The epigrapher’s report arrived in April—a twelve-page document from the university that Gerald read three times. The inscription on the reverse, translated with appropriate caveats, appeared to read: for Thania, beloved, who goes before. A mourning dedication. A piece made for grief. Something about that landed differently than everything else. The metallurgy, the trade routes, and the soil analysis were all interesting, the way a documentary was interesting. But Thania was a person. Someone had lost a person, and had given that loss a shape in gold and carnelian, and the shape had survived while the giver, the receiver, and the civilisation that produced them both had gone entirely.
Miriam read the report over his shoulder and said nothing for a long moment. “Someone buried it,” she said eventually. “They didn’t drop it. Six inches is deliberate.”
Gerald had thought the same thing. Buried with care, not lost by accident. The chain had been folded neatly, not tangled as dropped jewellery tends to be. Someone had placed it in the ground on purpose, which raised the question of when, and why, and whether the ground in question had, at some much earlier point, been the site of something worth placing it beside. He rang Dr Okafor the next day. She had, she told him, already been in conversation with the North Yorkshire archaeology unit. There was the possibility of a supervised ground survey of the property, if Gerald and Miriam were willing. Gerald said he’d need to ask Miriam. Miriam, when asked, said yes immediately.