Chapter 1
“No, no, no,” John says, leaning over my shoulder. His thick fingers press against the screen, smudging the image. “It’s clear they ran aground. Just look.”
I glance up at him. Since when do you question my work?
“John,” I say evenly, “if she ran aground, there’d be a debris field from the initial impact trailing behind her from the direction she came. But forget that for a moment. Gemini sank in sixty feet of water with no obstructions anywhere nearby. Now, an argument could be made for a collision. But, if that was the case then we’d have two wrecks, not one. Not to mention, her anchor was found fifty feet away so it’s entirely possible she was at anchor when this happened.”
He heaves a heavy sigh and the silence that comes after makes my stomach tighten.
“There’s no evidence,” he finally says, his voice growing deeper with each word, “that the Fae were attacked during this operation.”
“It’s clear her forward port side was blown wide open, damage consistent with a round iron shot fired from a long gun. Likely a twenty-four or eighteen-pounder, if I had to guess. Only larger frigates were capable of carrying cannons large enough for that size shot.”
I stare at the side-scan sonar image, tracing the jagged outline of shadows that show the remains of the passenger vessel with the cap of my pen. A radial debris field spans outward from there—a textbook example of a ship sunk by ordnance. The artifacts collected by the field team suggest—not confirm—Gemini was likely a Fae passenger vessel. Small weapons were recovered but nothing consistent with the armaments typically found on a naval vessel. I’m still waiting on a few artifacts from the lab before I complete my report. I know they will likely support my original conclusions.
But John doesn’t want me to say that and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. Especially when the explanation is so blatantly obvious.
Does he know something I don’t?
“John, it is my professional opinion that the ship was sunk on purpose. Nothing else makes sense.”
His jaw muscles feather as he leans closer to the screen, giving the acoustic image another look. “I want you to look at it one more time.”
“Fine, but I’m not going to have a different conclusion. This is very diagnostic,” I counter, waving my hand at the screen again.
He pulls back, analyzing the features of my face. “Just, take another look.”
Then he storms back to his office and slams the door. The metal blinds clank against the door.
I fall against the back of my chair and release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. What the hell was that?
He’s under pressure, but why?
Rarely is our work time sensitive. Field work is often tied to fiscal funding cycles, and occasionally there will be construction projects that require nearby sites to be evaluated.
Either way, I refuse to let him put my name on something I don’t stand behind.
I dig through the drawer beside me, grab a microfiber towel and aggressively scrub away the fingerprints on the screen. When I store it back in its cubby, my hands find one of the many history books that litter my oak desk, A History of Seafaring: The Fae. I don’t know what I expect to find as I flip through the pages—a detail that makes me question my conclusions.
The beautiful thing about archaeology is that it’s the same for both humans and Fae. Context is where it gets tricky. The Great War destroyed most of the historical record—theirs and ours—and since then the Fae mostly keep to themselves. The division between our species never made sense. Yes, the Fae are one of the most powerful beings on this planet, and yes, they did abuse that power to take over the humans. But the Great War was over two hundred years ago and nothing has changed.
The irony is my whole adult life has passionately studied their history and I’ve yet to have a conversation with a Fae.
My eyes flick to the report on the screen and then back to the book. I pull it into my lap, sending a silent prayer to the gods that Mr. George Bass provides me with a clue.
Gemini is an eighteenth century passenger vessel who sailed the seas during the time of the Great War. Sunk in sixty feet of water off the coast of Bermuda, she was likely ferrying Fae between the mainland and somewhere in Europe. I’m still waiting on the transit manifests from the Archives.
We don’t even know for certain she’s a Fae vessel, though I have a sneaking suspicion she is. And so does John based on his reaction earlier. Once the artifacts recovered by the field team come back from the lab I’ll have my answer. After that I can finalize my report.
One question still lingers on the edge of my mind, one I haven’t voiced to anyone else. I stare down at the page in the book that describes Fae shipbuilding techniques. One drawn image details a Fae holding up their hands with swirls of magic enveloping the ship.
If Gemini was a Fae ship, she would have been enchanted for safe passage. To find a Fae vessel not enchanted was unusual.
My teeth grind on the tip of the pen. So, if my assumptions are correct and Gemini is a Fae vessel then the attack was premeditated. Because there are only two ways to remove an enchantment. Voluntarily or death. During the Great War, the Fae would be unwise to lose such an advantage.
The effort though, to ensure she sank—
I pull up my email and quickly draft a request to the lab. They can test the recovered hull samples for evidence of enchantment, a dust trail, even if it’s been removed. Magic always leaves a trace.
“Still stuck on Gemini?”
Mark peeks over the wood panel half-wall between our desk, his tortoise rim glasses hanging on the tip of his nose. A fellow archaeologist, Mark is the equivalent to a work-grandpa.
I pull the pen from my mouth and turn to find him grinning at me with a salt and pepper mustache hanging over his lip.
“Yes,” I sigh. “Two hundred and fifty years have not been kind to this wreck. The subsurface data is much more telling.” I let out another heavy breath. “What I need is something that John or anyone else can’t refute.”
Mark’s eyes squint while he scratches the stubble on his chin. “Yeah, I caught some of that. You know how there’s balance. We need to give enough attention to the wreck to determine its significance, but when there ain’t much to go on—, well, I usually lean conservative.”
“What would you do with this?”
“Ah Kelly, yeah that’s… I don’t know. He’s really put you in a tough spot. What about requesting some more records from the archives?” I pinch the skin above my nose. Where to begin with the archives? In a perfect world, I should be able to submit a request and receive an answer in a timely manner. For human related records it works this way. However, for Fae? Most requests go unanswered, their excuse being the Great War.
One piece of the puzzle will solve this. I push my chair away, grabbing my empty Florida State coffee mug decorated in constellations. “I’ve already submitted three different requests. I haven’t heard back yet, but I suppose there is still time before this report is due.” I look down at his empty cup. “Want a refill?”
“Sure,” he says and hands it to me with another whiskery grin. I grab the mug and frown at the Texas A&M logo—my alma mater’s rival archaeological program. “You know, I wonder if we did campaign to reclassify it as significant. That would force him to allocate more funds towards documentation and identification. Or, it would at least buy you some time. What’s so special about this wreck anyways?”
I peer over the top of my blue light glasses. “Mark, they will never designate a Fae shipwreck, or any Fae artifact, as significant. It could be the king’s galleon and they would still turn their noses up.”
This is a topic I’ve argued numerous times with administrators, who always nod and say they’ll look into it. They never do.
Even my parents were divided on the Fae. They often told me stories passed down by their families from the times before the Great War. My mother hated the Fae. My father, on the other hand, spoke of pleasant people who only wanted to keep their freedom. They wanted to coexist.
My father’s version of history sparked my curiosity. But it also ignited my fear. “But, to answer your other question… I don’t know. Call it intuition? I feel like there’s something there.”
His eyes soften with understanding. Archaeology is as much an art as it is a science. All of us have a thing that pulls at us to keep digging.
I walk toward the kitchen, my hands clenching the handles of each mug. A professor during my undergraduate education said it plainly, “people fear what they don’t know or understand.”
From that moment I decided to understand the Fae.
I never thanked that professor for emboldening my career choice. I should, even though I never finished what I set out to do—my Ph.D. We’re not going to talk about that right now.
When I return to my desk a shawl of defeat settles over my shoulders. I spend the next few hours looking for another way to support my conclusions. A subtle ping sounds from the speakers prompting me to open my email, which I’ve neglected all day. There are several unread correspondences, but at the top… that one makes my eyes widen.
It’s from the archives. My brows pinch when I consider the coincidence, but I push it down. I open the email.
My request has been approved.
“Mark!” I call over the half wall. “You’re never going to believe this.”
He shuffles around and then he’s next to me, leveling himself to look at my screen. “See, I told you,” he says and pats my shoulder like an encouraging father.
I open the file titled Bermuda Transit Logs Dated November 1760 to April 1770 attached in the email and my excitement slips away.
Not only because it’s only half the date range I requested, but as I scroll through the pages—
Redacted. Redacted. Redacted.
Every other line is redacted. I scroll faster, scanning the entire fifty page document and throw my hands up when I get to the end. “This is completely useless.”
Pins prick the base of my skull. First John, and now this. It’s a crazy coincidence and yet it’s nagging me, theories swirling around and around in my mind.
I tip my head back and stare at the drop ceiling, counting the dots in each tile. I need one piece of evidence that clearly defines Gemini as a Fae wreck, and another that proves she was attacked. I huff a laugh under my breath when I recall John’s argument that she ran aground. Her draft can’t be more than twenty feet. So how exactly did she run aground in sixty feet of water?
Shaking my head, I close the email and pull the report back up. I spend the next few hours going through the report one more time and checking my analysis against some of the texts that highlight the Fae’s maritime history. By the end of the day I am no closer to answering my questions since this morning. No closer to deciding how much I want to fight with John either.
The end of the week is the deadline. The curators might have been able to clean up the artifacts enough to evaluate origin. At this point, anything is helpful.
John shows up at my desk just as I’m wrapping up, leaning against it with his arm casually resting on top of the half-wall divider. There’s a long coffee stain running down the front of his shirt and I smile at the normality of it. “What are you still doing here? Quitting time was an hour ago.”
“I can’t in good faith sign off on that report without establishing more context. I know I am missing something.”
John shifts his feet and grins. “It’s already submitted. Great work by the way. I made some tweaks, but nothing major.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Kelly, it was a good report. Gemini isn’t a significant wreck. We were close enough. I sent it off two hours ago.” I’m fuming at this point. “I was still editing it up until twenty minutes ago.”
He looks at me smugly and tilts his head. “It was good enough. Now go home and get some rest.”
“You completely went over my head!” Heat curls up my neck as I burst. I’ve never lost my temper with John, or anyone else at work.
“Yeah and I’m the Director, so it’s my call. It was good enough," he says again.
It takes an enormous amount of effort to reign in my anger. My blood boils and I’m on the verge of a rage blackout. “And is my name on this document? I didn’t approve of your edits.” John takes a step back and shoves his hands into the pockets of his pleated khakis. “I don’t need your approval. Good night, Kelly.”
“John—” But I pause when I see his narrowed gaze. His eyes have darkened with a look I’ve never seen before. “John,” I calm my tone. “What is going on?”
He dips his chin and takes another step back. “That’s for me to worry about. Let’s put a pin in this. You’ve got field work to look forward to next year. Focus on that.” Another step back. “See you tomorrow.” With that, he turns and slithers like a smug snake down the hallway toward the bathrooms.
“John!” I call after him. “Email me the report you sent out.”
He raises a hand and waves at me, keeping his back to me as he turns into one of the bathrooms.
His name is still on my tongue when I push through the door into the humid evening air. I don’t remember walking to my car. I don’t remember unlocking it. The key hangs in the ignition for a long moment, engine off, while I stare at absolutely nothing.
I’ve spent the last three years trying to undo the disaster that was my dissertation, proving myself worthy of this community. Three years since Knox, since the vase, and this is where I land.
The report is out there now with my name on it, saying something I didn’t write, and there is nothing I can do about it tonight. That’s the part that sits in my chest like ballast.
I’m almost home when my phone rings. I let it go to voicemail, not in the mood to talk to anyone.
Immediately it rings again and I flick my eyes to the cupholder where it sits. Unknown caller.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Ms. Frasier?” A woman’s timid voice says.
“This is she. What is this about?” An unknown caller knows my name. I keep my focus on the road, navigating the last few streets before I reach mine.
The woman giggles and clears her throat. “Yes. Well, my name is Lauren. I work in the archives. I was following up on the request fulfilled this morning.”
“Oh yes. I received it.”
“Good,” she says with relief. “Well, I wanted to add that the other documents you requested are on hold. And wanted to reach out because I know you placed a rush order on these.”
My brows pinch. “On hold? Why?”
“The hold was initiated by John McCartney. He’s the supervisor listed on the request.”
I recoil away from the phone. “Was there a reason listed?”
“No. But, I wanted to let you know that we can’t release them until he signs off. So, you might want to talk to him about that.”
“Lauren, can you remind me which documents this is referring to? I want to make sure I am tracking the right thing.”
“Oh sure, sure.” I can hear pages being shuffled and her fingers flying across the keyboard. “It looks like three are on hold and they were the Royal Fae ship log notes… the addendums to the logs.”
This day just keeps getting stranger. “Thanks Lauren. I’ll see if I can talk to him.” “Okay,” she says enthusiastically. “And just remember, if they remain on hold for more than ten business days they are returned to the archives and the request must be resubmitted.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“Have a good one!”
I end the call just as I pull into a spot in front of my apartment building. At the office, I took John’s behaviour as a personal attack. He didn’t trust me. Now it’s clear something else is going on. This has more to do with Gemini than it does with me. Maybe Mark is right, maybe there is an opportunity to reclassify her as significant. Because John has never in the three years I’ve known him shown this much interest in a wreck.
