools.

“Very good. I’ll take that pickax. Now, Wimble, stand opposite me with the pry bar. Hammet, hold my coat in front of Barker’s face and see that you do not watch what I am doing either. I will not have either of you taking a flying piece of granite to the eye.” He handed over his coat. “Ready?”

Everyone nodded.

With carefully aimed swings, Bram chipped at the compacted earth by the side of the rock, working his way down to find an edge. When he did, he straightened, breathing hard. “Try that pry bar, Wimble.”

Crouching, the young man planted the tip of the iron and gave a great heave. Nothing happened.

So Bram went at it again.

And again.

Increment by increment.

Until finally, the rock budged. Not much, but enough to notice. Bram gave it a few more swings. “All right, Hammet, I think I am finished chipping rock. Try gently easing out Barker’s leg on the next pry.” He nodded at Wimble. “Give it your all, lad.”

Wimble strained.

Hammet pulled steadily, Barker groaning as his leg slid out inch by inch until at last his foot cleared the hole.

“Oof.” Barker rubbed his ankle, colour draining from his normally ruddy cheeks.

Bram dropped to his side, as did the other students. Uncle Pendleton bent as far as he could with his sore back. All of them peppered Barker with questions.

“Have you any feeling in your foot?”

“Is anything broken?”

“Can you move?”

Slowly, Barker extended his leg and circled his foot. A little stiff, but it rotated, thank God! Bram hefted a huge sigh of relief.

Uncle Pendleton patted the young man on the shoulder.

The other two lads threw their hats in the air with a loud whoop.

“What sort of unorthodox site protocol is this?”

Everyone froze at the indictment.

Bram pivoted to face Professor Grimwinkle, the man’s lips pressed so tightly they looked like two thin earthworms. Blast. Of all the times for the department head to show up. “Barker here was merely testing for soil composition.”

“With his foot?” Grimwinkle tucked his orange-herringbone scarf tighter at his neck. What was he doing here? Clearly he hadn’t dressed for a dig site in those ridiculous clogs of his.

“That’s right, sir.” Barker pushed up to his feet, though leaned most of his weight on only one boot. “However, I have since learned from Professors Webb and Pendleton that I shouldn’t have gone about it in such a way.”

Bram glanced at the students. “Put away the tools, lads, then take an early lunch break while Professor Pendleton and I meet with Professor Grimwinkle.” He swept his hand toward the work tent. “Shall we?”

His uncle fell into step on the other side of Grimwinkle. “What brings you all this way, Professor?”

Bram cast the man a sideways glance. Hopefully he was here about Eva’s relics.

“A few reasons.” Grimwinkle lifted his trouser hems to step over a ridge of dirt. “First and foremost, I came to check on the welfare of the students. I wouldn’t wish any mishaps to harm them.”

Bram clenched his jaw. No doubt he and his uncle would be written up for endangering the life of Jonathan Barker or some other such nonsense.

Uncle Pendleton let out a merry laugh. “As you saw, they are a hardy set of lads having the time of their lives.”

“Mmm.” Grimwinkle grumbled ominously. “I wonder if Mr. Barker will say the same when he wakes with a bruised ankle tomorrow morning. You’re going to have to shore up that area of soil before any further exploration. I will not have Trinity students at risk of harm.”

Bram turned away his face lest Grimwinkle witness the roll of his eyes. Did the man truly think Bram would endanger one of the young men on purpose? “I will personally see to it, Professor Grimwinkle.” He opened the flap to the tent and dusted off the nearest folding chair. “Have a seat, Professor.”

“No, I prefer to see what you are working on.” He strode straight to the relic table and gave it a cursory glance before turning to Uncle Pendleton. “No grail?”

Uncle lifted his chin. “Not yet.”

“Nor any proof of your Caelum Academia?”

So that’s what the man was truly here for, making sure his plan was on track to oust Uncle Pendleton at the upcoming board meeting. Bram cracked his knuckles. They had to find some proof—and soon—not only to persuade Grimwinkle they had found Caelum Academia but to sway the board as well. “We have not uncovered anything conclusive, but as you can see, we are making fine progress.”

Grimwinkle squinted at the bone needles. “For a regular dig, I suppose I could grant you as much, but this is no ordinary dig, which brings me to my other reason for coming here today.” He turned his back to the antiquities, facing Bram and his uncle with a dip to his manicured eyebrows. “The review board will meet on December thirteenth at ten in the morning. However, I shall expect you to have the students returned by the twelfth so they may get their affairs in order before leaving on holiday break. Until then, try to keep the students in one piece. Good day.”

He stalked toward the door flap, leaving Bram and his uncle to gape at each other. They’d both known the time was drawing near, but this just seemed so final.

Bram dashed after the man. “Professor Grimwinkle, one more thing if you don’t mind.”

He glanced over his shoulder, not loosening his grip on the saddle. “Yes?”

“About Miss Inman’s antiquities. Have you met with the budget committee to set a purchase price for the items?”

“I have.”

“And?”

Grimwinkle launched up to seat himself, his horse bobbing its head at the sudden movement. With a great sniff, the professor looked down his nose at Bram. “We are in negotiations. I suspect you’ll have an answer when you return to Cambridge. Good day, Professor.”

Grimwinkle wheeled the horse in a tight circle.

Bram’s gut turned as well. Eva couldn’t wait that long for tax money. Either he must bring up the prospect of taking another load to Cambridge—and this time bringing it to the Fitzwilliam Museum—or he had to figure out another way for her to pay her debt.

He watched Grimwinkle ride off, a scowl tightening his brow. For good or for ill, December thirteenth would be a providential day indeed.