“We wore sheets and lived in old buildings with no air-conditioning,” Clio went on. “Most of the people there did it so they could drink wine and be naked a lot.”
A giggle from Elsa.
“Every day I had to take Greek lessons. My teacher used to walk around because he thought that was more classical. So we’d have to walk for miles in the blinding heat, over rocks, with these slippery leather things on our feet. It was horrible. The only girl there my age was Hungarian, and the only way we could communicate was by throwing raw olives at each other. Mostly, I just tried to keep my sheet from falling off and avoid the tourists.”
Her audience was enjoying her story. Her misery did at least make for good conversation.
“After about a week,” she said, “my mom had had enough. We moved to a hotel, and I continued Greek lessons on the balcony, and we had room service and fluffy towels and things like that. But my dad—he was always trying to expand my horizons. So he signed us both up for diving lessons.”
“Did you like diving?” Elsa asked. “I don’t know if I would.”
“Well, at first it was kind of annoying because there’s a lot you have to learn. You have to take classes, learn about dive tables and decompression sickness and things like that. And getting into a wet suit isn’t fun. But once they finally let you go in the water, it’s kind of amazing.”
“So you’re a proper diver?” Elsa asked.
“I have my card,” Clio said. The champagne made her feel like she could go on talking forever. “It’s not that hard to learn. I’m a pretty good swimmer. Plus my dad was really serious about it. It was his new thing. We got lots of training, more than just the basics. I don’t even know if I was allowed to do some of the stuff we were doing. Anyway, we were diving one afternoon. There’s a marked-off diving area, but my dad saw these things he thought were columns. There’s a lot of stuff under the water there to look at. So we left the area and swam out into the open water. Not far. Maybe fifty feet out or something. We got to the spot, and it wasn’t columns. It was just some rocks. My dad gave me the signal that he was going up. I followed him. You have to go up in stages so that you don’t get decompression sickness. So I was ascending with him. We were maybe ten feet apart. I got to the surface first, and there it was.”
“The boat?” asked Elsa. She had grabbed a handful of Aidan’s jeans.
“We were in the wrong place,” Clio said. “But the guy who was driving had been drinking, and he was going way too fast. I don’t remember it all that well. I know I tried to get out of the way. I think I did, sort of. It would have been worse if I had been right in front of it. I don’t remember getting hit, but my dad says I flew pretty far. Maybe fifteen feet.”
“Oh my God,” Elsa said. “Clio! You could have been killed.”
“Yeah. That’s what they kept saying at the time, that I could have been killed. I was really lucky. It messed up my arm really badly, though. It was broken in eight places. I had to have physical therapy for a year. But it’s okay now.”
Elsa and Aidan were quiet for a second, both had their hands on the single mug of champagne. Clio was surprised to see that she had drained her cup again. She held it out for a refill. The bottle was empty. Elsa got up and grabbed the second one.
Suddenly, Clio was very tired. The jet lag had come fast, egged on by the champagne. She pulled herself up off the floor, taking her mug with her. She flopped down at the top of the bed and propped herself up on the pillows.
Aidan turned around and looked at her.
“Where does the tattoo come in?” he asked. All snarkiness had dropped away.
“Good question,” Elsa said, popping the second bottle. More foam came gushing out, spilling onto the carpet, then across the bed as Elsa leaned across it to fill Clio’s mug. Elsa stayed down on her stomach, clutching the bottle in a two-handed grip, like it was a lit candle, looking at Clio over it.
“We went to Japan the next year for a big games conference,” Clio said. “Games and comic books, they tend to bring out the same people. So a famous manga artist was there. I loved his stuff. I met him, he saw the scar. I told him the story. And he drew over it because I told him I hated it so much. My dad let me get it tattooed in. My mom nearly killed him.”
Clio rubbed at the tattoo thoughtfully. Elsa, seeing that she had finished, pointed to Aidan.
“It’s your turn to tell a story,” she said. “We’re the girls. This is our room. We get to say who has to tell the stories.”
“I don’t have any stories,” he said.
“You’re such a liar,” Elsa said, rolling onto her back and smiling. “Story. Now.”
“About what?”
“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Elsa said. “Were you ever in an exciting accident?”
“I fell off my bike once,” he said. “I chipped a tooth.”
“That’s not very good,” she said, making a face.
“My life isn’t as exciting,” he said, looking down at Elsa’s sprawled figure. Elsa was good—absolutely natural, just being herself—and yet she was so clinically hot. That was what sexy meant. Clio had never really seen it before. Not super-skinny. Not throwing herself at anyone. Just curvy, natural, laughing, Swedish-English, kind of drunk…Like someone who had wandered out of some movie from the 1940s. Clio wasn’t sure if she should be taking notes or giving up. It was too much for her head. How was it she had lived this long without being kissed? Why was she like herself and Elsa like Elsa?
Ollie…she still hadn’t gotten in touch with him. Oh, right. There was a big reason.
“You have a computer,” she said to Aidan.
“Yes, I do,” he said, taking his eyes away from Elsa.
“I need to send an e-mail.”
He sighed and set his mug on the floor.
“Nothing is set up,” he said. “I should get back to that.”
“What are we doing here, anyway?” she asked. “What’s all that stuff for?”
“You’re going to have to ask your dad,” he said. “I just work here.”
“Oh, come on, Aidan,” Elsa said. “Just tell her.”
“Tell her yourself.”
“I have no idea. My mum doesn’t tell me a thing. What’s the big bloody secret? My mum and her drama.”
“My dad and his missions,” Clio said.
“Come on, Aidan,” Elsa said. “You can tell us.”
The sight of Elsa rolling on the bed, begging for information that he didn’t want to give, was apparently a little too much for Aidan. He stood up.
“I should go,” he said. “Thanks for the champagne. Let me know when it’s caviar night.”
When he had gone, Elsa rolled over and laughed into the comforter.
“A good start,” she remarked, picking up her head. “A fun game. Just enough to play with. Good-looking, but a little slow with the social skills.”
Clio felt her eyes starting to close. The combined effects of the champagne and the jet lag had finally landed on her.
“I think I’m tired…” she said.
“Oh yes,” Elsa said with a laugh. “You’re going out. Lightweight.”
Clio was vaguely aware of her shoes coming off and the comforter being folded over her, and then a dreamless sleep swept over her like a wave.
* * *
London, November 1897
It was a cold, fine autumn night. The sky had gone a deep purple just before dark, and the lamps had just been lit along Russell Square. Marguerite Magwell put her hand against a pane of the glass and felt the chill through it. She pressed harder, pressed her nose to the window, wanting to drink in the feeling as much as she could before turning back to the warmth of the room.
She heard a bustle in the hall, a few last-minute injunctions to the cook. Marguerite turned her eyes to the side and watched in the reflection as her aunt came into the parlor. Since her father’s death, her aunt had lived with her. For many years, Marguerite had been the only woman in the house. She hadn’t
had to deal with feminine fussiness. She could read and study without being scolded about her posture or her clothes; she could wear her hair loose without comment. Not anymore.
“There you are, dear,” her aunt said. “Cook said that the bird is just ready and that it’s a lovely thing. Such a big goose for three people.”
Marguerite turned from where she was holding back the curtain.
“The staff can have the rest for their supper. Everyone deserves a good meal on a brisk night like this.”
“Well, they’ll enjoy that,” her aunt said. “You’re so like your father. He used to say the same thing. Has Mr. Hill come yet?”
“Not yet,” Marguerite said. “I’m sure he’s coming straight from the museum.”
“Such a hardworking fellow. Oh, I do like him, Marguerite. And your father liked him.”
“I know,” Marguerite said.
“I think it is quite right of you to have him to dinner. I want to believe that this is a sign that you plan on going back out into the world. He’s shy but so fond of you. But then, who isn’t? And that dress! So few girls can wear black, but you can.”
Marguerite automatically looked down at her dress, one of the many black dresses she had worn since her father’s death. The view when she looked down was always black. Her aunt was just trying to be encouraging; it wasn’t that nice.
“It’s so very striking against your hair!” her aunt went on. “Although, my dear, I think it’s time you started going back to some regular colors. For someone your age, it’s not expected to wear mourning forever. It’s understood that you have to meet young men, that you need dresses for dancing. Maybe a blue? A lovely deep blue.”
Marguerite had much bigger ideas than blue dresses that looked good against her hair, but her aunt would learn that soon enough.
The bell sounded in the hall.
“There he is,” her aunt said. “Let’s just fix you now, dear. You’re a little bit out of place.”
Marguerite lifted her chin patiently as her aunt adjusted the lace around her neck and tucked a few stray pieces of her hair back into position.
Jonathan appeared at the door. Tall. Too thin. Very bright and extremely shy around her. He had such a lovable way. It was a shame. He interested her. He was the only man who ever had. But she had to stay with her plan.
“Cook says everything is ready,” her aunt said.
But instead of walking toward the dining room, Marguerite stood and went over to a table by the window. There was a piece of red felt laid over it and a collection of stones and papyrus fragments on top.
“Did my father ever show you these?” she asked Jonathan, spreading them out.
“No,” he said, following her. “I don’t think so.”
He picked one up and looked it at closely.
“I’ve seen this script before,” he said. “We have a few examples of it at the museum. None on display, since we don’t know what it is. Where did he get these?”
“He received artifacts with writing on them from time to time. Most he could identify. These baffled him. Complex. Highly organized. A very distinct grammar. And do you want to know the strangest part?”
Jonathan nodded, his eyes fixed on hers.
“They are from everywhere,” Marguerite said. “These from South America. Some from India and Egypt. Two from Japan. How can this consistent writing be from so many places?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Here is another strange fact. Almost all of these were found along coastlines or in the water itself. What would you make of that?”
“There are a number of possibilities,” he said.
“What about flooding?” she asked. “The water is hiding something from us, something we cannot access, and it occasionally throws clues our way simply to taunt us. What if the people who made this language were drowned?”
“A flood would certainly have changed the landscape,” Jonathan said. “And a flood could have destroyed the people who made this language.”
She opened a drawer in the front of the table and removed a letter, passing it to Jonathan.
“On the morning of my father’s voyage out of Naples, he sent this to me. It arrived a week after I heard of his death. I’ve only recently been able to bring myself to open it. But when I did, I found something of extreme importance. I want you to read it.”
Marguerite carefully set the paper in his hand. She watched Jonathan’s eyes run down the page and take in the contents.
“I really think we should go to dinner,” her aunt said. She wasn’t understanding this talk of floods, and she certainly didn’t want Marguerite dwelling on her father’s death tonight. “You know how cook gets. The last time we were late, she threw a spoon at Jenkins.”
Jonathan didn’t seem to hear any of this, or at least he didn’t seem to care about Jenkins and the spoon at the moment. He was staring at the letter.
“A vast, ancient society, lost under the waters,” Marguerite said.
There was a thoughtful silence, filled only by the smell of the waiting goose and Marguerite’s aunt’s pained looks.
“I asked you here tonight because I had something to tell you,” she said. “I have to finish what he started. I leave in a week’s time for Pompeii.”
* * *
At Sea
Clio woke up when the world shook. She looked up from her fluffy pocket of comforter. There was bouncing. Big bouncing.
This was no good. She wanted the world to be silent and still so that her head would stop spinning. She looked to her right. All she could see was a little tuft of blond hair coming up out of the folds of a second comforter.
She turned the other way and was blinded by a powerful bolt of sunlight coming in through the little window. She shielded her eyes and slipped out of the bed, sinking into the decadent carpet to look out at the view. Italy seemed to be gone, replaced by sapphire-colored water that stretched in all directions. They were moving through it very quickly, pounding the waves into submission with sheer velocity.
Clio took a quick inventory of herself and her situation. She wasn’t exactly sick, like she had been after the margarita mix. She just wasn’t feeling great. It felt like someone was tapping on her forehead. She’d had worse stomachaches after too many sweet Thai iced teas; this was only a minor annoyance. Mostly, she just felt confused. She needed a shower. That would help.
She stumbled over to the glorious bathroom. One empty and one half-full champagne bottle and two sticky mugs sat on the sink. The shower had a temperature knob in degrees Celsius. She took a guess as to what temperature she wanted and was promptly scalded, then frozen, then scalded again. She ended up backing up to the very edge of the shower stall and cautiously reaching in for the water. The boat hit some choppy waves, forcing her to cling to the bar on the wall. After this valiant effort, she gave up, bounced her way back into the bedroom, and put on a shirt and a pair of pink pajama bottoms.
Coming down the circular stairs was a much scarier process than it had been before when the boat was docked. There was no one in the galley, so she put the kettle away and left the mugs in the sink. No one was in the living room or the dining room or at the back of the boat. Obviously, someone had to be steering, so she went out to the deck and up the back stairs. The speed of the boat made the air cool, and there was a fine mist caught in it. She held on tight as she pulled herself up the steps to the wheelhouse.
The wheelhouse was at the very top of the boat, a tight room with three walls of darkened glass. Clio opened the door. The wheelhouse was just as posh as the rest of the boat—more leather seats and lots of fancy stuff. Martin stood in front of a massive panel of tiny screens and readouts, one hand on a steering wheel. Julia, her father, and Aidan were looking over a map that was spread out on the floor. Clio had seen maps like that before, back when they were working on Dive! They were maps of shipwrecks and sunken objects, ordinarily used by the military or commercial boats to prevent crashes. There was also a small
box of rocks down by Julia’s foot.
“We’re moving,” Clio said to the group. “Where are we going?”
“It’s eleven o’clock,” her father said, folding the map quickly. “Nobody’s had any breakfast.”
Clio looked at the four able-bodied human beings in front of her and wanted to ask them why they hadn’t fed themselves, but from the look on her father’s face, she got the impression that this might not be a good idea.
“When will we be back tonight?” she asked. “I was supposed to call Mom.”
A look circulated the room.
“We’ll talk about that at breakfast,” he said. “Or lunch. Let us know when it’s ready.”
Clio was being dismissed. She wasn’t arguing this one, especially not in front of Aidan.
“No problem,” she said stiffly. “I’ll get right on it.”
The first thing she did upon getting down to the galley was make herself a little hat out of a piece of paper. She folded it up until it was like a miniature version of a fast-food hat. If her dad wanted her to play chef, she would play chef.
There was a lot more food in the galley now than there had been the night before. The yacht was packed like a UN provision ship. Eight loaves of bread were piled in the corner. Three cardboard boxes stuffed full of vegetables sat on the floor. Another two of fruit. A paper bag revealed meat. Just meat. The refrigerator had been filled with fresh fish—heads and all—trapped in clear plastic bags. There was something murderous about it. Like the Mafia had taken these fish out. These fish slept with the fishes.
“Number Five does not like these fish at all,” she said to herself. She moved them to the back, making a wall of meat and cheese to seal them off. She could still feel their stares penetrating the food wall, even through the closed refrigerator door.
Coffee. Her head required coffee. It took a few minutes to find the coffee itself and a few more to figure out the pot, but soon the galley was filled with the rich, roasted smell. It was too much to hope that someone had bought French vanilla creamer, Clio’s favorite substance in the world. This was probably for the best, as she had a tendency to drink it straight out of the container.
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