 
THE DUMNONIAN HOARD

Rosenberg Twins Adventure #1

Version Two

Copyright © 2014. Adrien Leduc. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.

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(Leduc, Adrien 1987- )

Cover Art by Lily Ruiz

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form than that in which it is published.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For my grandmother, A.M.A. Rest in peace. Love you forever.

Prologue

A packed lecture hall at the University of London. It's a fancy sort of lecture hall, with rows of comfy chairs filling its centre and buffet tables laden with gourmet finger food lining the back wall. Dr. Martin Rosenberg, mid-way through his presentation, stands at the podium. The projector screen behind him serves as a visual aid for his presentation.

"And so, to summarize, the Dumnonii lived a life of humble extravagance."

Dr. Rosenberg clicks the remote in his hand and the image on the screen changes to show an assortment of gold jewellery spread out on a black canvas.

"Men and women would adorn themselves with rings and amulets and necklaces for special occasions, but otherwise seldom wore it. Boys were given silver amulets on their twelfth birthday and girls were given silver bracelets once they reached puberty."

Dr. Rosenberg clicks the remote once more.

"Their precious metal reserves," he motions at the screen where the audience is now treated to an image of bars of gold and silver on black canvas, "were held in common, by a clan treasurer. This was, in part, because it was simply impractical for each individual family to carry the stuff around. But more importantly, the Dumnonii, as many of you are surely aware, were heavily involved in overseas trade, (he pauses to take a sip of water), "and it was the treasurer, under the direction of a clan's chieftain, who was responsible for coordinating transactions and making payments."

Dr. Rosenberg takes another sip of water and clicks the remote in his hand once more. This time the image shows a map of medieval Europe.

"Their heavy involvement in trade meant that by the seventh century the Dumnonii had amassed a sizeable collection of precious metals, silver and gold coins, and treasures from across the known world. Susan Maccari's latest essay, published in the January edition of Archaeologist Today, provides an excellent overview of the trading relationships they established. As many of you will know, the Dumnonii were exporting tin to Spain and the Mediterranean region. They traded with the Romans. They traded with the Gauls. They traded with the Irish."

The University of Toronto professor pauses and takes another sip of water. "The Dumnonii's extensive trade network therefore brought them into contact with a number of diverse civilizations and the wares they accrued reflect that. Artifacts of Asian and Middle Eastern origin have been found at Dumnonii sites throughout Devon and Cornwall and in nineteen seventy three, a French team uncovered a gold crown at Saint Brieuc. The crown was believed to have belonged to Artogenos, head chief of the the Dumnonii of that part of France, and carbon dating revealed it to be more than fifteen hundred years old. As we know, gold at that time was only mined and manufactured in Greece and Egypt. Such a discovery thus not only serves to further illustrate the vastness of the Dumnonii's trade network, it also brings me to my next point."

He pauses again to clear his throat and take another sip of water. "As Dr. Henderson explained in his presentation yesterday - "

He throws a nod to the Harvard professor seated in the front row.

" - as early as the fifth century, the Dumnonii began migrating across the English Channel and settling in northwestern France. This migration continued well into the tenth century, increasing exponentially whenever their communities faced threats from the West Saxons who for centuries had been eyeing their lands. The consequence of this was that there came to be two Dumnonii communities – the original one, the one in southern England, and the secondary one in northern France. The Dumnonii inhabitants of these two communities – culturally, linguistically, and genetically related – maintained a close relationship, engaging in commerce and arranging marriages between their sons and daughters."

Dr. Rosenberg pauses to take another sip of water and change the image on the screen. This time the image is of a warrior dressed in Saxon garb. The man has a braided beard of coarse blonde hair and a sword hanging from his side.

"West Saxon incursions into Dumnonian territory became more frequent beginning in the eighth century. Ine of Wessex was their leader then - and a brutal one at that – and he was well aware of the wealth the Dumnonii possessed."

The professor pauses and takes another sip of water.

"The Dumnonii, tragically, were no match for the West Saxons who, with their superior numbers and superior weaponry, quickly overwhelmed the Dumnonii. They seized their farm land, seized their mines, enslaved their women and children, and slaughtered many of their men."

Dr. Rosenberg clicks the remote and the image on the screen changes once more. This time we see a battlefield. The battlefield is littered with the corpses of mortally wounded warriors. Some of these are Saxon, though the vast majority are Dumnonii, recognizable by their leather armour and white tunics.

"Now, what's puzzled us all for years is that, despite losing battle after battle to the Saxons, no significant treasure hoard was ever surrendered. In other words, the West Saxons never did manage to get their hands on Dumnonii treasure. The question then, for all of us, is: did the Dumnonii even have a hoard treasure stashed away somewhere and if so, where did they hide it?"

Dr. Rosenberg clicks the remote in his hand once more and up pops an image of a very old looking cathedral.

"The discovery of the Scroll of Isca beneath Exeter Cathedral in nineteen ninety three was an important milestone for our field. For it validated, quite concretely, the existence of the Dumnonii's long lost treasure - the fabled Dumnonian Hoard.

He pauses and takes another sip of water, smacking his lips ever so slightly as he turns the page in his speaking notes.

"As many of you are likely aware, the Scroll's third passage translates as follows: 'protected by our beloved Saint, where Dumnonia meets the sea, lie the prizes of the Dumnonii'. The 'prizes of the Dumnonii' most certainly refers to their treasure. 'Where Dumnonian meets the sea' obviously indicates that the treasure is more than likely buried or hidden at some spot along the coast. Finally, the line: 'protected by our beloved Saint', would suggest that the treasure is buried or hidden in close proximity to some vestige of a celebrated saint."

Dr. Rosenberg pauses again and scans the crowd, hoping they'll be receptive to what he's about to say.

"Most scholars seem to have arrived at a consensus: that the Dumnonian Hoard - if it does truly exist - is hidden somewhere in Cornwall or Devon. Cornwall and Devon, as most of you will know, are the two English counties which today comprise what was once Dumnonia."

He pauses and clicks the remote again.

"The idea that the Dumnonian Hoard is hidden somewhere in present-day Cornwall and Devon is not unreasonable. Saint Petroc was arguably the most celebrated saint in Dumnonia and he preached and tended monasteries and churches throughout the region. Both Cornwall and Devon are on the sea. And there are plenty of sites along the coast where there were once statues of Saint Petroc and monasteries where Saint Petroc was priest. In fact some of these remain today. However, in twenty years of searching up and down the English coast, from Penzance to Exmouth, digging around at old churches and monasteries and studying statues and combing beaches, we've found nothing. Not a trace."

"That doesn't mean it's not here!" blurts a man seated in the third row, his face as red as his bowtie.

Dr. Rosenberg purses his lips. "No, it doesn't. But it is also fair to surmise that the Dumnonian Hoard may in fact not be here at all."

"Just what exactly are you suggesting, Dr. Rosenberg?" asks a tall, spectacled man near the back.

"I am suggesting, Dr. Baxter, that the Dumnonian Hoard may be elsewhere. Allow me to explain," he says quickly, quelling the murmurs enough to continue, "over the course of the past twenty four months I have done some digging. That's pun intended, by the way," he adds with a wink, hoping to garner a few laughs; he gets none. Instead the multitudes of eyes seem to be examining him as though he was some curious form of insect. Dr. Rosenberg clears his throat and continues. "I've come up with a rather bold - yet entirely feasible \- hypothesis."

"And just what is your hypothesis, Dr. Rosenberg?" interrupts a short, squat man in the front row.

"My hypothesis, Dr...?"

"Dr. Mueller."

Dr. Rosenberg nods. "Dr. Mueller, my hypothesis is that the Dumnonian Hoard is not in England, but in France."

"No..."

"I don't believe it..."

"How can you imagine such a thing!?"

"Absolutely preposterous..."

The reaction - from all sides - comes fast and furious.

"Please, dear colleagues," says Dr. Rosenberg, his tone pleading, "if you'll bear with me for just a moment - "

"I can't even listen to this..."

"The Dumnonian Hoard in France! I never!"

Dr. Rosenberg raises a hand. "Friends, please. Just a moment and I will explain."

"Please do!" huffs a woman in the second row, her gaze, through her pince-nez, wholly scrutinizing.

"How can you bring such poppycock to this conference!?" demands the man with the bowtie.

"My hypothesis is not poppycock!" Dr. Rosenberg replies hotly. "And if you would just listen - for two minutes - you might actually agree!"

"I hardly think so!" the man retorts with a small laugh.

This was it. He'd had enough.

Not one to lose his temper, Dr. Rosenberg takes a deep breath, gathers up his notes, and steps calmly back from the podium. "Thank you for your time."

The chair for this particular afternoon - a middle-aged woman by the name of Helga Olsen from the University of Oslo calls after him as he leaves the stage. "Dr. Rosenberg, you've not finished your presentation!"

"Oh, I think I've quite finished, Dr. Olsen. Thank you." And with that, he turns and exits the lecture hall.

* * *

The following morning. Hotel Grand. Room 404.

Hearing a knock at the door, Dr. Rosenberg rises from his chair by the window (taking care to set down his mug of green tea on the window sill), and makes his way to the door. His suitcase lies open on the bed, half packed, with the remainder of the items due to go inside lying strewn about it.

"Who is it?" he calls as he arrives at the door.

He glances through the peep hole and spies a middle aged man dressed in a smart suit and wearing thick-framed glasses. Tucked under the man's arm is a fine leather briefcase.

He pulls the door open.

"Can I help you?"

The man smiles. "Dr. Rosenberg...I am glad you haven't left yet. The kind woman at the desk downstairs said you would be checking out shortly."

The man speaks with a London accent - the kind found in Chelsea and at upper class boarding schools back in North America.

"Yes, I've got a plane in - " the professor pauses as he glances at his watch, "about five hours. I should probably get a move on."

The man nods, pushing past him and heading straight for the table by the window. "Well, I shan't take too much of your time. I merely wanted to express my delight at your presentation of yesterday. I firmly believe that your hypothesis may in fact be correct."

Somewhat miffed by his guest's intrusion, Dr. Rosenberg is nonetheless flattered. "Well...thank you. It's nice to hear that at least one person gleaned something of value from it."

The man laughs as he sets his briefcase on the table and undoes its fasteners. "Trust me, old boy, your presentation was thoroughly exhilarating."

Positively beaming now - and not being one to shy away from a compliment - Dr. Rosenberg steps closer to the man, curious to see what's inside the briefcase. "Er...I've got some time yet...before I have to leave...would you like a cup of tea? I've only just made a pot," he adds, indicating his tea cup on the window sill.

"Really? I...that is most...thank you, Dr. Rosenberg." He laughs again, a vain, guffawing laugh, the kind of laugh you hear in lawyers' boardrooms and men's-only cigar shops. "I don't want to impose," he adds, glancing at the suitcase on the bed.

"You're not imposing, Dr...I just realized I didn't get your name?"

"Nigel Cook. And, alas, unlike you, I'm no doctor. In fact I dropped out of university in my second year."

"Oh?"

"Yes...I didn't have the best upbringing you see, despite my accent." He laughs. "This," he says, pointing to his mouth, "took eons to acquire."

"And so...what is your interest in my field of study exactly?" asks Dr. Rosenberg, feeling somewhat perplexed.

"That is an excellent question and if you'll allow me, I'd like to show you something. May I?" he asks, opening the flap of his briefcase and gesturing toward the chair on the opposite side of the table, the chair Dr. Rosenberg had vacated only moments earlier when he'd gone to answer the door.

"Of course," says Dr. Rosenberg obligingly, taking a seat.

"Yes, it's quite...well, I'll show you in just a moment...I reckon you'll be rather impressed."

Dr. Rosenberg nods, only half listening, moving his dirtied breakfast dishes to the farthest end of the table.

"Ah, here we are," Nigel announces, producing a handful of what appear to be newspaper clippings from his briefcase. "Set your eyes on these wondrous discoveries...I'll lay them out nicely so you can have a proper look," he adds, sorting them and spreading them out across the length of the table.

Dr. Rosenberg, having deposited the mess from the table on the kitchen counter, returns to the table and peers at the faded and yellowed newspaper clippings.

"1,200 year old Viking stash found at Aldershot" reads one.

"Ancient Celtic burial ground uncovered at Cardiff" reads another.

"So what exactly am I looking at?" asks Dr. Rosenberg after a minute, his eyes scanning the headlines and skimming the articles. The one at his fingertips reads: "Boudicca's Booty?: Ancient treasure stash found at Surrey believed to have belonged to medieval Briton queen"

"You, Dr. Rosenberg," Nigel begins proudly, "are looking at my history. My work history that is."

"Are you trying to tell me you discovered all of these?"

The man's eyes are positively gleaming now. "And more."

"There are more?"

"Many. Not from England. I have a strict rule about reporting my finds in England. That, and the authorities are quite diligent here. Moreso than in countries like Hungary and Macedonia."

Dr. Rosenberg's jaw drops involuntarily. "You've found treasures there as well?"

Nigel emits a mighty guffaw. "Among other places."

"So, let me get this straight. You travel around the world searching for long lost treasure, and when you find it, you don't report it? Are you just...are you keeping it for yourself!?"

Nigel's face darkens. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"I most certainly do have a problem with that!" Dr. Rosenberg replies angrily. "For one thing, it's not yours. For another, such treasures and artifacts belong in museums where everyone can benefit from them - not just wealthy collectors." He seems to almost spit the word "collectors".

"For a man with a P.H.D., you are rather naïve. Do you honestly believe that treasure never goes missing from public collections? There was a case here in England, not long ago in fact, where a curator was discovered to have been stealing artifacts from a museum and selling them on the black market. Why should we go to the trouble of finding these valuable treasures only to serve them up on a silver platter for such individuals? Why not simply profit ourselves?"

"Because I'm not in this for profit," Dr. Rosenberg growls.

There's silence for awhile - an awkward silence - and then finally Nigel begins gathering up the newspaper clippings. "I really must be going, it appears I've wasted your time - or rather, I should say - _you've_ wasted _my_ time. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"So you should be. I have a right mind to inform the authorities about your activities, Mr. Cook."

Nigel simply smiles as he takes up his briefcase and heads for the door. "Do as you will, professor."

"And what if I do?"

But Nigel doesn't answer. Instead, he flings open the door and exits the room, leaving Dr. Rosenberg stewing over their brief encounter.

Chapter One

FOUR WEEKS IN FRANCE

Thursday. Late afternoon. The Rosenberg residence.

"Sarah! Joshua! We're leaving!"

I race down the stairs, two at a time, and jump when I reach the bottom. "Not without one last hug you're not!" I sprint toward my parents. "I'm going to miss you guys!"

My dad, his arms burdened with a towering stack of suitcases, looks at me with raised eyebrows. "Really? That's not what you said last night when mom asked you to do the dishes. In fact I specifically remember you saying - "

"Okay, okay," I shoot back, not wanting to be reminded of how I'd snapped at my mom the night before, "I know I said I couldn't wait for you guys to leave, but now that you're actually leaving..."

My mom smiles. "Aww." She looks at my dad. "Our daughter's going to miss us. Do you hear that, David?"

I feel my cheeks flush. "Well, you know...it's four weeks..."

Dad shakes his head and mutters something as he carries the suitcases outside. Mom, meanwhile, comes to me and wraps an arm around me. "It's hard...I know." She plants a kiss on the top of my head. "I always miss you when we go away." She laughs. "Even if things aren't going the best between us."

"I wish we could go with you..."

"I wish you could go with us too, but we'll be living out of a tent for four weeks. Not to mention that we'll be working very long days and a disaster zone is simply no place for two teenagers."

She smiles and plants a second kiss on my forehead.

It's times like these that I hate the fact my parents work for the Canadian Red Cross. Whenever they have to go on assignment my twin brother Josh and I get left behind with Aunt Karen or Uncle Marty. This latest assignment is taking them to Thailand to assist with flood clean up.

"And why does it always have to be during summer break. I mean...I thought dad said we could rent a cottage this year."

I know it seems selfish whining about not getting to rent a cottage when tens of thousands of people in Thailand just had their homes destroyed by raging floodwaters...but still...

"Sarah, you know we don't control when we go," says my mom, her expression sympathetic.

I sigh. "I know..."

"Besides," she adds, bending down to lace up her shoes, "you and Joshua get to spend those four weeks in France with your Uncle Marty. Aren't you excited about that at least?"

I glance at her. "Mom. We're going to Brittany. That's, like, the French Outback. Now if Uncle Marty was taking us to Paris..."

"Hey now, young lady," says my dad, returning for a second round of suitcases, "I'd have done anything when I was your age to have the opportunity to go to France. You should be grateful your uncle has even offered to take you two with him on this trip."

If he's trying to make me feel guilty, it's working.

"I'm sorry dad....it's just...Stacey's family is going to their cottage this summer and - "

"I don't care what Stacey's family's doing this summer, Sarah! You don't always get what you want in life!" He glares at me. "You're going to France with your uncle and your brother. And that's it! Or maybe we should just send you two to your Aunt Karen's instead..."

"No! Dad."

I hate going to Aunt Karen's. She's like...I can't even describe her...but she's zero fun and she wakes you up with her vacuuming at seven in the morning and she gives us a nine o'clock curfew. Nine o'clock!

"What's this about Aunt Karen?" asks Josh, appearing in the doorway that leads down to the basement.

"Your sister was just telling us how much she would love to go to Aunt Karen's instead of France with Uncle - "

"Dad! That's not what I said!"

"Whoa? What?" My brother rounds on me. "You want to go to Aunt Karen's instead of going to France with Uncle Marty!? Are you stup- "

"I didn't say I want to go to Aunt Karen's! Ahhhhh, why won't anyone listen to me!? And, were you about to call me _stupid_!?"

"Sarah," says my mom tenderly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"No, mom. I'm tired of dad always putting words in my mouth!"

"Sarah." The way my dad says my name, I can tell he's mad.

"Sarah." The way my mom says it, she sounds almost tired. "I think you should go and cool off. Go and cool off and I'll tell you when we're leaving."

"I don't need to cool off!"

My parents exchange a look. That one that says, she's _your_ daughter.

"I'm tired of everyone in this family always telling me what to do!"

"Sarah. That's enough."

"David..."

"No, Roz, I'm not going to let her get away with this continued bad behaviour. Sarah, go to your room."

"You go to your room."

My dad smiles, though it's not a nice smile. "Okay, that's it. You're grounded for the rest of the summer. When we get back from Thailand, and when you get back from France, you are grounded, young lady."

"Whoop dee doo, it's not like we were going to do anything anyway!" I holler, making my way down the hall and up the stairs toward my bedroom.

"Grounded!" my dad yells after me.

I arrive at my room and jump, face first, onto my bed.

This family sucks. Did I mention my family sucks? You saw that, right?

I roll over and gaze up at the ceiling.

Four weeks in France with Josh and Uncle Marty. And we're not going to Paris. Who the hell goes to France and doesn't go to Paris?

I pull out my phone and text Stacey.

"Stupid family."

Stacey's always slow to respond. That's one thing I hate about Stacey. Even though we're like B.F.F.'s.

I start a game of Angry Birds. The tenth level is just impossible!

I'm on my third attempt when I hear a knock at the door.

"Yes?"

The door opens and my mom pokes her head in. "We're leaving now."

"Alright," I mumble, hardly moving my eyes from my phone.

"It would be nice to get a proper goodbye."

My mom's in that mood where she just wants everything to be alright without having to apologize.

"Fine..." I sit up on the bed and pocket my phone just as it vibrates. "Ooh, just a sec. That's Stacey." I look at my mom - she hates when my texting cuts into our conversations. "I'll just be one second. Promise."

She looks unimpressed as I pull out my phone once more.

" _What's up?"_

I text my reply: _"Let's meet later. Can I come over?"_

"Okay." I pocket my phone. "Let's get this over with."

"Sarah."

"What?"

My mom shakes her head. "Get this over with...you say it like it's a chore."

"No, mom, it's not a chore." I slide off the bed and go to her.

She meets me with open arms.

"I'm sorry, mom. I didn't mean...I didn't mean..."

"I know," she says softly, stroking my hair.

We're silent for a minute, and all you can hear is the sound of our breathing and the gentle beating of our hearts. But then there comes a loud honk from below.

"Damn it, David!"

Mom's at the window in an instant.

"GIVE ME ONE MINUTE WITH OUR DAUGHTER!"

I hear my dad's faint, apologetic reply as mom returns to me.

"Four weeks. I need you to be good for four weeks. You can screw up when we're all back home together. But not while you're away."

I nod, slowly, her gaze holding mine.

"Four weeks. Promise me, Sarah."

"I promise."

She takes a deep breath and draws herself up, though she's still just barely taller than me.

"Give me one more hug."

I smile. "Alright."

This time her hug practically strangles me and I'm grateful when it's over.

"I'll call or e-mail once we're there," says my mom, heading for the door.

"Okay."

"And e-mail me at least once a week to let me know what's going on. I'll do the same."

I smile. "Okay, mom."

She stops and stares at me - in that way parents do when you've done something admirable.

"What?" I ask, feeling uncomfortable.

She shakes her head. "Nothing. I just realize how quickly you're growing up."

I feel tears spring to my eyes now and I swallow to relieve the dryness in my throat. "Aww, mom."

"You be good."

I nod. "I will. I promise."

She nods and heads from my room.

"Love you, mom."

"Love you too."

Chapter Two

TROY TROTTIER

Two hours later. Shortly after six o'clock.

"I want cheese."

"Josh, no. Cheese is like...cheese is like the most boring topping!"

"But I like it."

"Ahhhhhh, fine. Here." I thrust the pizza menu at him. "You order."

He looks kind of hurt, and I feel bad. But then I remember how much of a jerk he was to me when I had Angela and Stacey over last week and any sympathy I have for him quickly evaporates.

"What do you want?" he asks after a minute, his eyes fixed to the menu.

I look up from my phone. "I told you already. Greek. I want the Greek pizza."

"Alright...sheesh...you're being a cow tonight."

"Well, look who I'm dealing with," I mutter, getting up from the couch and pocketing my phone.

Josh looks shocked, but he quickly recovers. "You can order your own pizza."

I stop and turn around. "That's fine by me. You'd probably screw up the order anyway."

"Why're you being such a bitch?"

The word stings, but I'm not about to let Josh know he's hit his mark. I force a smile. "I'm just giving you a taste of your own medicine for once."

Josh makes a sound and looks away.

"Let me know when the pizza's here," I say, flinging my hair back and heading down the hallway. "I'm calling in my order right now."

I make my way upstairs, to my room, a small slice of sanctuary in this crazy house.

I flop down on my bed and dial Giorgio's. "Hi, yes, I'd like to order a medium Greek pizza...yeah. Yes, for delivery. Okay. Half an hour? Sounds good. Thanks."

My pizza ordered, I roll onto my side and check my messages. Stacey had replied earlier and said we could do something tonight. I plan on going over there as soon as we've eaten.

There's a message from Angela. She's out with Derek, her new boyfriend. He goes to Belmont and he's in Grade Twelve. Angela's been bragging for like the past week and all we ever hear is Derek this and Derek that.

The doorbell sounds then and I nearly drop my phone.

Is the pizza here already!?

"JOSH. GET THE DOOR."

My brother doesn't answer.

Idiot...

I roll out of bed and thump downstairs. Josh is coming down the hallway as I near the bottom.

"Josh!"

"What?"

"Why didn't you answer the door?"

"I am answering the door."

"Why didn't you answer it when it rang?" I motion toward the door. Through the frosted glass panels, I can see the person's wearing a yellow shirt.

"Don't the Giorgio's guys wear green jackets?"

Josh shrugs and I open the door.

"Hi."

"Hi."

On our doorstep stands a young man. He's about twenty-four...maybe twenty-five...and he's cute. Correction: _gorgeous_. With his sun-bleached, blonde hair and and his yellow polo shirt.

"You're not the pizza guy."

He smiles. "No...I'm not the pizza guy. Were you expecting a pizza guy?"

I nod and he laughs.

"Was I supposed to bring pizza? Professor Rosenberg didn't say anything about -"

"You're looking for Professor Rosenberg?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"We're the Rosenberg's, but I don't know who _Professor_ Rosenberg is..." I turn and look at Josh. "Who's Professor Rosenberg?"

Josh shrugs and I return my attention to hunky College Boy.

"I'm sorry, but who do you mean exactly?"

"Professor Rosenberg...Professor Martin Rosenberg," he says, his tone sounding ever more hopeful.

I practically slap my forehead. "Ohhhhhh, Uncle Marty!"

His face lights up at my sudden understanding. "Uncle Marty?"

I laugh. "That's what we call him. He's my dad's brother."

"Oh..." He looks surprised. "This isn't his house then?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Hmm...because this is where he told me to come to. We're flying to France tomorrow."

I nod excitedly, elated by the prospect I'll get to spend the next few weeks with this gorgeous college boy. "So are we!"

"You guys are coming too?"

I can't tell by his expression whether he thinks this is a good thing or not.

I nod again. "Uh hunh."

"Hmm...he didn't mention anything about that either..."

I laugh. "You know my uncle. He's pretty forgetful. And not always there, if you know what I mean."

College Boy's face breaks into smile. "Yeah, I know. Still, he's one of the best professors I've ever had...and he's the best source for medieval history at the University of Toronto...he's also my thesis supervisor."

"What's a thesis supervisor?"

"The person who supervises your thesis," Josh cuts in, his tone dripping with impatience.

I round on him. "And what's a thesis then, smart guy?"

Josh can't answer this question.

"A thesis supervisor," College Boy answers, recalling my attention, "is a professor who oversees your thesis project. A thesis project is like a really big paper that you write when you're going for your Master's or your P.H.D."

"What's a P.H.D.?"

"It's your doctorate...but in other words, it basically means you've spent ten years in school." He laughs as he says this, forcing me to laugh even though I still don't quite understand.

I notice the two duffel bags stacked neatly beside him. "Did you want to bring those inside?"

He nods, graciously, and smiles. "Yeah, that'd be great. My name's Troy by the way." He extends a hand. "Troy Trottier."

"Sarah. Sarah Rosenberg." I take his hand and shake it. It's warm and I feel a tingle up my arm.

"Is your uncle here then, or...?" he asks as we step inside.

Josh turns and heads down the hallway, leaving us alone.

"No, he's not. But he's supposed to be here by supper. We've already ordered pizza...I don't know if you like Greek pizza, but you can share some of mine."

"Sure. Or I can order my own too."

"Well, call right now if you do. Then they can bring it all at the same time. Because I just ordered and my brother," I turn and catch my brother's fleeting presence, "I don't know what he's doing. I don't care." I laugh.

Troy makes a sound as he lugs his bags inside - they look heavy - and drops them on the floor. "I guess pizza would be nice..." He drops his backpack on the floor and stands fully upright, and now that we're standing on the same level, I can see he's at least a foot taller than me.

"You're tall."

He smiles and runs a hand through his gorgeous blonde mane. "I'm average."

Yeah, right. And I'm Marilyn Monroe.

"I'll show you where the guest room is." I turn and start up the stairs. "There's one upstairs and one downstairs. Uncle Marty usually takes the one downstairs (this of course is a complete and total lie), so you can sleep upstairs with me...I mean," I feel myself turn red, "in the guest room. My room's upstairs too."

He laughs. "I know what you meant."

We make our way upstairs, him balancing his duffel bags precariously on one shoulder and me leading the way, still feeling awkward.

"What's all this stuff, anyways? Feels like a museum," says Troy.

"All the stuff on the walls?"

We arrive at the top of the stairs and I look at Troy as he drops his bags unceremoniously on the floor. "Yeah." He rests his hands on his hips and studies the two walls that line the stairwell. "I mean, you've got some kind of African shield there...a Tibetan prayer flag there...a snowshoe there."

"My parents work for the Canadian Red Cross," I explain with a small sigh. "And every time they go somewhere, they bring something back. So you'll see all sorts of weird stuff like that in our house."

"I don't find it weird," says Troy, taking up his bags once more. "I find it pretty neat actually. Your parents must be some cool people."

I can almost feel my eyes roll in their sockets. "Uh, no. Well, my mom's pretty cool. But my dad, hmmmmm, not so much."

We both laugh as I lead him down the hallway to the guest bedroom.

"I'll take your word for it."

"Trust me," I say, turning to look at him, "my dad's like my Uncle Marty - only grumpier."

"Well, he still seems a lot cooler than my dad. My dad's idea of a cultural activity was taking me to Hong and Wong's International Buffet."

I giggle. "Hong and Wong's International Buffet?"

Troy laughs. "I'm serious. That what my dad's idea of culture."

"Where is that anyway. That's not here in Toronto, is it?"

"No. Hamilton."

We reach the door to the guest bedroom. "Is that where you're from?" I open the door and step inside.

"Yeah."

"Cool. I've been to Hamilton a few times."

Troy throws his bags on the bed. "Not much to see, is there?"

I shrug. "I don't know. My friend Stacey and her family took me. We went to the Grey Cup when it was there. It was pretty cool."

"Well, football games are about the only thing to see there," says Troy glumly, flopping down in the computer chair and rummaging through his bag. "That or hockey."

I watch as he pulls out a laptop.

He looks up after a minute. "Do you guys have WiFi?"

I nod. "Yeah. But that password's really long...like it's a bunch of numbers and stuff...I'll have to go and find it. It's written down somewhere"

He smiles. "Great, thanks. I just need to fire off a few e-mails."

"Yeah, no problem."

I hear the doorbell ring.

"That's _got_ to be the pizza...I'll share mine with you...cool?"

Troy shrugs. "Yeah. No worries. I can always go out and get something."

"Whatever you want. There's a noodle place just up the street."

"Sounds good."

I watch him for a second as he stares at his laptop screen, still hardly believing I'm going to be spending the next four weeks with a gorgeous college boy. Stacey and Angela will be so jealous!

"Alright, well...I'll get you the WiFi password and stuff. Do you need anything else?"

He looks at me and smiles and I feel weak in the knees. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks."

I return his smile. "No problem. I'll be back in a few minutes with the WiFi password for you, okay?"

He nods as he punches a number into his cell phone and puts it to his ear. "Sure thing. Thanks."

Who's he calling?

I take my time leaving his room and what I hear makes my heart sink.

"Hey babe...yeah, sorry I couldn't call you earlier. Been busy packing for France..."

What did you think, stupid? That he was single? Besides, he's too old for you. But hey, a girl can dream, can't she?

Chapter Three

UNCLE MARTY

Rosenberg residence. 7:16 p.m. It's raining outside.

"Stop doing that, Josh!"

"What am I doing!?"

He looks at me with a shocked expression on his face, a string of cheese dangling from his mouth.

"You keep taking all the cheese!"

He looks down at his slice of pizza. Globs of cheese fall off the edges.

"I can't help it if all the cheese is attached to the slice I take!"

"Uh, yes you - "

I'm interrupted by a sudden clap of lightning.

"Looks like we've got a storm rolling in," says Troy from his spot on the couch.

I set down my plate and make my way to the patio door. It's pitch black outside and large beads of rain have begun to dot the glass.

"We'd better make sure all the windows are closed. Remember last time we had a thunder storm? Mom's Persian rug was ruined!"

Troy looks at me while Josh munches away on his pizza, zombie-like and completely oblivious to what I've just said.

"Josh, get off your butt and help me close the windows."

His brain finally kicks in. "I can't. I'm eating."

"Josh."

"I'll help you, Sarah," says Troy, setting his laptop aside and getting up from the couch.

I look at him.

Beautiful Troy. Beautiful man-god Troy.

"Thanks, but you're a guest and you shouldn't have to." I set my angriest stare on my brother. _"Josh."_

He doesn't answer.

"Josh, are you ignoring me now?"

He shakes his head. "I'm eating."

I snap. "JOSH!"

"It's alright," says Troy hastily, putting a hand on my arm, "I'll help you...how about I go and get all the upstairs windows?"

I glare at Josh. He's making me look like a crazy person in front of Troy. Well, I'm not going to let this slide.

"Thanks, Troy. That's nice of you. But Josh really should be helping. Josh."

"I told you already! I'm eating!"

"Fine! Eat! You're such a pig!"

"Hey," says Troy calmly, looking at me with his smoldering eyes. "It's alright." He smiles and I melt. "I don't mind helping. I'll go and make sure all the windows are closed upstairs, alright?"

I sigh, glaring at my brother one more time. "Alright. Thank you, _Troy_."

"Hey, it's no problem," he calls as he heads up the stairs.

"Thank you!" I holler back.

I turn to my brother. "See Josh. Troy's a gentleman. You're just...a pig," I say again, wishing I could think of something better to call him.

He says nothing and I head to dad's office to close the large window above his desk. The blinds are up and as I make my way towards it, I freeze. There's a shadow moving past the window. It disappears a second later and I'm left staring at the dampening screen and listening to the pattering of rain sound against the siding of the house.

Is someone outside?

"Josh?"

Now I actually want my dumb brother.

There's no answer.

"JOSH!"

"What? What the hell, Sarah!?"

I feel stupid.

"Can you...can you come in here for a second?"

I hear him groan.

"I just need you for a second." I look back at the window. "Hurry up."

"Fine..."

You're just imagining things, Sarah.

Rain continues to come through the screen over my window and drops of water have begun to drip inside.

Damn it.

Papers on the desk are taking on water now, but I'm not willing to get any closer to the window without my brother in the room. Not with the possibility of something - or _someone_ \- lurking just on the other side.

"JOSH!"

"What!? Geez, can't a guy just enjoy his pizza?" he grumbles as he enters dad's office.

I ignore him and, feeling more confident now that he's in the room, move to close my window. As I do so, there's an earth-shattering, explosive clap of lightning that lights up the entire room.

Terrified, I scream.

Josh, standing two feet behind me, swears loudly.

And staring at us through the window, with an equally terrified expression on his face, is Uncle Marty.

* * *

"What happened to you?" I ask as I hold the patio door open. My uncle steps inside, dripping wet from head to toe. "And why are you so late? I thought you were going to be here for supper."

He sighs. "It's a long story, Sarah. I think we had best get inside first and then I'll explain everything."

I step aside and he moves past me, his wet shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor. He looks at Troy and Josh as he removes his fogged up glasses. "It's a bit wet out there."

"Uncle Marty, it's like a waterfall out there," I counter, closing the patio door as rain begins to dampen the floor.

"I won't disagree," he says with a small chuckle.

"Seriously, Uncle Marty...you're soaking wet. I'll get you a towel."

He looks down at the puddle of water pooling at his feet. "I suppose I could use one..."

I smile and push him toward the large armchair in the corner. "You sit and I'll go get you a towel, Uncle Marty."

"Thank you, Sarah. Have I mentioned you're my favourite niece?"

"I'm your _only_ niece," I say with a laugh as I hurry from the room and up the stairs where I know the linen closet will have a dozen or more towels, mom being a fiend for towels and linen. When I return a minute later, puffy, white towel in hand, Uncle Marty's already halfway through a slice of pizza.

"Hungry, are we?" I ask, handing him the towel.

"Famished," he answers without removing his eyes from his pizza.

"Why are you so late anyway?"

"I'm not too late am I?" he asks, glancing at the watch on his wrist.

"Uh, yeah, it's like," I look up at the clock on the wall, "seven thirty. You were supposed to be here at six."

"Well, I was delayed, unfortunately."

"Delayed?"

"Delayed. It would seem that someone chose this afternoon to break into my apartment."

"No!" Troy exclaims, his expression concerned.

I stare at my uncle. "Are you serious?"

He nods. "Afraid so."

"Well, was...was anything stolen?"

He shakes his head as he polishes off the slice of pizza in his hand.

"They didn't take anything?" asks Troy, clearly as dumbfounded as I am.

"Not a thing. Well, so far as I can tell at least. You know me...I'm not one for fancy things."

I smile sympathetically. Poor Uncle Marty.

"I know. But...still...Uncle Marty...that's not good. Did you call the police?"

He shakes his head as he reaches for another piece of pizza. "No. That would have delayed our trip to France."

My hands move automatically to my hips. "Uncle Marty, this is a _teensy_ bit more important than a trip to France."

"Actually, it's not," he says mildly, setting his pizza on his knee so that he can dry himself with the towel.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well," he says, looking at me, "I believe the break in has to do with the expedition."

Troy looks shocked. "What?"

He nods and sets the towel aside. "Last week, while I was in London - for the Celtic Conference - "

Troy nods. "Right."

" - a man paid a visit to my hotel room. The day I was leaving."

I watch my uncle closely. "What did he want?"

"He wanted to know where we believe the Dumnonian Hoard to be."

"What's a doom \- no - nee - en hoard?"

I glance at Josh to see if he knows, but judging by the vacant expression on his face, he's more clueless than I am.

Uncle Marty chuckles as he takes up his pizza and picks a hair from it. "That's quite a story."

I look at Troy to see if Uncle Marty's pulling my leg, but Troy nods in agreement.

"What kind of story is it?"

Uncle Marty takes a bite of pizza and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's a story that spans about four hundred years."

"A four hundred year old story?" Josh blurts.

"No. The story itself is about a thousand years old. But the time period over which the story takes place covers about four hundred years."

I gape at my uncle. "The story's a _thousand_ years old?"

"That's right."

"And...is this a true story?"

My uncle sniffs as he takes another (small) bite of his pizza. "We believe it to be."

"Well, tell it to us!"

"Tomorrow," he says, his tone severe. "We've got a long journey ahead of us and there will be ample opportunity to tell you the story then."

"But I can't wait until tomorrow!"

I look to Troy for some sympathy.

He makes a face. "It is a pretty long story, Sarah. It's also kind of complicated."

"But...but..."

"In the morning," says Uncle Marty, finishing his slice of pizza and rising from his chair. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll head to bed."

"But...I want to hear the story...and what about your apartment? If you were broken into, Uncle Marty, I really think - "

My plea falls on deaf ears.

"Tomorrow, Sarah," says Uncle Marty, heading for the bathroom. "I'll explain everything tomorrow. Let's just get a good sleep tonight and all will be better in the morning."

"But everything's good _now_!"

Troy throws me a sympathetic smile as he gets up off the couch and carries his plate to the kitchen.

Why do adults always do that? Tell you something and then don't tell you the rest until later!? I hate that!

Chapter Four

FLIGHT TO FRANCE

Rosenberg residence. The following morning.

"Come on you two, we need to get a move on. I don't want to be late."

Next morning, Uncle Marty's more agitated than I've ever seen him.

"You two really have to stop dilly-dallying and get ready."

"But I can't find my Nintendo DS," my brother whines as he and Uncle Marty cross paths in the kitchen.

"I think you can manage a few weeks without video games. We're going to be doing some pretty exciting stuff."

"A few weeks without video games? Are you crazy? I'll be so bored!"

Troy laughs. "Have you ever tried it? It's not that bad."

Josh scowls at him. "No..."

I look at Troy and smile.

Now you're pissing off my brother...what amazing thing will you do next!?

"Well, it's really not that bad."

"I want my Nintendo DS."

I look at my brother.

How immature...

"Josh, quit being such a little diva."

He looks at me. "You quit being such a little diva."

I gape at him. "Uh, how am _I_ being a diva?"

"You two," Uncle Marty snaps, "that's enough. Joshua, go and look for your Nintendo DS. Sarah," his voice softens, though only slightly, "eat your breakfast and don't talk to him until we're on our way to the airport."

My brother mutters something and stomps off down the hallway. I glance at Troy, wondering what he thinks of our latest family feud. He's got his nose in a book though and he seems to be more interested in that.

"Good book?" I ask, taking up a spoonful of Cheerios.

He looks up at me and in case I'd forgotten just how gorgeous he is, I'm suddenly reminded.

"Not really...my girlfriend lent it to me...she recommended it."

"Oh...what book?"

Troy grins and turns the cover so it faces me.

I laugh. "Dark Moon!?"

He's blushing now, actually blushing.

" _You're_ reading Dark Moon!?"

"Sarah, please quit gabbing and eat your breakfast," says Uncle Marty as he finishes wiping down the counter, his tone impatient. "Our taxi will be here in thirty minutes and I want you ready."

"I'm not allowed to talk to _anyone_ now? I thought you just said I couldn't talk to Josh."

Uncle Marty looks like he's about to respond, but then he puts his hands in the air and leaves the kitchen.

Troy looks at me as he slides off the stool. "I think we'd better get ready."

"But wait! You have to tell me why you don't like Dark Moon!" I laugh. "Is it because it's a _girls'_ book?"

"It's not a girls' book...is it?"

I look at him. "Uh...vampires and romance and all that stuff. I think it's a girls' book."

Troy almost looks embarrassed. "Well...hmm...no wonder I don't like it that much."

I make a face and continue eating my cereal.

"Whatever," he says, flipping the book over in his hands, "I'll still read it. It'll give me something to do on the plane at least."

"You and Uncle Marty are supposed to tell me this big story you guys couldn't tell me last night. Can't you do that on the plane?"

Troy grins as he rinses his dishes in the sink and loads them in the dishwasher. "I guess so, eh."

"Uh, yeah," I answer, laughing, though I'm not sure why because there's nothing funny about them holding out on telling me this story.

"Alright. That'll pass the time for sure."

"Cool. And I want all the details. No leaving any parts out."

"Alright," says Troy, nodding smartly as he makes his way from the kitchen.

"Alright," I call after him, bringing the bowl to my mouth and drinking straight from it now that he's no longer in the room.

This might just be a fun little vacation after all!

* * *

I thought the cab ride to the airport would be boring.

It wasn't.

First we had to stop at the university so Uncle Marty could check to see if everything in his office was okay, you know, since his apartment had been broken into and all. He'd kept us waiting in the cab, but then when he came out he told us we'd be switching cabs.

"Was your office broken into too!?" I'd asked.

He'd shaken his head and grumbled something about "not bothering him."

However, the cab driver was sure bothered by the fact that all of a sudden Uncle Marty wanted to change cabs.

"You told me I was bringing you to the airport! That's why I took this call!" he'd screamed, his accent so thick it took great pains to make out precisely what he was saying.

Uncle Marty didn't really have much to say to this and so he'd just dug into his wallet and taken out a fifty.

"That won't cover it!" the cabbie had screamed.

Troy then added another twenty to this and we were on our way. Though not until the cab driver had thrown our bags on the sidewalk.

"Is he allowed to do that!?" I'd protested as he'd squealed away, swerving past crowds of pedestrians and making them jump to the side.

Uncle Marty had of course said that, no, he wasn't allowed to do that, but he added that we were in too much a hurry to worry about it.

"I'll send a complaint via e-mail once we're in France. I got his number."

After that little fiasco we then had to flag down another cab. This turned out to be a task requiring all four of us as every cab seemed to be occupied and we had to run all around the loop trying to find one that wasn't.

Josh had been the one to find a free cab though we had to drag our bags three hundred metres over to where the cab was parked. Needless to say, it was a lot of added stress to an already stressful start to our trip.

In the end we'd made it to Pearson International Airport with time to spare. Well, not much time. Forty eight minutes by Troy's watch - just enough to check in and make it through security.

Now, lounging in the terminal and waiting to board our flight, I relax with a bag of chips and my magazine. Sprawled out on the comfy chairs beside me are Troy with his laptop and Josh with his Nintendo DS. Uncle Marty's gone to get a newspaper and a coffee.

"How much longer, mom?" the little boy seated in the row of chairs behind ours asks the pretty redhead beside him.

"Not much longer, sweetheart," the woman answers, smiling at me as I look on.

"He's a cutie," I say.

"Thanks. Wanna have him?"

I laugh. "Why, is he being a handful?"

The woman rolls her eyes. "A handful and then some."

I laugh and wave at the little boy who, suddenly shy, burrows his face in his mom's sweater.

Now it's the woman's turn to laugh. "Tyson! Don't be so shy!" She looks at me. "He can be so shy sometimes."

I nod. "My friend's little brother is like that."

DING.

I stop and look up, waiting to hear the message from the intercom.

"Canada Air flight four seven two to Paris – we will now commence priority boarding. Those in first class, and those with small children or those needing extra assistance, are invited to board at this time. Please have your boarding passes and passports ready."

DING.

"That's us," says the woman as the same message is relayed in French. She pries her son's fingers from her blouse and stands him on his feet. "Come on, Tyson. Can you - "

He falls on his bum and looks up at her.

I giggle as she smiles and picks him up in her arms.

"Oh, you're getting too heavy for mommy to carry you."

She looks at me for some support and I offer her a sympathetic smile. "See you on the plane."

She smiles and they head to the front of the gate as I swing around in my chair. Troy is still on his laptop and Josh is still off in his own little world with his Nintendo DS.

"Did my uncle come back yet?"

Troy shakes his head without removing his eyes from the screen. "No. I'll text him though and see where he is."

"Good idea. Oh, wait, you don't have to. There he is."

Troy glances up. Uncle Marty is approaching, a coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

"About time," I say once he's within earshot.

He scowls and takes a seat, unfolding _The Globe and Mail_ as he does so.

"So...Uncle Marty..."

He sighs. "Yes, Sarah."

"Did we switch cabs at the university because you think someone's following us? And is that why you came to the patio door last night?"

He lowers his newspaper and looks from me, to Troy (who seems to be as interested in his answer as I am), and back at me. "I came to the patio door last night because, yes, I wasn't sure if I was perhaps being watched or followed and I didn't want anything to jeopardize this expedition."

"Okay..."

"And yes, we switched cabs just in case whoever broke into my apartment managed to follow me to your guys' house last night."

"And do you think anyone did?"

He shakes his head. "No. I was very careful."

I chew on this for a minute. "I just don't see how we can go on this expedition with some bad guy potentially following us...I mean, what if this person kidnaps me and Josh and sells us to people who take our organs. I saw that in a movie."

Uncle Marty looks thoroughly exasperated. "Sarah, no one is going to be stealing your and Joshua's organs."

My brother looks up at the sound of his name and I find myself smiling at the worried expression on his face.

"Who's stealing our organs?"

"No one," Uncle Marty snaps. He glares at me. "See what you've started?"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Marty! But like I said, what if this guy who came to your hotel room is like a really bad dude?"

Uncle Marty looks at me, his expression grim. "I don't know what to say."

"What exactly did this guy want?" asks Troy.

"He offered to help us find the Dumnonian Hoard. I told him I wasn't going to share any information with him and then he said - " Uncle Marty stops short, as though he's swallowed a bug.

I look at him, my eyes urging him to continue. " _And?_ What did he say?"

"He said..." Uncle Marty looks almost sad now as he looks at me and then at Troy. "He said...I hadn't seen the last of him."

"He said that!?"

Even Troy looks shocked. "That's a threat."

Uncle Marty sighs. "Perhaps...perhaps...I have been a little wanton in my disregard for the threat this man might pose..."

"Wonton?" Josh pipes up. "Like wonton soup?"

"Want - tun," says Uncle Marty, clearly unhappy with Josh's interruption. "As in casual. Lackadaisical. Dismissive."

Josh draws a blank. (So do I, though it's not like I'm about to admit it. Not with Troy, Mr. College Boy sitting beside me.) "Lackadaisical?"

Uncle Marty gives a great sigh of annoyance. "Just what exactly are they teaching you kids in school these days!?"

Josh looks almost hurt by Uncle Marty's angry outburst.

"Our teacher's twenty three," I say.

"So he or she has probably never even looked at a real dictionary. Everything's online now or on your iPad or laptop or whatever."

"Yeah...so?"

"So? It's because of all those gadgets that everyone's going soft in the head."

"Soft in the head?" asks Josh, and I swear he's not even trying to piss off Uncle Marty.

"Good grief..." says Uncle Marty, looking away and taking a sip of his coffee.

"Look, let's get back on topic. Uncle Marty. This man who came to see you in your hotel room. Do you think he's the one that broke into your apartment?"

"I don't know, Sarah. I have no idea. All I know is that whoever that man was, Nigel Cook was the name he gave, though who knows if that's even his real name. He's certainly not the kind of fellow I'd like to meet in a dark alley..."

"I can take him, professor," says Troy, flexing a bicep.

I feel my eyes gravitate to his muscular torso and I like what I see. "Yeah, Troy can take him."

Uncle Marty purses his lips and shakes his head in annoyance. "No one's _taking_ anyone. Any sign of trouble and I'll be contacting the authorities. The French take the preservation of their artifacts very seriously and they're not about to let some black market antique dealer try and take off with valuable artifacts."

"I thought we were going on a treasure hunt," I say quietly.

"It's not a treasure...good grief, Sarah. This is an archaeological expedition. We are seeking a fifteen hundred year old stockpile of valuable artifacts. Yes, many of them could be classified as _treasure_ , though I'm loathe to use that word as there isn't anything financial about this. This is purely for the sake of history and uncovering history. Anything we find goes through Fabrice. He'll be overseeing the dig site."

"Who's Fabrice?"

"Fabrice is Head of Artifacts at the Museum of Brittany in Rennes."

"Oh."

"Troy and I have been collaborating with Fabrice since last year," Uncle Marty continues. "In fact it was Fabrice, or I guess I should say, Dr. Rondeau, who initially suggested Porspoder as a possible location for the Dumnonian Hoard."

"Pors – poh – dair?"

"Yes, Porspoder. That's where we're going."

"Oh. And that's in Brittany?"

"Yes. Right on the coast."

I nod and sit back. I need to let all this new information settle.

"Sarah," says my uncle after a time, "I don't want you to be worried. Whoever _might_ be following us...we'll be fine. You'll be safe."

"Promise?"

Uncle Marty emits an exasperated sigh. "Promise. The minute I sense some sort of danger, I'll be contacting the local authorities."

"What if they don't listen to you?"

Another sigh. "Sarah, they will listen because I'll have Fabrice with me."

"What's Fabrice got to do with anything?"

"Fabrice is a French citizen. He speaks the language. And he's from Brittany."

I nod, slowly, my next question already forming in my mind. "You promised you'd tell us the one thousand year old story."

Troy laughs. "She sure doesn't let you forget anything!"

"No, I don't," I say, seriously, though I shoot Troy a smile.

Uncle Marty sighs, crosses one leg over the other, and sets his newspaper aside. "I did promise, didn't I? Alright...well...here it goes. In about the seventh century A.D. - "

DING.

"Canada Air flight four seven two to Paris – we will now commence general boarding. We will begin with those seated in rows forty through twenty five. Please have your boarding passes and passports ready."

DING.

Uncle Marty folds up his newspaper and rises slowly to his feet as the message is replayed in French.

He looks at us. "Well?"

"I want to hear the story!"

Annoyed as I am at being prevented, yet again, from hearing the story, I have to laugh with the rest of them.

"We've got a seven hour plane ride ahead of us, Sarah. That's plenty of time to tell you the story."

"Yeah, Sarah," Josh chimes.

"Oh, shut up."

"You shut up."

"Kids," says Uncle Marty sternly. "Your mother has asked me to keep her updated on your behaviour over the next four weeks and so I'll be e-mailing to her every few day. What I report depends on how you behave."

"Sorry, Uncle Marty."

"Yeah...sorry, Uncle Marty."

He nods, happier than I've seen him all morning, as we move to take our place in line. "Apologies accepted. Now let's see if you two can keep from arguing between here and France."

Psssh. Fat chance.

Chapter Five

SUSPICIOUS STRANGER

Two and a half hours later. On the plane. Plane is in flight. Josh, Troy, Sarah, and Uncle Marty – seated in that order – from left to right - take up the four seats in the middle row. There's an aisle on either side of theirs.

"Uncle Marty..."

"Yes, Sarah?"

"This treasure we're going to find...how come no one's found it already? I mean...like...since you said it's been there for, like, a thousand years already..."

We're two hours into our flight, and according to the flight tracker on the little TV console set into the headrest, we're somewhere over Newfoundland.

Uncle Marty looks at Troy. "You want to take this one?"

Troy nods and closes his laptop. "Sure." He folds up his tray table and stows his laptop in the seat pouch before turning to face me. "For the longest time people believed the Dumnonian Hoard was in England."

"Wait...what exactly is doom – no – neeya...I know you told me earlier, but I forget."

"Dumnonia," Uncle Marty answers, clearly not willing to let Troy take my questions after all, "was the name of a region, or kingdom, I suppose we should say, in southwestern England - "

"When?"

Despite my interrupting him, Uncle Marty smiles. (I figure he must appreciate my eagerness). "Dumnonia existed from about three hundred A.D. until approximately eight hundred A.D."

"What happened? Like, why did it disappear?"

Uncle Marty motions to Troy as though to say "go ahead".

Troy clears his throat. "Dumnonia was eventually overrun by the West Saxons."

"What are West Saxons?"

" _Who_ were the West Saxons," says Uncle Marty, his tone a correcting one.

"Okay... _who_ were the West Saxons?" I ask, enunciating the word "who".

Troy smiles. "The West Saxons were a branch of Anglo Saxon."

"Oh, oh," I say excitedly, "I know this. We did this in history last year...in Miss Newton's class! The Anglo Saxons were like the people from Sweden and Norway, right?"

Troy laughs and I hope it's because of my sudden burst of enthusiasm and not because I've said something stupid. "That's right, Sarah. Wow."

"Wow, indeed," Uncle Marty exclaims, cutting in yet again before Troy can continue. "My gosh..." His eyes are shining. "You are one smart young woman." He points a finger at me. "Spend less time bickering and arguing with your brother and more time studying and you'll make a first class archaeologist someday."

I feel myself blush. "I do pay attention in class every once in awhile, Uncle Marty."

"Well, it shows." He pushes his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "Now of course, there were different groups of Anglo-Saxons. Oh, sorry Troy, I was going to let you field this one." He raises the plastic cup the flight attendant gave him - it still holds some ginger ale – though it's mostly ice cubes now as he's drunk most of the ginger ale - and motions for Troy to continue.

Troy flashes another one of his gorgeous smiles. "But you're doing such a good job, professor..."

"I've already told you Mister Trottier, flattery gets you nowhere."

Troy laughs. "Alright...at least I tried." He looks at me and winks before his expression grows serious. "Right...well...so the Anglo-Saxons colonized what is today England. And over time they kept expanding their settlements. Different groups of Anglo-Saxons came at different times – and from different places – but what united them was their heritage and their desire for new lands. England at the time was ripe for the picking because the Romans had just left to return to Rome in order to defend it against the barbarians - "

"Barbarians? Who were the barbarians?" Josh suddenly seems interested in our conversation.

Troy pauses for a second. "Germanic tribes mainly...Franks and Visigoths and groups like that."

Uncle Marty sniffs and sips his ice cubes as though he would have answered the question differently, though he says nothing.

"So wait...what happened to the Dumnonians?" I ask.

"They're actually referred to as _Dumnonii_ ," Uncle Marty interjects.

"Fine...the doom – no – nigh," I repeat, enunciating every syllable. I return my gaze to Troy. "So what happened to them?"

Troy shrugs. "Well...without beating around the bush...the Anglo-Saxons conquered them and took their lands. Just as they'd done with the other native tribes."

"Native tribes? You mean like our natives here in Canada?"

Troy smiles. "No. Native simply means...native to that land. As in, you were born and raised there. It's your native land."

"Really?" asks Josh, his tone thoroughly incredulous.

"Yes," says Uncle Marty, biting at the rim of his cup, his face wearing an impatient expression.

I can tell he's probably wondering (once again) just what exactly they teach us in school these days...

I look at Troy. "So the Dumnonians - I mean, _Dumnonii_ ," I correct myself, glancing at my uncle, "were natives of England then?"

"That's right."

"And so...the West Saxons killed them? That's why they disappeared?"

Troy makes a face. "Not...exactly. Some were killed, of course. There were several significant battles between the two groups...but not all of the Dumnonii were killed. What happened was that their land was taken. Most of it anyways. And those of them who didn't wish to live under West Saxon rule, fled into the hills and into Wales and across the Channel to France."

"So wait?" asks Josh, thoroughly engrossed in our conversation. "What about the treasure? What about the Dumnonian Hoard?"

Uncle Marty smiles. "Well, now, see, that's the great debate."

I stare slant-eyed at my uncle. "What do you mean, a great debate? Does it not exist?"

"Oh it certainly exists..." Uncle Marty turns to Troy once more. "I think you should take this question too. This is, after all, a mock thesis defense."

Troy laughs. "I guess in a way that's exactly what it is."

I want to ask what a thesis defense is, but I want to hear more about the Dumnonian Hoard.

"So where's the Dumnonian Hoard then?"

"Just a second, Sarah. Troy's going to explain that."

I look at Troy. That handsome face. Those pretty eyes. _Man_ pretty, that is. "Well?"

Troy laughs again. "Wow, you really are interested in all this stuff, aren't you?"

"Uh...yeah...we're going to find treasure. _Treasure_. That means if we find it, we'll be rich."

Uncle Marty makes a sound. "Sarah, I've already told you that whatever we find becomes the property of the French government."

My brother's jaw drops about three inches. "Wha..."

"Yes. That's how it works. You didn't actually think we'd get to keep the treasure if we found it...did you?"

All eyes are on my brother now.

"No...well, I mean...I thought we'd get to keep _some_ of it..."

Uncle Marty takes the rest of the ice cubes from his cup into his mouth and shakes his head. "Nope."

"Then why are we going to find it!?"

"Because, Joshua, that way these _artifacts_ will be in a museum, where they belong. Such artifacts are learning tools. We're constantly learning more about past civilizations and having these artifacts available for all to see and learn from is what history is all about."

"But...you...you could be rich."

I scoff at my brother's remark. "Not everything's about money, stupid."

He looks at me. "Not everything's about clothes and make-up and boys."

I laugh. "What? That doesn't even make any sense."

"Joshua," says my uncle, his tone impatient now, "I didn't get into this field to get rich. I got into this field to contribute to the dialogue and the discussion. History and the social sciences are all about dialogue and discussion."

I glance at my brother and am glad to see he's as confused as I am.

"Think of it this way," Uncle Marty continues, reacting to my brother's incomprehension. "It's a tennis match and we're having a rally. That's all, just a rally. No one's trying to win. By hitting the ball back and forth, we are having a kind of dialogue, literally bouncing ideas off one another in order to gain a better understanding of our subject. In this case, the Dumnonii and their civilization."

"That actually...that actually kind of makes sense, Uncle Marty," says my brother, the light bulb going on.

I don't know about you, but that sure didn't make sense to me...

Uncle Marty smiles. "Very good. Now you understand why a discovery such as the Dumnonian Hoard really belongs in a museum."

My brother nods enthusiastically. "Yeah."

"If we were to seek out the Dumnonian Hoard merely for personal gain, what would that accomplish?"

"I get it, Uncle Marty."

Uncle Marty nods, seemingly satisfied. "Very well."

"Anything to drink, folks? Tea? Coffee?"

We all turn and look at the attractive flight attendant who's just spoken. She's got wavy, chestnut coloured hair and brown eyes. Her mascara is perfect. Her blush is perfect. Her lips are perfect. I'm jealous. Even moreso when she exchanges a smile with Troy.

Back off, lady.

Uncle Marty turns to Josh and I. "Anything to drink guys?" He returns his attention to the flight attendant. "Have you got juice...or V8?"

She smiles. A perfect smile I hate to say.

"Yes. We've got apple, orange..."

She rattles off an entire list, though I'm hardly listening. I'm more fixated on how perfect she is.

Where do they find these girls!? Every flight attendant is like...a nine. And I'm just...I'm just me.

"Sarah? Do any of those appeal to you?"

Uncle Marty's voice shakes me from my stupor. I look up at the flight attendant - well, more _through_ her. I won't satisfy her with anymore awestruck stares.

"I'll have orange juice, please."

"Of course," she says.

Gah, even her voice is nice.

I glance at Troy. He's clearly as smitten as I am - and I'm not even attracted to her. I can only imagine what _he_ must be thinking...

She hands me a Minute Maid can of orange juice and I take it. "Thanks."

She nods and then shifts her gaze to the others. "Anyone else?"

"When's supper?" asks Josh, sounding concerned.

She laughs. (To her credit, it's a polite laugh.) "Are you getting hungry, mister?"

Josh nods.

"He's a big eater, this one," says Troy.

Oh, I see how it is. Getting all flirty with the flight attendant now...

I can't help but feel somewhat annoyed with Troy.

"Well, he must just take after his older brother," she says with a wink.

Troy seems to blush. "Oh, we're not..." he looks at Josh, "we're not related."

"Oh."

I love how she feels all awkward now.

"Well, if those two don't want anything," Uncle Marty says, his voice drowning out everyone else, "I'll go ahead and get another ginger ale."

"Certainly."

"I want a grape Crush," says Josh.

She smiles and looks at my brother as she pours Uncle Marty's ginger ale. "Sure thing."

_Oh, stop smiling._ _Gah, she's annoying._

She hands Uncle Marty his drink. "And so, as I said, we will be rolling out the supper cart soon. You've got the choice of either chicken or beef - unless you requested one of the special meals?"

"What's a special meal?" asks Josh, eyeing his grape Crush as she removes the can from the cold box in her cart.

She smiles. "Special meals are like diabetic, kosher, vegetarian..."

"We're Jewish...but we don't eat kosher..."

She smiles again and passes him the can of grape Crush. "You had to request it when you purchased your tickets." She looks at Uncle Marty. "Do you know if you requested the kosher meals, sir?"

Uncle Marty shakes his head. "Goodness, no. I can't even remember the last time I set foot inside a synagogue - let alone the last time I ate kosher!"

"Fair enough," she says with another smile.

Oh my god - stop smiling!

"I imagine we'll all have the chicken," says Uncle Marty, turning to the rest of us. "Hey?"

I nod. "Chicken's fine by me."

"Me too," says Josh.

"Me three," says Troy.

The flight attendant finds this cute and laughs.

Oh, puhleeeeease.

"You never did tell me what you'd like to drink."

Troy looks at her. "I'll just get a bottle of water, thanks."

She smiles. "Of course."

I want to strangle her by now and it's a good thing when she finally moves her cart along.

"Uncle Martyyyyy," I groan, growing impatient. "Am I ever going to get to hear this story?"

He's halfway through a sip of his ginger ale and he takes it from his mouth as though it's on fire. "Sorry, Sarah. I do mean to tell you the rest. Where were we?"

"You were telling Josh how the Dumnonian Hoard, if we find it, belongs in a museum."

"Ah, yes. Well \- "

"But that's not the part I want to hear," I interject. "Where, for one, _is_ the Dumnonian Hoard? Or, I mean, where do you _think_ it is?"

"Now there's the million dollar question...and yes, that's pun intended."

Hunh?

"What's a pun?" asks Josh, a bewildered expression etched across his face.

Uncle Marty massages his temples, evidently too exasperated with Josh to reply.

I watch him and fold my arms across my chest. "Well? Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The Dumnonian Hoard!"

Uncle Marty turns to Troy. "I'll let you tackle this one."

Troy grins. "Sure...so that if we don't find it, it's my fault."

Uncle Marty chuckles. "You've got that right!"

Troy shakes his head in amusement. "Alright. So, we think the Dumnonian Hoard is in Porspoder because Budoc once had a monastery there."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. First off, where is porse - poh - dair again? I know Uncle Marty told me already, but...and number two, who the heck is Boo - dock?"

"Porspoder is a small French town on the northwest coast of France," Troy explains calmly. "In Brittany province. Where we're going."

"Right...okay..."

"It's more of a village," Uncle Marty adds, taking a sip of his ginger ale. "Roughly sixteen hundred people - two thousand if you include the surrounding villages."

I nod. "Alright. And who's Budoc?"

" _Saint_ Budoc," answers Troy, "was a man who lived during the sixth century. He was a bishop from Brittany and he was celebrated in both the Dumnonia in England and the Dumnonia in France."

"So wait - there's still a Dumnonia in England?" asks Josh, suddenly interested in our discussion again.

"No," says Uncle Marty, though he's not impatient. "Dumnonia today makes up what are the two counties of Devon and Cornwall."

"Oh."

"And what about in France?" I ask. "Would the be Brittany province now?"

Uncle Marty's face breaks into smile. "That's it. _Precisely_." He's looking at me with that same sense of wonder he had when I answered the question about the Anglo Saxons. "You sure don't miss a beat, Sarah."

I feel myself blush under his and Troy's scrutiny. My brother, meanwhile, is pretending not to notice the praise being heaped upon me.

"So...wait. Why, exactly, do you think the Dumnonian Hoard is in Porspoder?"

Uncle Marty looks at Troy. "Here's your chance to shine, Mister Trottier."

Troy grins. "I don't know about that..."

"Oh, quit being so damn modest," says Uncle Marty with a wave of his hand. "Defending your thesis to Sarah is a lot easier than a panel of tenured professors!"

"This is true."

"Why does he have to defend his thesis?" I ask. "What is that anyway?"

"It basically means I have to explain my thesis and justify my arguments."

"What's your thesis?"

"You don't know what a thesis is?" Josh blurts, adding a snort of derision.

"I know what a thesis is, dumb ass. I'm asking Troy what _his_ thesis is."

My stunning retort renders my brother speechless.

"You two really need to work on arguing less," says Uncle Marty, his tone grave. "We can't have you fighting the entire time. I won't allow it. In fact, - "

Uncle Marty's interrupted by a laugh from the woman in the aisle next to us.

We look at her. She's got dark hair and piercing black eyes and her lip stick is this dark shade of red similar to what Stacey's mom uses.

"I'm sorry...I didn't mean..." she laughs again. "Ludwig and I used to fight like zat ven vee ver children."

Her German accent makes me smile. I'm not sure why. Probably because I've never met someone with a German accent. Well, not in person at least. I've seen and heard plenty in the movies...

"Well, these two are getting to be too old to be fighting like they do," Uncle Marty replies, casting a stern eye toward me and Josh.

"How old are zey?"

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen!? Why, in Germany they would be able to vote next year." The woman leans forward in her seat to get a better look at us. "You cannot be so immature as zat at zis age...it's not right."

Uncle Marty nods. "Exactly what I've been trying to tell them."

The woman smiles. "Well, hopefully your vacation will make them appreciate you more." She turns to us. "You must show respect to your father."

Uncle Marty chuckles. "They're not mine."

At the same time, I chime in with: "He's not our dad."

"They're my brother's."

"He's our uncle."

The woman's expression is suddenly apologetic. "Oh, I am very sorry."

Uncle Marty chuckles. "No need to apologize. We seem to get that quite often, actually." He looks at me and I look away.

It's bad enough he's my uncle...to have him as my dad!? No thanks!

"Well, this is my brother, anyway," says the woman, indicating the man beside her.

Unlike her, he's got blonde - almost bleached looking - hair and he's wearing a tan coloured Ralph Polo blazer.

Uncle Marty nods in his direction. "Nice to meet you." He turns to the woman. "I didn't get your name..."

"Mika."

"Mika," Uncle Marty repeats. He seems to by trying the name out on his tongue. "Mee - kah."

"And my brother, Ludwig?"

"Looh - dwig."

Mika smiles. "Your pronunciation is very goot."

Her voice is throaty and has a purr to it. And with her long nails and striking dark eyes, she seems more cat than woman.

"Your accent...," says Uncle Marty slowly. Is that...German?"

"Yay!" Mika exclaims, clapping her hands with delight. "How did you guess?"

I've never seen Uncle Marty blush the way I see him blush now. "Oh...you know...I've met a few people from Germany in my time."

Mika nods politely. "Well, now you've met two more."

"I suppose I have," says Uncle Marty with a smile.

"And you? Vat is your name?"

"Martin. Martin Rosenberg. And these are my niece and nephew, Sarah and Joshua. And this here," he reaches an arm across me and claps Troy on the shoulder, "is my grad student, Troy Trottier."

"Pleased to meet you," says Troy, nodding in Mika and Ludwig's direction.

Mika smiles, purring softly. "And? Where are you all from?" she asks, her brown eyes probing and intelligent.

"Canada. The country we just left."

Mika claps her hands together as she did before. "Oh, how fortunate you are! Such a lovely country! Hey, Ludwig? _Kanada ist schön?_ "

Ludwig's expression is one of agreement. " _Ja_ , _kanada ist schön._ "

I turn to Troy and whisper: "Do you know what they're saying?"

He nods. "Yeah. They're saying that Canada is beautiful."

I'm impressed. Troy speaks German too...no wonder Jamie (Stacey's older sister) is always going on about how good college guys are so much better than high school guys...

"Were you visiting?" asks Uncle Marty, slurping down the rest of his ginger ale.

Mika smiles, flashing two rows of pearly whites. "Sort of. I was on business. Only for Ludwig, it was a holiday."

"Lucky guy," says Uncle Marty, throwing a nod to Ludwig.

"I don't know about zat, Martin," says Ludwig. "If lucky is holding your sister's purse and going with her shopping the whole day." He and Uncle Marty share a laugh. "Then, yes, I suppose you can say zat I am lucky."

"My sympathies," says Uncle Marty with another chuckle.

Mika mocks their laughing with a sarcastic laugh of her own. "And meanwhile I am zee one who makes zee money in our household. Perhaps next time," she turns to her brother. "I will make you pay for your half of zee vacation."

Now it's Ludwig's smile that disappears.

Mika laughs. "But then, where would I be without my _bruder_?"

There's a pause and then after a minute, Uncle Marty asks: "What do you do for a living, Mika? If I can ask..."

"What do you mean, what do I do for a living, Martin?"

She's teasing him, I can tell. Though I'm not sure he can.

"I mean...sorry...I didn't mean to be rude."

She leans across the aisle and rests a hand on his arm. "I'm only joking with you, Martin. You Canadians are too polite sometimes."

(Uncle Marty shrugs apologetically causing Mika to laugh.)

"I verk in fashion. I'm a buyer."

"Oh, isn't that interesting. I'm sure my niece would love to pick your brain about that," Uncle Marty turns away from her and toward me, "hey, Sarah, did you hear that? Mika works in fashion. I'll bet she's met all sorts of famous models. Like the ones in your magazines."

"Um...yeah...maybe."

I know you're trying to be nice, Uncle Marty, but...gah.

"I vud love to talk about my virk vith you, Sarah," says Mika, leaning forward and looking directly at me. "Or, as your uncle says, pick my brain. Vat an odd expression..."

Her eyes are almost dangerous. With their long eyelashes and piercing gaze.

"Um...yeah..." I give a nervous laugh. I hate being put on the spot.

I look up and see the flight attendant coming down the aisle with the food cart. I never thought I'd say this, but...I'm happy to see her.

"Supper time! Mmmm, I'm starving. Anyone else as hungry as I am?"

On cue, everyone looks up.

"Ah, yes, supper time," says Uncle Marty, unhitching his tray table and letting it down.

"Ahhh, how can you eat when you fly?" asks Mika, seemingly disgusted.

Uncle Marty shrugs. "Never thought about it. Why? Is it bad to eat when you fly?"

"Vell, it's not _goot_. I mean, your body is under a lot of pressure." She turns to Ludwig and rattles off a sentence in German.

He nods as he listens to each word and when she's finished he says something in German (well, what I _presume_ is German) and then adds the word "atmospheric."

" _Ja, ja, ja_ ," says Mika, returning her attention to Uncle Marty, "atmospheric pressure."

She doesn't quite say it right - but it's understandable enough.

"Atmospheric pressure?" asks Uncle Marty, looking perplexed.

"Yes." Mika cups her tight stomach (it's easy to see she's in shape) with both hands, "atmospheric pressure and you can't..." She turns to Ludwig once more and says a word in German.

He translates: "digest."

Now Uncle Marty seems to understand. "Ahhh, so with the increased atmospheric pressure, it's difficult to digest. And therefore you don't eat when you fly."

Mika smiles and then he smiles because he's clearly happy that she's happy.

"Well, then. I suppose you two won't be eating? Would you mind terribly if you asked for a meal anyways and perhaps I could have it?"

I'm horrified at my uncle's question and I slap his arm without thinking.

"Uncle Marty!"

"I mean...er...if it's not too rude of me to ask..." he says timidly, glancing sheepishly at the German siblings.

Mika laughs, a deep throaty laugh. "You Canadians! Overly polite one minute, too bold zee next minute!"

"I really didn't mean to be...bold. I apologize."

"I'm joking vith you! Martin! Lighten up!" She pats his arm and flashes another one of her picture-perfect smiles.

Now, instead of feeling sheepish, Uncle Marty looks almost pleased. "Well...I suppose..."

It's at this moment that the flight attendant arrives. She stops the cart between our row of seats and Mika and Ludwig's row of seats.

"Supper? Did we decide?"

"We did indeed," says Uncle Marty, patting his stomach, his tray table at the ready. "I'll have the chicken."

The flight attendant smiles. "Certainly." She pulls open a metal compartment on her cart, the word "HOT" written on it in big red letters, and I watch as she removes a TV style dinner. It's a metal foil container with a cardboard top.

"There you are, sir," she says, placing it on Uncle Marty's tray table.

"Thank you."

She gives him a smile and shifts her gaze to me. "And for you?"

"Chicken."

She nods and repeats what she's just done for Uncle Marty.

"Thanks."

She nods and moves onto Josh.

In the time it takes for her to serve my brother and Troy and move onto Mika, I can see why Uncle Marty might want another one.

The meals are...tiny. Like...tiny. In one compartment, I count three broccoli stalks and four carrot slices. In another, a miniscule serving of rice. And in another, three chicken tenders, each the size of my pinky finger.

I lean into my uncle. "Can I have some of your extra one?" I whisper, somewhat ashamed to be asking.

He nods without speaking, chewing noisily (mouth closed thankfully!).

When we've finished eating - about half an hour later - the flight attendants come around to gather up the garbage.

"Did you enjoy your meal?" asks the pretty flight attendant who'd served us earlier.

Though she's looking at all of us, I can tell she's addressing Troy specifically \- and I don't like it.

"It was okay," I say, lazily, handing her my empty food container and empty cup. "They sure were small meals..."

The flight attendant offers an apologetic smile. "Yeah...we get that a lot," she says with a nervous laugh

I glance at Troy. He seems mesmerized by her.

"So...have you ever taken your girlfriend on a trip before?" I ask, loud enough for the flight attendant to hear.

I sense her sudden shut down as soon as I've uttered the word "girlfriend".

"What do you mean?"

Troy looks almost angry and I sense I've crossed a line.

"I mean...because we're going to Europe and all...I was just wondering...if you'd ever taken her anywhere or whatever."

He looks at me through slanted eyes and I can tell what he's thinking. He's wondering whether I'm devious enough to do what I just did or whether my question was of a purely innocent nature.

He shakes his head as the flight attendant collects the last of our garbage and moves on. "I have no idea how that is even relevant to anything right now."

"Okay, whoa. I'm sorry."

Troy scowls and looks away.

Holy crap. P.M.S. much?

"Hey, everything alright, you two?"

Uncle Marty looks concerned.

I nod. "Yeah. Everything's alright. Why?"

He glances at Troy. "I don't know...it just seemed like you two might be arguing about something..."

I shake my head. "No. We're good." I look at Troy. "Right?"

He meets my hopeful smile with a stoic nod and that's that.

A few more minutes pass, the lights on the plane are turned down, and after getting myself a blanket and a pillow, I tuck in for some shuteye.

* * *

Much later, I'm awakened by a stunning sunrise. The whole inside of the plane is lit up by its bright rays and I'm practically blinded when I dare to take a peek out the window.

The breakfast cart is coming around and our flight attendant is busy handing out cups of coffee.

"Sleep well?" asks Uncle Marty upon seeing I'm awake.

I nod, yawning and stretching my arms above me. My arms knock into Troy.

"Oops...sorry."

I look at him and I can tell he's still mad at me.

I'm not sure why he's mad at me. I didn't really do anything except casually let our flight attendant know he's got a girlfriend.

His girlfriend would be thankful at least.

I return my attention to Uncle Marty. "Yeah, I did actually. And I usually have trouble sleeping on planes. But I actually had a good sleep...did you sleep at all?"

He yawns and covers his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yes...I got...a few...hours. Ahhhh!"

I laugh. "That was the biggest yawn I've ever seen." In the aisle across, I see Mika and Ludwig, fast asleep, matching blue eye masks strapped to their faces.

Uncle Marty smiles and massages his brow, coaxing the sleep from his face. "Well, we've got quite the day ahead of us so I'm glad I was able to catch a few winks."

"How long until we get there?" asks Josh.

"Vee are landing in forty five minutes," comes a throaty purring voice from across the aisle.

Mika's got her mask off now and still looks as good as she did the night before.

"Forty five minutes?" asks Uncle Marty, turning in his seat. "Is that all?"

She glances at her watch, " _ja_...", and then turns and shakes Ludwig so that he removes his mask. "Ludwig, ..."

And the rest of what she says is in German.

Ludwig nods and consults his watch as he answers in German.

"Yes, about forty five minutes," says Mika, returning her attention to us.

I still can't believe she looks as good as she does when she first wakes up. _European women...you just can't beat 'em when it comes to looking good..._

I feel Troy move beside me and turn to see what he's doing. He's bent over his bag, rummaging for something, and after a second comes up with his laptop.

"Did you sleep well?"

He nods. "Yeah. You?"

I smile. At least he's talking to me again. "Yeah, I did."

I look at my brother. "Did you get any sleep or were you playing video games all night?"

"I slept...a bit."

Judging by the grey bags under his eyes I'm quite certain that "a bit" means about fifteen minutes.

"Well, just make sure you can keep up with us. Because - "

I stop short. There's a man staring at me. He's standing in the aisle, about ten rows ahead, and looking directly at me. Bald, with cold blue eyes and a scar that runs from his eye to his chin, his gaze sends a chill down my spine.

"Ahhh."

"What's the matter?" asks Uncle Marty.

"That man - " I point, but he's turned away now and headed for the front of the plane, around the centre wall so that I can't see him anymore.

"What man?"

"The...the...the bald man." I can hardly speak I'm shaking so much. "That man up there. He had this ugly scar on his face..."

"I'm sorry, Sarah..." Uncle Marty climbs halfway out of his seat so that he's standing. "Which man? I see a lot of men."

"Gah! The man. He was _just_ there!"

"What happened? Is there a man bothering you?"

It's Mika talking now and, judging by her expression, she seems genuinely concerned.

I shake my head. "No...he was just...looking at me."

Mika shakes her head and says what I think are not very nice words in German.

"You tell zee flight attendant that another passenger is giving you trouble."

"No...it's...it's fine."

I don't like that I seem to be creating a scene. And now Troy and Josh are looking at me too.

"It's alright - "

"Here, here she is," says Mika, reaching her arm out and touching the flight attendant. "Excuse me."

The flight attendant, one hand on the coffee cart, turns to face us. "Yes?"

Mika looks at me. "Tell her. Tell her about zee man."

The flight attendant looks at me and I stare back at her, feeling helpless and completely awkward. "I don't know! There was this man...and he was staring at me..."

I can tell by her expression, she thinks I'm crazy.

"I'm not crazy."

"I'm sorry...but...I don't quite understand. You say there was a man staring at you?"

I nod. "Yes."

She seems to be pondering something.

"What did he look like?" asks Mika. "Tell her what he looks like and maybe she knows vair he is sitting."

I look at her. "He was bald." I switch my gaze to Uncle Marty. "And he had these cold blue eyes." I look at the flight attendant. "And he had a scar on his face. A really ugly scar."

The flight attendant purses her lips and I can tell I'm getting nowhere.

"Whatever..."

"I'm sorry," she says finally, "I'd like to help...but I just...I'm not sure what I can do. Are you sure he was staring at _you_ and not someone _behind_ you maybe?"

"He was staring at _me_ ," I say thickly, feeling annoyed by the dozens of eyes on me.

"It's not a crime to stare at someone..." Uncle Marty muses aloud. "Rude, yes, but a crime, no. Was his stare...inappropriate in nature?"

I shake my head. "No. It was just...it was creepy."

They're all quiet now - even the rows of people behind us and in front of us ( _they probably all think I'm crazy.._.) - and I wish we could hurry up and land already.

As though on command, there's a _DING_ and a voice sounds on over the intercom. "Good morning, folks. We're about to begin our descent into Paris. If you could please stow your tray tables away and return your seats to an upright position. The seatbelt sign will be coming on shortly so do use the bathroom now if you need. A reminder that all carry on luggage is to be stowed properly under seats or in overhead compartments. (There's a lot of scrambling now \- the clicking of seat belts, conversations between parents over little Timmy or Suzie's diaper bag, and the sounds of overhead compartments being open and closed.) We'll be coming around to collect anymore garbage. Thank you for choosing Canada Air and we hope you enjoy your stay in Paris."

There's another _DING_ and then the intercom goes silent

The flight attendant shrugs. "We have to prepare for landing now...can you make sure your tray tables are all stowed away and - "

"So, wait. You're not going to do anything about this guy that was staring at Sarah?" asks Troy.

I look at him, surprised he'd come to my defense. The flight attendant seems equally surprised.

"Um...well...I really don't know what we can do..." she smiles, a helpless, 'I'm just a girl' kind of smile.

Troy shakes his head. "That's disappointing."

Now, instead of look helpless, she looks annoyed.

Uh oh.

"You're welcome to fill out a complaint form if you'd like. I'll bring you one. I really don't know why this is a problem."

"I think we're alright," says Uncle Marty gingerly, touching her arm. "Thanks."

Uncle Marty's calm demeanor seems to remind the flight attendant who she is and where she is and she suddenly looks embarrassed.

"Alright..."

And with that she takes the cart and heads up the aisle, the trash bag, half filled with Styrofoam cups, knocking against the backs of seats as she goes.

"Well, that vas..." Mika shakes her head and mutters something in German.

Uncle Marty makes a face. "Anyway, let's not let that spoil the day." He touches my shoulder. "You alright?"

I nod, keenly aware of their eyes on my once more. "Yeah...I'm fine."

"Good. Good, good, good." Uncle Marty says cheerily, stretching his arms above his head.

The seat belt sign comes on (" _DING_ ") and up ahead I see a flight attendant asking a passenger to take his seat.

Uncle Marty returns his tray table to its upright position and slaps his knees. "Well...the journey begins."

I nod, craning my neck so I can see past Mika and Ludwig and out the window. We seem to be right smack dab in the middle of the clouds.

"So? Vat are you guys going to do in Paris?" asks Mika from across the aisle as she fixes her make-up with the help of a small brush and a cosmetic mirror.

Uncle Marty stretches once more, groaning and yawning before providing an answer. "We've actually got another plane to catch."

"Oh? You are not staying in Paris?"

"Nope. We are continuing on."

"Vair are you going?"

"We're off to the northwest part of the country. Brittany province."

"And vat is zair? Do you have family zair?"

Uncle Marty chuckles. "No...heavens no. I think I've had about all the family I can take for this trip."

Mika smiles as though she finds my uncle amusing. "Family can be difficult."

"Yes it can."

"Are you talking about me and Josh?" I ask, feeling slightly offended.

"I sure am."

"Ah!" I slap my uncle's arm.

"You two need to learn to get along."

"So you keep saying..." I mutter.

"One day you will appreciate your brother," comes Mika's throaty purr.

"Ha! Maybe in a hundred years."

Mika looks doubtful. "Probably sooner."

"Uh, do you know my brother!? Do you know how annoying he is!?"

"Hey!" cries Josh.

I turn and look at my brother. "I'm just saying...sheesh."

"Well, you're pretty annoying too."

"I'll take the pretty. The annoying, that's not even true."

My brother glares at me and returns to his video game as Uncle Marty groans loudly. "You see what I have to put up with, Mika?"

Mika laughs. "I see exactly vat you have to put up with, Martin!"

Chapter Six

PORSPODER

His eyes are locked on mine and they've got me. Hypnotized. It's as though I'm his prey and he's my captor. A fly caught in the spider's web.

"Sarah?"

I awake at the sound of my name.

"Sarah, it's time to board."

Groggily I awake, rubbing my eyes and looking around the terminal. The sign above me reads "Porte/Gate D 9" and I remember we're at the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris waiting for our flight to Brest, the second largest city in Brittany.

"How long was I asleep?" I ask, massaging the sleep from my eyes.

Uncle Marty's standing over me, his bag in one hand and our tickets in the other. "About an hour."

"An hour...feels like longer..."

"It'll take you a few days to get adjusted to the time difference..."

I nod. "Yeah..."

"Come on, up you get." He leans down and helps me to my feet. "Troy's got your carry-on."

I look at Troy. "Thanks."

He smiles. "No problem."

"Where's Josh?" I ask, glancing around. "D" gates span the entire corridor and it's packed with people.

"At the store there buying water for all of us."

There's a little glass-fronted store on the opposite side of the corridor - the kind of store where you can buy newspapers and magazines and snacks for the plane. Josh at the counter waiting as the cashier counts him back his change.

DING.

I look up automatically, waiting to hear the message over the intercom.

"Ceci c'est un message..."

"Oh, yeah...I guess everything's in French now..."

Troy smiles. "Yep. But this is a good chance to brush up on your French."

"Pshhhhh, I don't speak French...do you?"

"Oui, je parle francais."

I shoot him a sideways glance. "Where did you learn French?"

"My parents."

"Hunh?"

"I'm French-Canadian. Franco-Ontarien to be exact."

I practically slap my forehead. "Oh yeah...Trottier."

He smiles, an all-knowing smile, as though I should have known.

"So, what's the word for airport in French?" I ask, testing him.

I don't doubt that he speaks French...but he can't be that much smarter than me. That just wouldn't be cool.

" _Aéroport_ ," he answers with a grin. "Give me a tougher one."

I laugh. "I don't know...um...suitcase?"

" _Valise_."

"Okay, you speak French," I say with another laugh.

"Are you not taking French in school?" asks Uncle Marty, sounding concerned. "Here, let's get in line," he says.

It seems other people are starting to line up at the desk now where two flight attendants are checking tickets. I'm happy to see that the line is moving along fairly quickly.

"I did...up until this year."

Uncle Marty looks at me as he steers me toward the line. "Why didn't you take it this year?"

"Because...I don't know...I guess - "

But no other words leave my mouth. Because, just as before, my eyes meet those of the bald man with the scar. Those ice-cold, piercing eyes that send shivers down my spine once again.

"That's him!" I squeak, hardly able to get a word out I'm so seized up with surprise.

"Who?" asks Uncle Marty, whirling around to look in the direction I'm pointing.

" _Him!_ The man from the plane. The man with the scar - "

"Alright, here's everyone's water," Josh interrupts, coming back into our fold and squeezing into line.

"You see him?" asks Troy, moving so that he's within an inch of me and following my gaze across the crowded terminal. "Point him out."

"I...I..."

Where the heck did he go?

"He was just there!"

"Where? Over there? Or over there?" Troy puts his arm in line with mine and tries to follow where I'm pointing.

"Over there!" I reply, jumping up and down.

"For heaven's sake, calm down, Sarah," says Uncle Marty, gripping my arm.

"Uncle Marty! That man is _evil!_ I'm telling you!"

"What _man_? There are a _thousand_ men in here, Sarah!"

"Well, he _was_ over there..." I feel the energy drain from me as I search the sea of faces for the man once more. "I don't know where he is now...whatever..."

The line moves forwards and Uncle Marty hands the flight attendant our tickets. The little TV on the wall behind her says "Brest" and gives the details of our plane and flight time.

"How about we just agree to enjoy our time here in France and we forget about some creepy guy from the plane? Does that work for you?"

Uncle Marty smiles at the flight attendant as she hands back our ticket stubs and passports. "Thanks."

"I guess..."

"I think it's probably the best way to go."

I shrug, glancing at Troy for some support. But he's texting on his phone and I get nothing from him.

"Alright. Whatever. Let's just enjoy our time in France," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Sarah, lose the attitude please."

I roll my eyes.

"And don't roll your eyes like that. That's very rude."

"Oh my god, Uncle Marty. I can't do anything."

He stares at me as we walk through the tunnel thingy that connects the terminal to the plane. "No, it's not that you can't do _anything_. It's that you can't be rude. There's a big difference."

"But I'm not being rude! Some creepy guy keeps staring at me! As my uncle I think you should be _defending_ me, not saying I'm being rude!"

He's quiet now as we march through the tunnel.

"If you see him again, Sarah, tell me," says Josh. "I'll let him know who he's messing with."

"Pshhhh, he's like two times the size of you."

Josh narrows his eyes at me. "So?"

"So? So, he'll kick your ass."

"He won't kick my ass," Josh snaps, growing angry.

"Children, please."

"Uncle Marty, stop calling us children!"

"Sarah, I'll keep calling you two children so long as you two keep bickering and arguing like children!"

We reach the door of the plane and step inside. A flight attendant wearing a cute little blue French cap and a matching blue bandana tied around her pretty neck smiles and welcomes us aboard.

"Bienvenue."

Troy gives her a flirtatious nod and a smile. "Merci."

Great, here we go again.

* * *

We arrived in Brest an hour and a half later, tired, drained, and jet lagged. Uncle Marty lead us to the baggage claim area and after collecting our bags (I looked around for the bald man with the scar and was glad there was no sign of him) we made our way to the car rental desk.

"This is a pretty small airport," says Josh as the three of us take chairs along the wall while we wait for Uncle Marty.

I nod, slowly and unenthusiastically, my brain too fried to take in any new information. "Yeah."

"Brest isn't a very big city," says Troy. "It's only got about a hundred and forty thousand people."

Josh seems surprised. "That's _tiny_!"

Troy laughs. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't know...more than that, I guess. That's like...a village."

Troy makes a non-committal facial expression and starts digging in his bag for his laptop.

"You know what I mean, right Sair?" my brother asks, turning to me.

I nod automatically, not really caring. "Sure."

"'Cause, I mean, most cities in Europe are pretty big, right? Like Paris has eight million people...right?"

"Yes, but, not all cities are that big," Troy counters as he fires up his laptop and sits back to patiently watch the screen.

"Hunh. Well, I guess Mr. Grayson was wrong then," says Josh.

I turn towards him. "How was Mr. Grayson wrong? What was he wrong about?"

"He said Europe has too many people. But I still see lots of space. And Brest is the second biggest city in the province of Brittany...?"

Troy shrugs. "I guess this part of France just isn't as populated as other parts of France...but that doesn't mean Europe isn't crowded. If you look at the size of France compared to Canada...I mean, there are sixty five million people in France and thirty six million people in Canada...and yet France has about the same amount of land as Alberta."

Josh's eyes seem to widen. "Really? So...like...that would be like sixty five million people in Alberta?"

Troy nods. "Yeah, you got it."

"Wow..." he seems to be pondering something, "and how many people live in Alberta now?"

"About three and a half million," Troy replies mildly.

"Holy crap!" Josh whirls his head around so that he's facing me. "Did you hear that, Sair? Only three and a half million. So imagine like...another sixty two million people...geez..."

Typing away on his laptop now, I see Troy smile.

"Yeah, well, I guess Mr. Grayson was right then," I say to my brother. "I don't see why you doubted him anyway...he teaches history and geography."

"Yeah, but..." Josh still seems to be in a state of disbelief, "sixty five million people in Alberta...could you imagine?"

"No, I couldn't imagine, because that's not going to happen. At least not in our lifetime."

Josh's eyebrows furrow together. "Really? What if, like, a whole bunch of people move to Canada every year. Like say ten million people move to Canada this year - "

"You mean _immigrate_ to Canada," I say, having less and less patience for his constant chattering.

"Yeah, immigrate to Canada...move to Canada...whatever. Same thing - "

"No, Josh, it's not the same thing. Immigrating is when you go to another country, moving is when you move to the other side of town."

"What if you move to a different city? Then what?"

His tone is challenging and I can't stand the smirk on his face.

"Then it's still called moving because you're still in your own country."

Josh can't seem to come up with anything to reply to this and so he leans back against his chair as we watch Uncle Marty finish up the paperwork at the desk and start to make his way towards us.

"Ready to go?" he asks cheerfully.

I groan. "Yes...when do we get to sleep?"

"Once we arrive at our destination. It's not far from here."

We follow the car rental guy out to the parking lot.

"I don't get why we can't just rent an RV," I mutter as the rental guy introduces us to an electric-blue, sporty-looking Renault, "it would have been so much easier and then we could have actually stayed at the dig site."

I direct this more to Troy, though it's Josh who answers. "An RV would be awesome. Uncle Marty, can we get an RV while we're here?"

"Absolutely not," he says, not irritably, though in a tone that suggests such an idea is simply out of the question. "We'll be staying at a cozy little B and B called _La Mouette Blanche_ where we shall experience good, French hospitality."

With a few words, the rental car guy has Uncle Marty sign a paper clipped to his clipboard before handing him the keys and wishing us a " _bonnes vacances_ ".

It takes us only a few minutes to get our luggage loaded into the trunk and before long Uncle Marty's climbing into the driver's seat while Josh and I pile into the back and Troy takes the passenger seat up front.

"These damn French cars..." Uncle Marty curses irritably, adjusting and re-adjusting and squirming in the tiny seat. "Like little sardine cans..."

I can't help but smile at my uncle's frustration. It's nice seeing the shoe on the other foot for once.

"We could have rented an RV..." I say in a sing-song voice as Uncle Marty screeches out of the parking lot.

"No, Sarah, we couldn't have," he says tersely. "I've already explained that we're staying at a B and B. Not to mention," he says, turning onto the highway as cars speed past in other lanes, "an RV that would have cost _twice_ as much. As the university is paying for this expedition," (he changes lanes), "I don't believe they would look very kindly upon me being so casual with their money."

"But it's for an important expedition."

"Sarah, I don't need your sarcasm right now."

"But I'm not being sarcastic."

"Sarah."

"What?"

"I'm sending an e-mail to your mother this evening and I'll be sure to tell her about the way you've been behaving."

"But I'm not doing anything!? Holy crap!"

There's silence in the car now - awkward, uncomfortable silence, as we speed along the highway - but I don't care.

_It's bad enough I have to spend the next four weeks with Uncle Marty - but to be accused of something I'm not even doing! Gah_!

"Hey cool!" Josh exclaims suddenly, pointing out the window.

We're on the main _autoroute_ now, leaving central Brest, and I see a good number of interesting things. I'm also surprised he's managed to put down his Nintendo DS for two seconds.

"What's cool?" I ask, half-expecting to hear some stupid thing about a billboard or signpost.

"That big tower over there..."

I follow the direction in which he's pointing. There is indeed a tower. It looks pretty old - I'm guessing it's from the Middle Ages - and it looks like the kind of tower Rapunzel would have let her hair down from.

"That's the Tanguy Tower," says Troy from the front seat.

"How old is it?" I ask, curious now, as I lean into my brother to get a better look out his window.

"About seven hundred years," answers Troy stoically.

"Seven hundred years old! Is there anything in Canada that's that old? I don't think so, eh?"

"Port Royal in Nova Scotia is four hundred years old. Certain parts of St. John's are five hundred years old."

"Don't forget l'Anse-aux-Meadows," says Uncle Marty.

"What's le - ants - oh - med - ohes?"

"It's where the Vikings built a small settlement in the eleventh century."

"And where is it? Is that in Canada?"

"It's in Newfoundland."

"Geez...Canada's so young..." says Josh, his gaze still fixed on the Tanguy Tower.

"Well, it is and it isn't," Uncle Marty counters. "Because our Aboriginals have inhabited Canada for about ten thousand years...it's just that they didn't urbanize the way Europeans did and so there isn't the same physical record as in Europe when it comes to buildings and such."

I'm surprised. "Ten thousand years!?"

"That's right. Ten thousand years - YOU BLOODY IDIOT!"

Uncle Marty swerves dramatically to avoid a passing truck, nearly running us into the ditch before he corrects the steering wheel. "THESE DAMN FRENCH DRIVERS!"

"Uncle Marty!"

"I'm sorry, Sarah...it's just...good heavens!" He glances in the rear view mirror. "Are you alright? I'm sorry." He turns to Troy. "I'm sorry about that."

Troy looks a little shaken. "It's alright, professor..." he says with a heavy exhale. "Phew, I thought we were in for it there!"

Now Josh is grinning along with him. "Yeah, that was pretty crazy!"

Boys.

"Pretty crazy!' I exclaim, "we could have been killed!"

"And again, I am sorry, Sarah," says Uncle Marty.

"You almost put us in the ditch, Uncle Marty."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's these damn French drivers."

"It's also you though."

Uncle Marty glances at me via the rear view mirror. "I'm sorry, Sarah. Really."

"Yeah, well, I think I'm going to send an e-mail to mom tonight too and tell her how you almost killed us."

"Whoa, Sarah. That was an accident."

I shrug. "Didn't seem like it to me. Seemed like you weren't quite watching the road."

"I was watching...oh no you don't. You're trying to blackmail me!"

I make the most innocent face I can. "Blackmail? How?"

"You're saying that if I follow through on my promise to e-mail your mom about the way you've been behaving, that you'll e-mail your mom and tell her I nearly caused an accident."

"Well, now you've just given me an idea."

"Sarah..."

"Yes, Uncle Marty?"

"Cut the act."

"What act? What am I doing?"

Uncle Marty snarls and then we continue where we left off with our silence until he finally relents.

"Fine. I won't tell your mother about your misbehaving and you don't tell her about our near car accident. Deal?"

I nod, happy to have won. "Deal."

The highway takes us out of Brest and into the countryside where a checkerboard of green and yellow fields stretch off into the horizon.

"It looks just like Alberta..." I say quietly.

Not expecting an answer, I'm surprised when Uncle Marty says: "It does, doesn't it?"

"So people are farmers here then?"

"That's right. Farmers and fishermen...among other things."

I nod and turn to look out my own window, allowing myself take in the many sights to be seen. Fruit trucks parked on the side of the road, selling their produce to passersby. Cows in a field. Windmills on a hill. A busy service station where, if the sign is to be believed, gas is € 2.29 a litre.

"How far is it to Porspoder?" asks Josh after a time.

"Not much farther," Uncle Marty replies, changing lanes to pass a slow moving minibus. "About twenty kilometres."

"So that's like how long? Twenty minutes?"

"Yes, about thirty minutes."

"Where are we staying again?" I ask.

"We're staying at a B and B called _La Mouette Blanche_."

"La moo - ett blahn - sh?"

"It means, the white seagull," says Troy.

"Mouette means seagull?"

Troy nods. "Yep."

"Mouette." I giggle. "Mouette. Mouette, mouette, mouette."

"Having fun back there?" asks Troy with a grin.

"I just like saying it. Mouette. Moooooo - ett."

The car grows quiet once more, Josh returning to his video game and Troy to his book.

"When do we get to go and look Dumnonian Hoard, Uncle Marty?"

"Tomorrow, if all goes to plan."

"What's the plan?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, instead concentrating on a tricky stretch of road where he has to pass through two semi trucks and change lanes to make sure we get the right exit.

"The plan is to meet Fabrice at the site," he says eventually.

"Where's the site?"

"Just outside Porspoder. About two kilometres. Right by the sea."

"Which sea?"

"The Celtic Sea," Uncle Marty replies, though somewhat impatiently.

"The Celtic Sea? I've never heard of the Celtic Sea..."

"It's part of the Atlantic Ocean."

"Ohhhhh, okay. _That_ I've heard of."

"I should sure hope so."

I ignore the jab and press on with my questioning. "So...why do you guys think the Dumnonian Hoard is there? Like, at this exact spot where we're going?"

"We believe the Dumnonian Hoard is there because a church once stood on the site - a churchwhere Saint Budoc was priest."

"And Budoc was the leader of the Dumnonii, right?"

"No. Have you been listening at all!?"

"I have been listening," I answer flatly, annoyed by my uncle's tone, "but I'm just getting all this stuff mixed up. It's all these words I've never heard before and people I've never heard of. So _excuse me_!"

"Budoc was a very important saint to the Dumnonii," says Uncle Marty as though he hasn't heard me. "He was also active in both Dumnonias - the one in England and the one that existed here in France. For the longest time, historians and archaeologists have assumed the saint referred to in the Scroll of Isca to be Saint Petroc. But it's much more plausible that the saint referred to in the Scroll is in fact Saint Budoc."

"Who's Saint Petroc anyway?"

"Another important saint to the Dumnonii."

"Oh."

"Only trouble is, Saint Petroc restricted his religious activities to England. He was rarely, if ever, active in France. While many in Brittany hold Saint Petroc to be an important saint, he wasn't really thought of in these parts until the eleventh century. Budoc, on the other hand, was equal in his importance to both the Dumnonii of this part of France and the Dumnonii in England."

"And why were there two Dumnonias again?"

"There were two Dumnonians because many Dumnonii from the Dumnonia in England migrated to northern France and established a second Dumnonia."

"Oh yeah. And they did that to get away from the Saxons, right?"

"The West Saxons, yes. Good memory, Sarah."

"Thanks..."

"Uncle Marty?" Josh cuts in.

"Yes, Joshua?"

"You said something about a scroll. The Scroll of Isaiah?"

Uncle Marty chuckles. "The Scroll of _Isca_."

"What's the Scroll of Is - ka?"

"Troy? You want to take this one?"

Troy smiles. I can tell he's been waiting for an opportunity to jump into our discussion by the eagerness with which he sets down his book.

"The Scroll of Isca - Isca, by the way, is the old Roman name for Exeter and was once the capital of Dumnonia."

"Like Ottawa?"

"Like Ottawa is the capital of Canada, yes."

"Cool. So are there like lots of big buildings there and stuff?"

I stare at my brother. "Of course, nimrod. It was the capital."

"I don't know! That's why I'm asking!"

" _Children!_ "

Josh glares at me.

"Sarah. You need to stop calling your brother names. And Joshua, you need to learn not to respond to your sister when she calls you names. Sticks and stones, right?"

"Sticks and stones?"

Uncle Marty gives a sigh of exasperation. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

"Ohhhhhh."

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, Uncle Marty."

"Okay. Good. Now, where were we?"

"You were telling us about the Scroll of - "

"Sarah, I don't want to hear you right now. You started an argument when there didn't need to be one. You can sit and be quiet until we get to the B and B."

Fine.

"So, Troy was explaining the Scroll of Isca and Joshua, you had some very good questions," says Uncle Marty. "You also mentioned _buildings_. Troy, would you care to tell him where the Scroll of Isca was found? Because that certainly involves a building."

Troy nods. "Yeah, the Scroll of Isca," he continues, turning to look at my brother, "was found beneath a Exeter Cathedral during renovations back in the eighties."

My brother looks confused. "The nineteen eighties?"

"The nineteen eighties."

"So, like, thirty years ago."

"That's right. And so these construction workers discovered the Scroll - among other things - and they turned it over to the local museum. Well, the museum took it and upon realizing what it was, called in the experts."

"Who are the experts?"

"Archaeologists, medieval historians, et cetera."

"Okay. And what did the experts do with the Scroll?"

"They translated it. It was written in Old Gaelic and it took awhile, but after about six months they had it all done."

"And, what did it say?"

"It spoke of the troubles the Dumnonii were having with the West Saxons. It spoke of certain families who had migrated. It gave a story about a famous battle."

"Did it say anything about the Dumnonian Hoard?"

Uncle Marty looks in the rear view mirror and smiles. "You're getting sharper by the second, young man."

Troy and Uncle Marty share a laugh, though Josh can't understand why. "So...wait," he continues, "the Scroll of Isca did say something about the Dumnonian Hoard...or it didn't?"

"It _did_ say something about the Dumnonian Hoard," says Troy, not willing to let my brother suffer any longer. (Personally, I would have let it go another minute or two.)

"What did it say?"

"It said, and this is it word for word, so pay close attention - because this is real history right here."

Josh nods enthusiastically. "I'm listening."

Troy takes a breath and continues. "It said, 'protected by our beloved Saint, where Dumnonia meets the sea, lie the prizes of the Dumnonii'."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means," Uncle Marty cuts in, revving the engine as he does so that we seem to shoot forward, "that the Dumnonian Hoard could very well be here in Porspoder."

"Why?"

"Because," says Troy. "Let's start with the Saint. For the past thirty years - since the Scroll was discovered - historians and archaeologists have assumed the saint to be Saint Petroc. However, as your uncle explained a few minutes ago, Saint Budoc is the more likely candidate. For Saint Budoc was active in both this Dumnonia (Troy gestures out the window) and the Dumnonia in England. And most if not all of the sites with ties to Saint Petroc have been examined and nothing has been found."

Josh shifts in his seat so he can see up front better. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Troy repeats. "Now, as for the second part - _where Dumnonia meets the sea_ \- it was assumed that this meant the Cornish coast."

"What's the Cornish coast?"

"The coast of Cornwall. Hence the name, Cornish coast."

"And that's where Dumnonia used to be, right?"

"My word, Joshua!" Uncle Marty exclaims. "You are getting this! Perhaps you'll have a career in archaeology someday too!"

Josh blushes. _My_ brother. He actually blushes. I shake my head in disgust at all the pampering he's getting and direct my gaze out the window.

"I don't know, Uncle Marty...it all seems pretty complicated."

"Ah, but see," says Uncle Marty in a correcting tone, "there's where you're mistaken. It's actually quite simple and that's why I believe we've not managed to find the Dumnonian Hoard as of yet. You know, historians and their ilk like to complicate things."

"So it's _easy_ to find?" Josh asks, sounding incredulous.

"Not... _easy_...but not as difficult as they've made it out to be. The only reason I even got into looking for the Dumnonian Hoard is because I grew frustrated by how damned confuddled they'd made it out to be. You see, as Troy just explained, you've got your saint. Saint Budoc, not Saint Petroc. So where did Saint Budoc have churches? Where was he a priest? There are only three places in France and only two in England. They've all been checked except for the site at Porspoder."

"How come no one checked Porspoder yet?"

I see Uncle Marty smiling in the rear view mirror.

"Because Fabrice - or rather, _Dr. Rondeau_ I should say - as that is his proper title - only came across this source last year. He and his team stumbled upon a reference to Budoc and Porspoder in an old church records book from the Charlemagne era. Which, oddly enough, they found at St. Malo."

"So wait...Dr. Rondeau and his team - that's like his team of archaeologists?"

"Correct."

"They found an old church records book from the what era?"

"The Charlemagne era. Also known as Charles the Great. He was king of the Franks during the mid eighth century."

"Who were the Franks?"

"The Franks were the forerunners of the French. Though not everyone living in France at that time were Franks. For example, here in Brittany, you had Bretons."

"What's the difference?"

"Franks are a Germanic people whereas Bretons are a Celtic people."

"Okay."

"Excellent questions, Joshua. Never be afraid to ask questions for this is how you learn."

Troy murmurs his agreement as Uncle Marty pauses to concentrate on the road for a second, changing lanes to avoid a line of cyclists.

"And so," Uncle Marty continues, "Dr. Rondeau and his team found this reference to this spot near Porspoder - this spot where we're going. It made reference to a church that once stood there and Budoc was reportedly the priest of that church."

Josh nods slowly. "Okay...I think I get it..."

"You've got it? Good. So, stay with me now," (Uncle Marty changes lanes again), "Fabrice got in touch with a colleague in Rennes who happens to be an expert on medieval churches and was told that, yes, there was once a church at this spot."

"Wow...and so...the Dumnonian Hoard could really be here," says Josh in a wondrous voice.

Uncle Marty and Troy share a laugh.

"Yes, it could really be here! What, did you think we'd come all this way and not expect to find it!?"

"Well...no...but - "

"Your uncle is rarely wrong when it comes to this kind of thing," says Troy. "In the two years that your uncle has been my thesis supervisor, he's been right about practically everything."

"What's he been wrong about?" Josh asks with genuine curiosity.

Uncle Marty laughs. "All sorts of things. What Troy's referring to is a specific matter - "

He looks at Troy and the two burst into another round of laughter.

"You _insisted_ that it was Pope Gregory the _sixth_ who had granted Robert de Molesme the right to establish a new monastery at Molesme when in fact it was Pope Gregory the _seventh_!"

I stare at Troy, who's now completely unrecognizable from the other Troy, the cool Troy. _Wow, geek out much?_

Uncle Marty chuckles and throws Troy an appreciative smile. "You got me with that one."

"So, basically," Josh interjects, "Uncle Marty's not wrong about anything when it comes to this kind of stuff."

"You got it," Troy answers.

"Wow...so we could find this treasure and like, be rich!"

"Ah, remember, Joshua. This is purely for the sake of history. Whatever we find is to remain with the French government and will likely end up in a museum somewhere."

"That's so...boring."

I smirk, expecting him to get an earful from Uncle Marty.

"Boring, maybe. Just, most definitely."

"Just?"

"Just. Fair. Righteous. Related to the word _justice_. Seriously!? Are they teaching you kids _anything_ in school these days?"

Josh gives a non-committal shrug.

"Don't answer that," says Troy. "Your uncle's just upset we don't all have his vocabulary."

Uncle Marty scoffs. "I hardly consider words like _just_ to require a thesaurus."

Troy shrugs. "It's all iPhones and iPads these days...texting and chat has diminished our speech."

"You seem to be okay with that."

"I'm not okay with it, it's just, I don't think it's a dire problem."

"Well I do," says Uncle Marty, sounding somewhat huffy now. "Anyway, we'll continue this discussion another time as I see our turnoff up ahead and we should be there in about two minutes. That's of course if the map I consulted was correct. One can't be sure...these days...all you young, unedu-ma-cated folk coming out of school with hay for brains."

Troy laughs. "I resent that."

"Well, I don't. Now, tell me, do you see a sign for chemin Poncelet?"

Chapter Seven

DINNER WITH THE DUGUAY'S

It took us a lot longer than two minutes to locate La Mouette Blanche because Uncle Marty got lost and kept driving us in circles.

"Just stop and let Troy ask someone, Uncle Marty!" I'd begged after our third time driving past the post office.

"Sarah, I know where I'm going."

Clearly, you don't.

When we finally pull up to the tidy, two-storey house, it's nearly two in the afternoon. Uncle Marty has us unload our bags and suitcases and as we're doing this, out comes Madame Duguay.

She's about five foot three - five foot five is she stands upright - but still shorter than all of us. Add to that her gray, wavy hair and clear blue eyes that twinkle when she smiles, she reminds me of Stacey's grandma who lives just up the street from us.

"Hello, hello! How are you!? I'm so glad to see you've all made it..." She smiles at each of us. When she looks at me, her expression is one of tender affection and she reaches for my bags.

"No, thank you," I say, withdrawing my hand as she tries to wrest them from my grip "but I've got them..."

"Nonsense. ARMAND!"

I cringe as she yells for the man I soon learn is her husband.

"Nos invités sont arrivés!"

"What did she say?" I ask Troy in a whisper.

He leans into me. "She said the guests have arrived."

"Ohhhh."

"Here, please," she says, pulling the door open and ushering us into the house. "Come in. How was your flight? I trust it wasn't too...what's the word...turbulent?"

She sounds British when she speaks English. Uncle Marty smiles graciously as he leads us inside. "We didn't encounter too much turbulence, no. It was a relatively smooth flight."

Minus the creepy weird guy staring at me on the plane...

"How long was your flight?" she asks, pushing me forwards as the rest of us head into the house.

"Seven hours roughly - to Paris - and then another hour and a bit to Brest."

"That's quite the journey!"

We're standing in the front entrance to their tidy, old-person looking home. There are comfy chairs in the living room that's off to the left of the front entrance, their flower-print pattern matching that of the couch. Pictures of ponds and mountains and old churches adorn the walls while a wonderful aroma wafts in from the kitchen that's to the right of the front entrance.

"What's that smell?" I ask, utterly in love.

"Lamb with rosemary and shallots and carrots and red wine..."

"Ahhhh, French cooking." I beam at Uncle Marty. " _This_ is more like it."

Uncle Marty looks amused. "Are you happy at last?"

"Yes."

I pause as a tall, willow figured man with wispy gray hair enters the room. He wears green slacks and an old man knit sweater - and ugly tapioca colour with brown elbow patches - but his face is as vibrant and cheerful as his wife's.

"Hello," he says, extending a hand to all of us. He shakes hands first with Uncle Marty, then with Troy, and finally with Josh and I. "My name's Armand."

"This is my husband," says Madame Duguay with obvious affection. "We've been married for thirty eight years now."

"Thirty seven, no?" he asks, looking slightly dumbfounded.

Madame Duguay gives her husband a playful swat on the arm. "Thirty eight and you know it!"

I can't help but smile.

"Yes, thirty eight years," she continues, returning her attention to us, "and mostly good years. I'm Paulette. Paulette Duguay."

Uncle Marty gives a nod and a smile. "Yes, I was aware of your last name - though not your first. Either way, I'll still call you Madame Duguay."

"However you like..." she says, bringing her hands together as she looks at Josh and I. "You two, I've set up your rooms down the hall. Armand can show you now so you can put your bags down."

I nod. "Sure, that would be great. Thanks."

She smiles and turns to Troy and Uncle Marty. "As for you two...I've made up two beds for you in the room upstairs."

"Oh, excellent," says Uncle Marty.

"And I can take you up there now to deposit your bags, if you would like."

Uncle Marty's about to say something, but Madame Duguay plows on.

"And then I thought we could sit down for some _dîner_." She turns back to Josh and I. "Are you hungry?"

At the word "hungry", I hear my stomach growl.

"Yes, _starving_."

Madame Duguay looks pleased. "Then we must eat. Quickly then. Armand, if you can show them to their rooms...and you two," she says to Troy and Uncle Marty, "you can follow me upstairs."

There are murmurings of "thank you" and "what a lovely place you have here" as we go our separate ways. Armand is so tall his head practically scrapes the ceiling as he leads us down the hallway.

"So...I didn't get your name..."

"Sarah."

"Sarah," he says with a patient nod, "this is your room." He pushes open the door on my left and I find myself staring into a room that looks like it's out of a home decor magazine. It's got a rattan chair in one corner, blue and white throw pillows all over, a book shelf filled with books and teddy bears - one holding a Happy Valentine's Day heart - and a comfy looking bed that's about four feet off the ground.

"Wow!" I drag my bags into the room and toss them on the bed. "This is awesome!"

Armand smiles. "Glad you like it."

Josh pokes his head in. "Ahhh, it's so girly!"

I make a face at him as Armand chuckles. "Your room looks a bit different, don't worry. Here, I'll show you. You're right next door."

I listen to them move down the hall and enter the room immediately adjacent.

Josh takes the opportunity to knock on the wall. "Sarah, are you there?"

"Yes! I'm here! And you can stop doing that now!"

The knocking ceases but my brother's annoying voice doesn't and I'm forced to listen to him go on and on about his video games (presumably boring Armand to death) while I unpack.

Ten minutes later I'm unpacked, freshened up (I splashed some water on my face in the bathroom sink and combed my hair), and sitting down to dinner in the simple, country-style dining room with the others.

"Mmmm, this looks exquisite, Madame Duguay," Uncle Marty muses aloud as she sets steaming plates on the table.

"Yum!" I exclaim as the various aromas flood my nostrils.

"What are those?" asks Josh, pointing to a bowl at the centre of the table.

"Those are artichoke hearts...have you never had them before?" asks Uncle Marty, eyebrows raised.

My brother shakes his head.

"Well, that is...unfortunate..." Uncle Marty takes up the bowl and drops one onto Josh's plate. "It's time you tried one!"

Josh looks like he's just been asked to eat deer droppings. "Eat... _that_!?"

Uncle Marty smiles. "Why yes."

"What do you eat in Canada?" asks Madame Duguay, taking a seat at the table and unfurling her napkin.

She waves it out and lets it float down to her lap.

"Well...pizza, for one."

Madame Duguay laughs. "Pizza. Okay. But that's not _Canadian_ food! That's Italian food!" She looks at Armand and Uncle Marty and all three exchange a smile.

"Well, it's Canadian...because it's been in Canada so long..."

"If you really want _Canadian_ food," I say, dishing up several artichoke hearts simply to spite my brother, "then you should try poutine."

"Ah, I've heard of poutine!" Madame Duguay exclaims, her expression exuberant.

"Yes it's American fries...with cheese and tomato sauce...no?"

I shake my head and am about to correct him, but Josh beats me to it.

"No! Not tomato sauce - gravy!"

"Gravy?" He looks at his wife for clarification. "What is gravy?"

"Sauce au jus de viande," answers Madame Duguay.

A look of comprehension dawns on Armand's face. "Ahhh, yes. Of course. Mmm, that must be delicious!"

I nod and watch him as he ponders what it must look and taste like.

"So poutine is not Canadian food either though," says Madame Duguay, picking up where she left off. "It's from Quebec."

"Yes, but..." I look at Troy for assistance but he merely shrugs.

"She's got a point."

"Yeah, but Quebec is in Canada!"

"For now," says Madame Duguay, sawing away at her lamb.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, isn't there some kind of sovereigntist movement in Quebec?"

I look to Uncle Marty for a translation, even though she's speaking English.

"Sovereigntist movement..." he says slowly, mulling over his words carefully as he chews his peas. "You may know it as the _separatist_ movement."

"Oh, you mean like the people in Quebec who want to separate from Canada? We talked about that in Social Studies last year."

Uncle Marty nods. "That's right."

"You know, we have our own sovereigntist movement here in Brittany," says Madame Duguay, spooning some pickled radishes onto the edge of her plate.

Uncle Marty seems surprised by this. "Really?"

"Oh yes," says Armand, though his wife's eyes catch his and it's clear she doesn't appreciate his interrupting her.

Sensing this, Uncle Marty sets his gaze on Madame Duguay. "Who wants sovereignty?"

"Why the Bretons of course."

Uncle Marty still has a surprised look on his face which invites further explanation from Madame Duguay.

"It's a long and complicated history - and a history, I might add, of which very few Bretons actually know all the details - but, suffice it to say that Brittany was once an independent kingdom."

"Really? I had no idea..."

I have to admit I'm surprised that there's something about history Uncle Marty doesn't know, even more surprised though by his admission of this fact.

"So when did it become part of France?" I ask, curious now because it's something my supposedly smart uncle knows little about.

"In the fifteen thirties," Armand answers, buttering a slice of bread.

"Wow...that's a long time ago," I say softly.

"Indeed."

There's a lull in our conversation - and for several minutes - as the six of us seem to concentrate on our dinner, the silence only punctuated by the scraping of cutlery on plates and the occasional request to "pass the" something or other.

Once I'm finished, I sit back in my chair and study Madame Duguay. There's a question I've been wanting to ask for the past half hour and now seems as good a time as any.

"Madame Duguay?"

She looks at me an smiles. "Yes, my dear."

"How is that your English is so good?" I'm suddenly conscious of Troy and Uncle Marty staring at me and I hasten to clarify myself. "I mean, not to be rude or anything, but you hardly seem to have an accent and you know, like, every word...so I was just curious..."

She looks at something on her arm and brushes it away before giving me her attention. "Armand and I - that's my husband - we lived in England for nineteen years."

"Oh, wow!"

She makes a face. "I missed France the entire time."

"I'd love to go to England someday..."

"Well, it's a quick flight from Brest. Or you can take the ferry."

"Cool. Hey, Uncle Marty? Can we go to England maybe for a couple days?"

"Sarah, we're here on important business. We're not going to England." He looks at Madame Duguay. "Kids."

She smiles. "Oh, I know. When our Pierre was young he wanted us to take him everywhere too."

Armand gives his wife a warning stare.

"Pierre...is that your son?"

Madame Duguay lets out a little sigh as she looks up from her plate and makes eye contact with her husband once more. "He was our son...he passed away nine years ago."

My hand flies automatically to my mouth. "Oh, how awful! I'm so sorry, Madame Duguay..." I turn to Armand. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up...forget I said anything..."

Madame Duguay smiles and pats my arm with her fleshy, wrinkled hand. "It's okay, dear. It's not something we try to hide away."

The way she says this, I get the impression that the "we" doesn't include Armand.

"No...of course not..."

Armand clears his throat. "So, Troy, I understand you speak French?"

Troy grins, grateful, it would seem, to have a new topic at the table. _"Mais oui."_

"But you're not un Quebecois?"

Troy shakes his head. "No, Franco-Ontarian actually."

Armand looks as though it's the first time he's heard the term.

"I never knew there were French speakers outside Quebec," he says, turning to look at us.

"Oh, there are quite a few actually," says Uncle Marty, seemingly eager to jump into the conversation.

Did I mention my uncle hates being left out of any sort of intellectual or academic discussion?

"Really!" Armand runs a hand through his grey, thinning hair. "Wow...that is...hunh...you really do learn something new every day."

Uncle Marty nods. "Yes, there are French speakers all across Canada actually, though the highest concentrations outside Quebec are found in the Maritimes and Ontario. The French speakers in the Maritimes are more commonly referred to as les Acadiens. You may have heard of them?"

Armand smacks his forehead and I want to giggle. (Because how many old guys smack their foreheads!? Like, really!)

"Yes of course! Les acadiens! I have heard of them."

Troy smiles at Armand's sudden comprehension.

"Of course, of course," he continues, growing more enthusiastic by the second, "there is a famous...oh, what's the word...the person who writes plays...playwright?"

Troy nods. "Playwright. Un dramaturge."

Armand points to him. "Yes, good. Playwright."

"Hunh hunh," says Troy in reply, urging him to continue.

"There's a famous playwright...we went to see her play..."

"Paulette..." Armand then proceeds to rattle off a bunch of stuff in French that I completely don't get - though looking at Troy - he understands everything.

"Antonine Maillet," says Madame Duguay with humble certainty, bowing her head ever so slightly.

"Yes!" (Armand smacks his head again.) "Antonine Maillet." He turns to us. "Have you heard of her?" He looks at me and I shake my head.

"Yes...Antonine Maillet," says Uncle Marty, "she's the woman who wrote The Washerwoman, I believe."

Armand's face registers a blank expression. "The Washerwoman?"

"La Sagouine," Troy interjects, translating the English title into the French one.

Armand points at him once more. "Oui! C'est ca! La Sagouine."

"That must be the French name for it," Uncle Marty grumbles, clearly plussed that Armand didn't understand his answer.

"We liked that play a lot," says Madame Duguay. "We took my sister and her husband to that one for their anniversary. They had it at the théâtre in Rennes."

Troy nods, looking happy. "Wow, that's great."

Madame Duguay takes in a bit of air - the way elderly people do when they have a thought they wish to express and need more oxygen. "Yeah...but...she's gone now...my sister that is."

"Oh, I'm sorry," says Troy quickly.

Madame Duguay smiles and touches his arm. "You're very sweet...anyway," she says, turning to face the rest of us, "would anyone like something more to eat?"

She only gives us half a second to answer.

"Because I'm going to clear these dishes away and then bring out some tea an cookies which we can eat in the living room."

"That sounds lovely, Madame Duguay," says Uncle Marty. He turns to me and my brother. "Would you two help Madame Duguay clear the table?"

Even though it's a question. I can tell "no" isn't an option.

I nod and rise slowly from my chair, followed closely by Josh.

"Sarah - it is Sarah, isn't it?" asks Madame Duguay, placing dirty cutlery and serving spoons into the lamb roasting pot and gathering dirty napkins for the garbage, "can I get you to take the plates. And Joshua - your name is Josué in French, by the way, and I think that is just a lovely name. Is it alright if I call you Josué?"

Smiling, and clearly happy for the extra attention, my brother nods. "Sure."

"Very well then, Josué, if you could gather up the cups and bring those to the sink for me...that would be great."

She offers us both a polite smile as she finishes tidying and organizing the dirty dishes.

Meanwhile, Troy and Uncle Marty follow Armand to the living room where each gets a couch or loveseat for himself.

"I could get used to this," I hear him say as Paulette and I move around the kitchen, as if in a ballet, each of us playing our part and doing our assigned tasks.

_Easy for you to say_... _you're not the one cleaning up the dishes..._

Chapter Eight

A BORING BEGINNING

The next morning I awake to the sounds of Madame Duguay humming a tune in the kitchen.

I roll over to check the clock on the bedside table.

7:01.

Wow, I slept like...

I do the math in my head, counting backwards from the time I went to bed the night before. Pretty much right after our tea and cookies in the living room.

...fourteen hours!

"So this is jet lag..." I mutter, sliding back the covers and slipping into the slippers lent to me by Madame Duguay.

"Good morning! Did you sleep well?"

Madame Duguay greets me with a smile and a pinch on the cheek as I enter the kitchen, still bleary-eyed and feeling as though my head's about to fall off my shoulders.

"You can sit there," she says, pointing to a spot at the table.

I nod and dutifully trudge toward my chair.

"Can I get you something to drink, dear? Orange juice...tea?"

"Orange juice would be nice."

Madame Duguay smiles and then turns her head every so slightly.

"ARMAND!"

The tall, willowy figure of Monsieur Duguay appears in the kitchen doorway.

"Go and fetch some orange juice from the cellar. Sarah would like some."

He looks at me and I suddenly feel a need to explain myself.

"Oh, it's okay. There's no need to go and get it special...whatever's in the fridge is fine..."

Madame Duguay rests her hands on her hips, a steak knife in one hand and a dish rag in the other. "Nonsense. You're a guest and you shall have what you like for breakfast." She turns on her heel and snaps her fingers at Armand. "Orange juice."

The man nods obediently and with another glance in my direction (I can't tell by his expression whether he's annoyed or not at having to go and fetch me orange juice), he disappears through the doorway.

"You were out for quite awhile!" she exclaims, bustling around the kitchen, cracking eggs into a large bowl and chopping green onions on a large wooden cutting board.

"Yeah..."

I play casually with my fork, twirling it through my fingers, allowing my brain the opportunity to finish waking up.

"Troy and your Uncle Marty stayed up with us for quite awhile."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she says, smiling at me as she opens the fridge door. "And I heard quite a bit about you."

Damn it, Uncle Marty!

"Oh...yeah?" I force a small laugh. "What did you hear?"

"Oh, only good things," she says, seeing my expression. "Your uncle told me you have quite the knack for history. It runs in the family I suppose."

I sigh with relief. If that's the kind of thing he was busy telling her, then I have no need to worry. "Yeah...I like it. We've got a pretty good teacher - well at least _this_ year we had a pretty good teacher. Last year..." I make a face, "not so much."

Madame Duguay makes eye contact with me and nods with understanding as she returns to the counter with a thing of cream in her hand.

"Yes, a good teacher can make all the difference in the world," she says.

I watch as she adds it to the eggs.

"Yeah."

"Our Pierre, he had some difficulty learning English and one of his teachers - and this was in England too mind you - really went out of his way to help him."

I nod. "How old was he when you guys moved to England?"

Madame Duguay smiles at the question as she returns the cream to the fridge. "Just a second, I have to think about that one...it's been so long..."

"Good morning."

The figure of Uncle Marty has appeared in the doorway and now he's headed to the table, picking a grape from a bunch of grapes in a bowl.

"Well, good morning, Monsieur Rosenberg! And how did you sleep?"

Uncle Marty throws me a smile as he stretches his arms above his head and yawns like a walrus. "Like a baby, Madame Duguay. Like a baby."

"We didn't have orange juice, but I found - "

Armand stops short as he encounters my uncle standing before him.

"Good morning, Armand."

"Good morning, Martin. Did you sleep well?"

"I did, thank you. Madame Duguay just finished asking me in fact."

"Ah, we tend to do that," says Armand with a chuckle, setting a carton of what appears to be apple juice on the counter.

"We didn't have any orange juice?" Madame Duguay asks, eyes on her husband as she wipes her knife on the dishrag.

"No. I thought we did..."

"Me too..." Madame Duguay turns and looks at me, her expression apologetic. "Apple juice okay?"

"Yes, of course. I'm not picky."

Uncle Marty looks at me as though this is a lie, and I resolutely avoid his gaze.

"Would you like some coffee, Monsieur Rosenberg?" asks Armand, reaching into the cupboard and removing two coffee mugs.

"That would be nice."

Uncle Marty takes a seat at the table as the sounds of my orange juice and Uncle Marty's coffee being poured fill the kitchen.

"Here you are."

"And here's your coffee."

"Thanks," Uncle Marty and I say in unison as the two Duguay's deposit our drinks on the table.

"You're most welcome."

"Good morning!"

Troy's just entered the kitchen now and he strides confidently toward me and plops himself down in the empty chair beside me.

Guess he's not mad at my anymore...

"And how did you sleep, Mr. Trottier?" asks Armand, the carafe in his hand as he offers some to Troy.

"Oh, no thanks," says Troy with a wave of his hand. "I slept great. Thanks. Very comfy."

"Comfy?" asks Madame Duguay, obviously perplexed by the word.

"Comfortable," says Troy and at this Madame Duguay gives a nod of understanding.

"Oh, okay. Geez, this old lady's starting to forget her English!"

"Rubbish," says Uncle Marty. "Your English is quite extraordinary, Madame Duguay."

I notice she turns a neat shade of red as she finishes cutting up the green onions and scrapes them into the fry pan on the stovetop. "Oh, you," she chuckles. "Yes..." she sighs. "It's been nine years since we left England..."

I ignore the rest of what she says as I realize this is also the time around which their son, Pierre, passed away. Curious as I am to know how he did, in fact, die, I'm too nervous to ask. Especially with Uncle Marty sitting right across the table.

"Oooohhh, whooooaaa," Uncle Marty exclaims. "This is some strong coffee! I'd heard you French take your coffee strong, but _this_!"

Madame Duguay and her husband both laugh. "You didn't put any cream in it?"

Uncle Marty shudders (presumably from the effect of the coffee) and shakes his head wearily. "No...I didn't know there was any."

Madame Duguay crosses the kitchen and comes over to the table, surveying it quickly and then looking disappointed. "I forgot to put some out! Pardon me. Let me get you some - and here, take this, you've dribbled a bit on your shirt," she says, handing Uncle Marty a napkin as I'm forced to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

* * *

"And you'll be home around six, then?" Madame Duguay calls from the balcony.

Uncle Marty nods from the front seat of the blue Renault. Troy's in the passenger seat. "Yes."

"I'll have supper ready. I bet you'll both be hungry!"

"That would be lovely," he calls back. "Thank you, Madame Duguay!"

I scowl at him from the balcony as he honks the horn and backs the car out of the Duguay's driveway.

Stupid, Uncle Marty. Not bringing us with him. Just what the heck does he think this is anyway...leaving us here to sit and twiddle our thumbs all day long with the Duguay's...most boring beginning to a vacation. Ever.

* * *

"So what do you want to do?"

We're done our chores and Josh and I are sitting side by side on the dusty front step staring out at an empty driveway with no prospect of fun anywhere on the horizon.

"I don't know," I mutter.

"I don't understand why he couldn't take us today," says Josh quietly.

He sounds as disappointed as I am.

"Well, it's Uncle Marty, isn't it. He's just dumb sometimes. What can you expect?"

Josh makes a sound. "I expect to go to the dig site and help look for the Dumnonian Hoard."

"You know full well Uncle Marty doesn't trust us to help with that. He thinks we're just dumb kids."

"Well we're not."

I nod resolutely. "I know."

We're both silent for awhile, neither one of us speaking.

"You know what would be cool?"

Josh looks at me. "What?"

"If we could find the Dumnonian Hoard."

"What do you mean?"

Josh looks as confused as always.

"I mean, what if we could find the Dumnonian Hoard first. What if we go looking for it and find it?"

Josh shakes his head. "How? We don't have any equipment. We don't even have a car. How're we supposed to go looking for a treasure without a metal detector or even a shovel?"

"I'm sure the Duguay's have a shovel."

Josh shrugs. "Let's go and see if we can find one."

Never in my life did I think I'd spend an hour searching for a shovel, but low and behold, here I am at fifteen doing just that.

"Nope."

"How about in there?"

Josh pulls open the drawer to the tallest of the wooden shelves in the Duguay's garage, teetering dangerously and threatening to come loose and fall right out. "Nope."

"Damn it!"

"We'll just have to use the trowel," says Josh, waving the green and white trowel we'd found on top of the work bench in the corner of the Duguay's garage.

"Alright...I don't know how much digging we're going to be able to do with that..."

"We'll take turns," he says, a little too cheerfully for my liking.

"You can take turns. I'd rather dig with my damn hands if I have to use something the small."

Josh looks at me, his expression mischievous. "You know there's worms in this soil, right?"

I shudder at the thought of the long, pink, gesticulating creatures rubbing against my hands and fingers. "I guess I'll use the trowel."

* * *

"So what did you kids get up to today?" asks Uncle Marty as he trudges up the steps with Troy several hours later, both covered in dirt and mud and looking sweaty and smelly.

"Pretty much the same thing as you," I say, flashing the palms of my hands to reveal their blackness from the soil.

Uncle Marty smiles. "Oh, did you help Madame Duguay in the garden?"

I feel the colour drain from my face. "No! I spent the day digging in the stupid yard with Josh! Josh thinks there's treasure everywhere now."

"Sarah, there's got to be something old on this property!" he calls from a little ways away where all around him he's got strewn his finds: rusty nails, tin cans, and old Franc coins.

"Very good, Joshua!" says Uncle Marty, giving my brother a thumbs up. "He's a natural, isn't he Troy?"

Troy, brining up the rear and sagging under the weight of several large plastic containers, musters a smile. "Yeah...great...awesome stuff...he's like his uncle."

Uncle Marty seems to take this as a compliment because he sticks his chest out as he reaches the front door, startling Madame Duguay who has come to open it for him.

"Goodness, just what do you think this is, scare the old lady day? Come in now and I'd recommend you get those frightening clothes in the wash. Did you know they've recently discovered a strain of bacteria that lives in mud and causes flesh-eating disease."

"Really?" I gulp nervously, now looking anxiously from my soil-covered hands to Madame Duguay to Uncle Marty.

"Why yes, I read it in Reader's Digest."

"Oh, now really, Madame Duguay, was it necessary to scare the poor girl with flesh-eating bacteria."

"Ahhhh, why are we even talking about flesh-eating bacteria!" I squeal, following them into the house.

Uncle Marty sets his bag beside the door and replaces his shoes with slippers.

"Ah, ah, ah, Mister," says Madame Pauline, her tone admonishing."Off to the bathroom with you and change out of those clothes, right now!"

I can't help but smirk at the treatment my uncle's getting.

"It's only a bit of mud, Madame Duguay, really."

"A bit of - you call that a bit of a mud!?"

Madame Duguay looks somewhat annoyed and I can't help but smile thinking that this is karma for Uncle Marty.

Chapter Nine

AN UNWELCOME SURPRISE

"What are crêpes?"

Madame Duguay's eyes nearly pop out of her head. "What are crêpes!?"

It's breakfast the next morning and we're all gathered around the table in the Duguay's dining room, the usual verbal drivel swirling around the table.

"My nephew, unfortunately," says Uncle Marty, "is quite particular about what he eats. Anything more exotic than burgers and pizza, and he doesn't want it."

Madame Duguay makes a "tsk tsk" sound with her mouth and shakes her head. "This is no good. You are in France! You must expand your...how do you say...culinary horizons!"

"Expand my what?"

"Expand your culinary horizons," I repeat for Madame Duguay, making no attempt to hide my impatience. "That means, try new things, dummy."

"Oy, oy, oy, Sarah," says Madame Duguay, looking disappointed. "You mustn't talk to your brother in that way. You two are brother and sister. You're family. You must be civil to one another."

Uncle Marty looks as though he'd like to lean over and kiss the old woman.

"I'm sorry..." (What else could I say?)

"No need to say sorry, just...be nice to your brother is all."

Out of the corner of my eye I can see a big smile on Uncle Marty's face and I wish he'd stop.

"Oh, wow, these are _amazing_ , Madame Duguay," Troy exclaims as he digs into his crêpes. " _Delicieuse._ "

She laughs. "I'm glad you like them. That was my grandmother's recipe, you know."

Troy nods as he takes a huge bite. "Wow, eh?"

"Yes. She was quite the cook. My mother, not so much. But my grandmother, there wasn't a thing she couldn't cook. When the Germans were encamped here during the war, they had my mother make them crêpes three times a week." She motions to the plate of crêpes. "For thirty pounds of crêpes they gave her fifty francs. That money was barely enough to cover the baking supplies, but what was left over was ours to keep and it helped them through those hard times."

Uncle Marty shakes his head. "Gosh..."

Madame Duguay shrugs and makes a face that says "what can you do?" as she begins to dish up her plate.

"Yep, France has seen some hard times," says Armand, his eyes on the platters from which his wife is dishing herself up (sliced ham, baby potatoes, and croissants). "But one thing about us French, we always come back. One way or another."

We all nod, to be polite I think, as I really don't know enough about France's history to say either way. I glance at Uncle Marty and he seems to agree so Armand must be right.

"So, what are your plans for the day?" asks Madame Duguay. She's having trouble spearing herself a slice of ham and Armand reaches across the table and lifts the plate so that she can have at it more easily.

"I thought we'd head over to the dig site after breakfast," Uncle Marty answers, picking at something in his teeth. He manages to loosen it and wipes it on his napkin.

"Oh yes, you're an archaeologist." Madame Duguay smiles. "Such an unusual profession, isn't it?" She looks at me for confirmation.

But instead of nodding, I shake my head. "It's actually really interesting."

"Oh, I didn't say it wasn't interesting. I said it was _unusual._ As in, it's not a profession you often hear about."

"I'm going to be an archaeologist," Josh blurts.

I look at him and I'm about to say something, but I catch myself, remembering Uncle Marty and Madame Duguay.

"That's very noble, Joshua," says Uncle Marty, taking a spoonful of jam from the small ramekin at the centre of the table. "You know, it was quite the rage at the time I started university." He dabs the jam onto his crepes and sets the spoon aside. "Perhaps that's what persuaded me to get into the field..." He glances at the Duguay's. "Do either of you know who Indiana Jones is?"

Madame Duguay shakes her head. "No...Indiana Jones? I've never heard of it. Is that a man?"

"Indiana Jones," says Armand, waving his fork excitedly (and there's a strawberry stuck on the end), "he's the man who goes on all those adventures around the world, right? He searches for long lost treasures."

I look at Uncle Marty, suddenly seeing the parallel. Or not...Indiana Jones is a ladies' man...and he's tall and athletic...and Uncle Marty...well...he's not those things, let's just put it that way.

"Yes!" Uncle Marty replies happily. "That is Indiana Jones."

"Indiana...what a strange name," Madame Duguay mutters, helping herself to some jam. "This is a Hollywood movie, I suppose?"

"Yes. Hollywood. And quite a good franchise, I must say. There are three in the original series and two newer ones."

Madame Duguay makes that face French people make when they don't know something. "I'll have to watch it."

"I might actually have Raiders on my laptop," says Troy. He looks at Madame Duguay. _"Je peux l'emprunter à vous."_

"Of course. It sounds like _the_ film to see."

"Oh, it's good alright."

"Uncle Marty."

"Yes, Joshua."

"We're coming to the dig site with you tomorrow, right?"

I watch Uncle Marty to gauge his response. He in turn exchanges a look with Troy.

"I'm afraid not."

"But - "

"Soon though. I'm thinking in two days. Once the major work is out of the way."

My brother looks crestfallen and I can't help but feel the same way, though I don't know how much fun it would be anyway hanging out with a bunch of archaeologists at some dig site. Unless of course they were to find something...

"But what if you find something? And we miss it!?"

Uncle Marty looks at me. "If we do find something, I'll take a picture of it and you can see it once we're back here."

"But - "

"The problem, Sarah, is that we've only been here a day and I don't want to bring two teenagers to the dig site until I've had a chance to finish going over things with Dr. Ronedau. You have to understand that there is a lot riding on this expedition - both for me and Fabrice \- I mean, Dr. Rondeau. And I think in this case the best thing to do is to have you two come another day."

"But..." I stare at my uncle. "What are me and Josh going to do all day? You already left us here yesterday!" I glance at my brother. He's looking at me with the same horrified expression on his face.

Uncle Marty chuckles. "Well..." He sets down his fork and looks at Madame Duguay. "As you can probably imagine, in a place like this (he waves his arms to indicate the house), there are a fair number of chores to be - "

"Nope! Nope! Nah, nah, nah, nah, I'm not listening!" I take my plate and push back my chair and move to the sink. "I'm not doing chores. I didn't come to _France_ to do _chores_ , Uncle Marty!" I drop my plate inside the sink.

"Sarah. Madame Duguay and Armand could really use your help."

I shake my head. "Nope." I'm ashamed (a little) at the way I'm acting - especially since Troy's probably judging me like crazy right now - but I can't give in.

"Sarah," says Madame Duguay gently as I make my way past them, intent on heading to my room. "If you'll give me an hour I'll let you and Josué borrow the bicycles from the garage."

The way she says "garage", it sounds more like "gair-edge".

"Sarah."

Uncle Marty's voice isn't so gentle.

I huff as I turn around to face them once more. " _Fine_. I'll do _one_ hour of chores. But that's it." I glare at Uncle Marty. "That's really unfair you know. You bring us here to do _chores_."

"Sarah. It's one more day. Chores never killed anyone."

They've obviously never gone on vacation with my uncle...

"And Madame Duguay's been kind enough to agree to watch you and your brother - "

"I'm not a kid anymore, Uncle Marty! I'm fifteen! I don't need a babysitter!"

"Sarah! We're in a foreign country, you don't speak the language...okay?" He's so mad right now, and all of a sudden too, that he's shaking and I know I'd better not push him any further.

"Fine," I say quietly.

Uncle Marty doesn't take his eyes from mine. His finger, which he holds in front of his face, is vibrating and I can practically see the steam coming from his ears. "I think you should go to your room for awhile. Go e-mail your mom. She wants to hear from you."

"Fine, I was going there anyway," I say thickly.

"I'll come get you in a little while," says Madame Duguay with a friendly, hopeful smile.

Oh, Madame Duguay. It's not your fault my uncle's such a dummy.

I nod. "Alright."

* * *

Thirty minutes later.

I set down my phone at the sound of knocking at my door.

"Yes?"

The door squeaks open and Madame Duguay's head appears.

"Would you like to come and help me in the kitchen, Sarah?"

No. I don't want to help you in the kitchen, Madame Duguay.

"I don't know."

She smiles and eases her way into my bedroom.

"You know, my dad - his name was Emile. He was a hard man. He made us do three hours of chores every morning. Even on school days. We had to get up at five in the morning to milk the cows, brush the horses, and wash the windows. We'd go to school with blackened fingers from sweeping the chimney. Holes in our pants from scrubbing floors. Things were different back then. We didn't have the luxuries you kids do today."

"This isn't making me feel better," I mumble.

Madame Duguay laughs. "Oh, child, I'm not trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to make you see things in a different light." She pads across the floor and takes a seat on the edge of my bed. "Sometimes, Sarah, in life, we just have to work. There's no other way. The ability to work isn't something that comes naturally to us \- it's something we acquire. It's something we grow up with. It's something we're taught. Our Pierre," she stops and touches her heart and takes in a bit of air through her mouth, a short little gasp - that thing old ladies do when in place of a sigh, "before he passed away, we had to fight with him," she shakes her head. "We couldn't get him to put down his books or come away from the television."

"Did your son...die?"

I feel bad for asking, but I have to know.

She nods and takes in a bit more air, making a little sound as she does so. "He did. He was twenty three when he passed away. Cancer."

"Oh my god, Madame Duguay." I feel like crying now and I sit up and look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry."

She purses her lips and looks at me, nodding, a single tear sliding down one cheek.

"Madame Duguay!" I'm about to cry - I can feel the tears start to come. "You're making me cry!"

She smiles (the tear's reached her upper lip now and it's left a wet trail down her face). "It's okay."

"Oh." I feel my face. Tears. Lots of them. "Madame Duguay..." I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly. She smells of lavender. "Madame Duguay...I am so sorry."

She pats my back, as though I'm the one that needs comforting. "It's okay, child. That was many years ago."

We break our embrace, slowly, naturally, and I look at her, resting my hands on my thighs. "How long ago?" I wipe my tears with the back of one hand.

"Well...I'm sixty seven in September...and I was twenty one when I had him...so about twenty four years ago..."

"That's long than I've been alive."

She smiles. _"Oui."_

I look at her, shaking my head in disbelief, unable to fathom this woman - this awesome old woman - having lost her child. "You're so strong, Madame Duguay."

She shrugs, chuckling softly, and pats my leg. "Life makes you strong, child."

"I'm going to help you with whatever chores you need help with. I promise."

She smiles. "Okay."

* * *

We spent the better part of the day helping Armand and Madame Duguay with things around the house. I dusted the old grandfather clock, the mantle, and the backs of the chairs. Josh beat the rugs outside with this long stick thing that looks like a badminton racket. He also swept the front porch and pulled all the weeds in the flower bed. Together, we put away all the dishes and mopped the kitchen floor. After lunch (Madame Duguay fed us an awesome lunch - turkey, tomato, lettuce, and cheese sandwiches with horseradish sauce and Dijon mustard) we washed the windows and put a fresh coat of paint on the front step and on the mailbox. Armand seemed to have trouble trusting us with the painting and hovered over us until Madame Duguay shooed him away. While the paint dried, we helped Madame Duguay clean out the cellar and the attic. She ended up getting rid of a ton of stuff - including an old stamp album which Josh spent an hour going through, picking out the stamps he liked. By the time she said we'd done enough, it was nearly time to get supper started.

"Your uncle said they'd be home for supper so I'd like to have it ready by six."

I nod as we head into the kitchen.

"There are these onions I really must use," she lays a hand on the bag of onions resting on the countertop, "and these carrots," she moves her hand to a bundle of carrots I'd seen her take out of the fridge at lunch, "and I've got a chicken from Monsieur Dumont - he owns the chicken farm down the road - and so I think we'll have chicken with onion and carrots and perhaps I can get you and your brother to run for the store for some potatoes."

"Where's the store?" I ask, suddenly salivating at the chance to get out and see something.

My sudden excitement makes her smile. "It's about two kilometres from here. I would let you take the bicycles to get there."

"Really!? That would be awesome, Madame Duguay!"

She laughs. "And what? You didn't have an _awesome_ time doing chores with me today?" She squeezes my shoulder playfully and I know she's not expecting an answer.

"We get to go biking?"

Josh is in the kitchen now, standing about five feet away, a hopeful expression on his face.

" _I'm_ going - " I catch myself before I tell him he's not coming.

Sigh.

"Do you want to come with me?"

His face lights up at my invitation. "Hell yeah! I mean...yeah..." he corrects himself under Madame Duguay's stern stare.

"Awww, isn't that nice. You two are finally starting to act as a brother and sister should."

I want to roll my eyes but I smile instead, a fake smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Yeah..." I say with a nervous laugh.

Madame Duguay claps her hands together. "Bon. I'll have Armand get you two set up with the bicycles and I'll start supper." She turns and looks down the hallway and I plug my ears just in time. "ARMAND!"

* * *

We're on the road in fifteen minutes, the sound of the old, clanky gears grinding and the spokes clacking as we go.

"Ow! This seat! There's a spring sticking out of it!"

I can't help but smirk as Josh wiggles and waggles to re-adjust his bum on the seat.

"How old are these damn bikes!?"

"Older than us," I answer mildly, my attention moving to the pasture to our right in which I can see three horses grazing on some kind of wild grass. "Aww, look at the horses."

Josh grunts but says nothing.

I want to go horseback riding...

The road into town takes us about ten minutes to pedal.

"Okay...so we're looking for _L'Épicerie Margot_ ," I say with my best French accent.

"I don't see it," Josh replies.

I glance at him. He's staring at his handlebars and humming to himself.

"You're not even looking!"

"What? I am too looking!"

"Whatever...I'll find it."

Ahead, I see a group of girls my own age. They're seated at a wooden table outside a little cafe, huddled over cups of something (it's hard to imagine them drinking coffee at my age). I can hear them conversing in rapid French. It sounds so beautiful and I wish I could understand what they were saying.

Further on we see a mother trying to get her two children into the car. Looking thoroughly exasperated, I hear her yell "Lucien!" This is followed by a barrage of incomprehensible, angry mom French.

"Is that it?"

Josh's voice draws my attention from the mother and her two children and I look at him.

"Where?"

"There," he says, taking one hand off the handlebar to point.

I turn and look to where he's pointing. A big yellow sign with blue letters announces _L'Épicerie Margot_.

"That's it."

We pedal as far as the gravel parking area in front of the store and hop off our bikes.

"She didn't give us a lock," Josh observes aloud, eyeing the bike rack in front of the store.

"We don't need a lock. We'll only be in there for a minute. Besides, this is like a small town. People don't steal in small towns like these."

Josh shrugs. "I'll wait with the bikes."

"Fine. Suit yourself."

We slide our bikes onto the bike rack and I leave Josh while I go inside.

" _Bonjour,"_ a voice call.s

"Bonjour," I answer, unable to see over the tall shelves.

I move around the shelf and head in the direction of the voice. But then I stop.

The voice most certainly belongs to the cashier. She's smiling at me as she opens the register and begins counting change for the man standing before her. A man with a bald head and a scar on his face.

I dive back behind the shelf, nearly knocking over a tower of tomato cans.

This can't be! It's him!

I shuffle slowly to the back of the store, sidestepping, like you see in the movies when the cop is walking along the ledge outside a building, ten storeys above a traffic-snarled street.

He's following us. There's no way this is just coincidence. He's followed us here.

"Merci, monsieur," I hear the woman's voice say.

"Merci à vous, madame," comes the man's reply.

The sound of his voice sends a chill down my spine and I crouch down behind the shelf I'm hiding behind.

"Bonne journée. Revenez bien tôt!"

"Bonne journée."

I hear him coming my way and I shuffle slowly away from the sound. I'm hidden now at the end of an aisle, well-hidden, and I'm crouched down just to be extra certain.

My mind jumps to Josh.

Josh!

But it was only me the man was staring at on the plane and in the airport. Does he even know who my brother is?

I listen carefully to his footsteps as he passes and move along the aisle so that I can watch him when he leaves the store.

"Can I help you?"

The door opens and the man steps outside just as the woman appears beside me. She's peering down at me over the top of her glasses and she doesn't look happy.

"Um...I'm just looking for some potatoes..."

Her eyes narrow. "Well, you are not going to find any potatoes down zair," she says with her thick French accent. "Come. I show you zee potatoes."

I get to my feet and brush the dirt from my knees. "Okay."

What about Josh?

The woman isn't letting me out of her sight now and it would be really weird if I were to just suddenly go to the door. So patiently, very patiently, and worrying the entire time, I follow her to the opposite end of the store. I can tell we're in the right section because the whole section smells like garden carrots and produce and then I see the bins. Big yellow bins full of cucumbers and leafy greens and turnips and radishes and just about every vegetable you can imagine.

"Les voilà," she says, stopping beside one of the bins where I can see a sign advertising "Pommes de terre - €1,60 / kilo".

"Thanks," I reply awkwardly.

She's watching me like a hawk right now. Every movement. Every facial expression.

"How much do you want?" she asks, taking a paper bag from a stack beside the scale and forcing it open.

"I don't know...it's for supper...and there's...(I have to stop a second to do a mental count)...six of us."

She looks at me like a teacher does when they want you to confirm your answer. "Six people?"

"Uh...yeah. There are six of us."

"Very well," she says, pursing her lips together and suddenly being all French. She starts loading potatoes into the bag. One, two, three. Each one ruffles the bag as she drops them in. "Bon...cela devrait être suffisant." She plops them on the scale and then, pulling a well-worn pencil from her apron, scribbles the number on a piece of paper. "That is everything?" she asks, eyeing my closely.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Bon. Please come to the desk," she says, pointing to the cash register.

I'm about to tell her that we don't say "desk" for that - that we simply say, 'I can ring you up at the cash', but I'm in a hurry. Josh is still outside with that man and who knows what's happened by now!

"Here...keep the change," I say, setting five euros on the counter.

She looks at me as though I've said something offensive, but I can't be bothered. I have to get outside and see my brother. And find that man! If I can see which way he goes...

I take the potatoes from the counter and hurry from the store. Josh is leaning against the building, flipping an old bottle cap over in his hands, looking relaxed.

He looks at me. "Sarah? What's wrong?"

"That man. The bald one. The guy with the scar on his face." I whirl around, my head turning left and right as I search frantically for him.

"A bald man?"

"The man...from the plane!" I stammer in frustration. "The man from the plane! The effing weirdo who was staring at me on the plane and at the airport!"

"Ohhhhh, _that_ man! What about him?"

I round on my brother, feeling _completely_ frustrated and pissed off. "He was just here!"

Josh looks surprised. "He was just _here_?"

"YES!"

He looks around. "I don't...wait a second...yes. There was a man that just came out of the store. I didn't really get a good look at him though...and I didn't notice a scar. He had sunglasses on."

I seize my brother by the shirt and shake him. "Which way did he go? Did you see where he went?"

"No! I didn't! And get off me!" He pries his shirt loose from my fingers and pushes me backwards.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm just...arrrrhhhhh!" I want to scream. I want to shout. "That effing bastard. He's following us. He followed us here."

Josh doesn't say anything for a second.

"Are you sure? Maybe he lives here..."

I look squarely at my brother. "Josh. What are the odds that a man on the plane who was _staring_ at me like some creepy weirdo and then again at the airport just _happens_ to live in this tiny town of a few hundred people!?"

He almost smiles. "You're right."

I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair. "Let's get back to the house and I'm going to tell Uncle Marty."

"Wait...Sarah...what if it like...what if he gets all worried and then he won't let us go out on our own anymore."

I shake my head as I pull my bike loose from the bike rack. "I don't care. That effing bastard. He's a creep Josh. And if he's following us, Uncle Marty should know about it."

Josh shrugs as he takes his bike from the rack. "Alright..."

Yeah, that's right alright.

I'm mad at my brother because he's not seeing my side of things. If it were him being stared at by some frickin' weirdo, he'd be concerned. But of course that stuff never happens to guys.

Gah, why does this have to happen? Of course we couldn't just come to France and have a good time. There always has to be some dumb B.S. like this.

* * *

When we arrive back at _La Mouette Blanche_ , I notice Uncle Marty's car still isn't in the driveway.

Just how long are they planning on staying at the dig site?

I slide off my bike and cart it to the garage. Josh follows close behind.

"Uncle Marty still not back yet?"

"Nope."

Stupid, Uncle Marty.

"I wonder how long they're going to stay out there?" Josh muses to no one in particular.

I shrug. "I don't care."

I'm starting to wonder whether I should even tell my uncle about the bald man with the scar. He's never around when I need him.

Would he even care? Would he even believe me?

We lug ourselves slowly up the steps and into the house where we find Madame Duguay in the kitchen, humming a tune to herself while dicing onions on a heavy wooden cutting board.

"Did you find the store?" she sings. "Did you get the potatoes?"

"Yeah...we got the potatoes," I mutter. I flip the bag onto the counter, more irritably than I'd intended.

"Sarah? Is there something the matter?"

Are my moods that obvious?

"No..."

She gives me that stern look grandmothers give their grandchildren.

"Yes..." I concede.

"What's the matter?" She sets down the knife and wipes her hands on her apron. "Are you not feeling well?" The way she's looking at me now - with sympathy in her eyes - I can't take it.

"No...I'm fine," I say, pulling away quickly.

She scoffs. "You're certainly not acting like you're fine!"

"She saw the man from the plane at the store," Josh blurts as he heads into the living room with his Nintendo DS.

"JOSH!"

"What?"

"Arrrrrrh! You can't just blurt that out!"

He shrugs as he flops down on the couch. "What's the big deal?"

I stare at him, steam coming out my ears. "The big deal is that it's my business and you can't just go blabbing my business!"

"Sarah."

Madame Duguay's voice is stern.

I turn and look at her.

"Whatever's troubling you...I'm sure I can help."

I throw my hands in the air. "What if it's not something you can help me with? Arrrrrrrh. I just want everyone to stay out of my business!"

"Sarah," Madame Duguay calls after me as I head from the kitchen.

I ignore her. (And believe me when I say I feel bad for ignoring Madame Duguay...)

"What happened?" I hear her ask Josh as I disappear into my room and shut the door.

Stupid Josh.

I sit down on the edge of my bed and look outside. Small birds hop along the tops of the hedges and flies buzz against the window pane.

This trip was supposed to be fun. Why couldn't we have just gone to Paris instead? Like normal people.

I kick off my shoes and flounce back on my bed.

I'm just going to go to Paris by myself. I can take the train there.

"You're home!" I hear Madame Duguay's voice through the wall of my bedroom.

I sit up.

Great.

Uncle Marty's going to have something to say now. I sigh and drag myself from the bed and flop down in the chair at the desk. There's a neat stack of books arranged along the wall and I take one at random.

The words are all in French and on the cover is a picture of a dwarf rowing a boat.

I replace the book and take another.

Harry Potter.

In French.

I slip the book back into its place just as I hear a knocking at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Sarah?"

Uncle Marty's voice is unmistakable.

"Yeah?"

Here we go...

"Are you decent?"

What?

"What do you mean?"

"Are you in the middle of changing or anything? Are you decent?"

"Yes," I reply haughtily. "I'm decent."

The door creaks open and Uncle Marty appears, first his nose, then his head, and finally the rest of him.

"I was just speaking with Joshua and Madame Duguay - "

" - and she told you I saw that man again?"

Uncle Marty nods.

I rest my hands on my hips. "And? _Now_ do you believe me?"

"It's not that I didn't believe you, Sarah - "

"Uncle Marty. You either believe me or you don't. Which one is it."

He sighs, his expression grim. "I believe you."

"You believe me, that there's a man following us? That this man is bald, has a scar on his face, was on the plane, at the airport, and now here in Porsoder?"

"Yes. I do."

I want to smile, but find I can't.

"So what do we do then?"

"We keep you under close supervision. We stick together. We make sure no one goes off on their own."

"And...if this guy is dangerous?"

Uncle Marty looks at me as though I'm being difficult. "That's why we're going to stick together."

"Sticking together doesn't keep you safe."

"It does, Sarah. And I don't see any instance arising here in Porspoder where you would be alone."

I shrug and lean back in my chair. "Anything can happen."

"That's right, Sarah. Anything can happen. And we'll do our best to make sure nothing bad happens."

I'm annoyed with my uncle. One minute he's not concerned, the next minute, he's concerned. And now he's not concerned again.

"Whatever. I can take care of myself."

"No, Sarah. You cannot take care of yourself. You are fifteen years old and in my car while we're in France and I will see to it that nothing happens to you or your brother."

"Okayyyyy, fine. Can we just stop talking about this now? I'm tired of it."

"We'll talk about for as long as we need to, Sarah."

"That's not what you said back at the airport..."

"Sarah. That was then, this is now. I didn't believe, at that time, that this man could be following us. And I'm still not entirely convinced, as it seems so bizarre. Then again, there are all types of people in this world, and this guy might just be one of the...challenged ones."

"Challenged? What do you mean...challenged?"

"Challenged. Different. Odd. You know. Beats to a different drum."

I stare blankly at him. "Beats to a different drum?"

Uncle Marty sighs, chuckles, and wraps an arm around me. "I forget you're only fifteen sometimes...come on, let's go see if Madame Duguay needs help in the kitchen."

Chapter Ten

A CHANCE DISCOVERY

"You dug up the foundations of a building?"

Josh looks confused.

"We dug up the foundations of a building," Uncle Marty repeats cheerfully.

"What's it the foundation of? What kind of building?" I ask, watching the green and golden coloured fields whip by as we speed along the highway.

"Presumably a church or a monastery...but that's what we're hoping to find out today."

"Dr. Rondeau's supervising the excavation as we speak," Troy adds, sounding pleased.

"That's cool."

"Cool is an understatement! We might just find the Dumnonian Hoard today!"

Troy's so hot when he's all enthusiastic about something.

"That'd be pretty awesome. Any sign of Saint Budoc? I mean...a statue or whatever of Saint Budoc?"

Uncle Marty, concentrating on the road, shakes his head. "No. Not yet."

Josh shifts in his seat and leans forward. "What happens if we find the Dumnonian Hoard today, Uncle Marty?"

Uncle Marty chuckles. "Well, I suppose we'd make the evening news."

Josh grins. "You'd be famous."

"I had thought of that...and I'm not entirely opposed," says Uncle Marty with another chuckle.

I glance at my brother to see if he's got something else to say since he seems to be pondering something. "I still don't think that it's fair we can't keep any treasure...not even a little piece...if we find it."

Uncle Marty clicks his tongue. "That's just the way it is, Joshua."

"Well...I think that sucks."

Uncle Marty looks at us through the rear view mirror. "Like I said, that's just the way it is."

"On the bright side," says Troy, "you'll be making history."

"Yeah...but I won't be making money."

I look at Josh. "Is that all you care about?"

"Sarah." Uncle Marty's tone is threatening.

"I'm just saying..."

"Well, don't. I'm looking forward to us having a peaceful, productive day and I'm not going to see you two start arguing."

"I'm not arguing."

"Sarah."

Oh my god...

"There it is..." says Troy.

"There's what?" I ask, sitting up and looking out the window.

Troy points. "The dig site. You can see the peaks of the tents...those white things."

My eyes follow his instruction. "Tents? Why are there tents?"

"For the archaeological team," Troy answers.

"There are quite a number of people involved in this project," Uncle Marty adds, clearing his throat in that annoying way people do when they're halfway through a sentence. "You've got Dr. Rondeau and his team from the Museum of Brittany, three or four members of the French Archaeological Society, and a local excavation crew operating all the equipment.

"Really? So that's like..." I perform a quick estimate in my head. "Thirty people?"

Troy laughs. "No, not quite. That would be too many for a site like this."

"It's more like half that," says Uncle Marty, glancing at me in the rear view mirror.

"So like fifteen?"

Uncle Marty nods. "Thereabouts."

The car is quiet for a moment. Uncle Marty's concentrating on the road, Troy's looking something up in the book on his lap, and Josh is back to playing his video game.

"Do Josh and I get to help dig stuff up?"

Uncle Marty chuckles. "No, sadly not, Sarah. This stuff is serious business, you know."

"I know. But can't we at least help? Like, hold the shovels and stuff?"

Now instead of laughing, Uncle Marty and Troy exchange a humorous look - that annoying look adults exchange when a kid asks them a question and they think it's dumb.

"What's so funny?"

Uncle Marty lets out a small sigh. "Sarah, archaeology is one of those things where you just can't have people who don't know what they're doing involved. We're working with thousand year old artifacts and all it takes is someone to stick a shovel in the ground where they're not supposed to and something gets ruined."

"But I won't just stick a shovel in the ground!"

Uncle Marty sighs a second time, but says nothing.

"There'll be lots to watch, Sarah," says Troy, his tone a little too patronizing for my taste.

"Oh, whoop dee doo. I can stand around all day and _watch_ you guys dig in the dirt."

"Sarah."

"Uncle Marty."

"Sarah. I'm warning you. I'll turn this car around right now and take you back to the Duguays'."

Hmph.

"Well, do we have to stay the whole time then?"

"You have to stay as long as Troy and I stay."

"But...what are we supposed to do?"

"Sarah. _You_ wanted to come to the dig site. This is how it works."

"But...I didn't know I'd have to stand around and do _nothing_ all day!"

Uncle Marty looks at me through the rear view mirror, his expression unsympathetically sympathetic.

"Fine then," I mutter.

This is so stupid.

I feel the car decelerate and look up to see Uncle Marty preparing to make a turn onto a narrow dirt road.

"Are we there?" asks Josh, setting down his Nintendo DS and looking out the window like a dog excited about a walk.

"Yep," comes Uncle Marty's simple reply.

In the distance I can see the ocean, blue and shimmering and beautiful.

"Are we spending the whole day here?"

"Sarah already asked that question, Joshua."

I feel my brother's eyes on me. "Really?"

"Yes, _really_. As usual you were too busy playing your video game to notice anything else."

"Sarah."

"Well it's true."

"What are Sarah and I going to do?"

"That's up to you," says Uncle Marty, pulling into an open space beside a blue van and throwing the car into park.

"Can we at least go down to the beach?" I ask, as the salty ocean breeze and the cries of seagulls awaken my senses.

"No, you cannot. Not without my supervision."

Troy and Uncle Marty unbuckle their seatbelts at the same time and open their doors.

"But...Uncle Marty! The ocean's like _right_ there!" I point an open hand at the water and stare, pleadingly, as my uncle as he climbs out of the car.

"Yes, and the ocean can also be dangerous if you're not careful." He hitches up his pants, performs an arm stretch, groans, and then shuts his car door.

"Oh my god. This is so lame. Even dad isn't this boring!"

I'm just going to sit in the car. What a stupid holiday this is turning out to be. Holiday...psssh. It's like detention...

I watch as Josh unbuckles his seat belt, sets his Nintendo DS under the seat, and climbs out of the car. He shuts his door and I suddenly feel very alone, listening to their chatter and with the sun glistening overhead. It's like everything is supposed to be fun, should be fun, but it's not fun.

Stupid Uncle Marty...

They take a minute to get stuff out of the trunk. I can hear them rummaging around and I can hear Uncle Marty buckling his fanny pack. The trunk slams shut and they walk past.

"Sarah. Are you coming?"

No...well...since it is you asking Troy...even though you keep taking my uncle's side...

"Yeah...in a minute," I groan, unbuckling my seatbelt and climbing out of the car.

I glare at Uncle Marty as I slam my door shut.

He pretends not to notice.

"Looks like Dr. Rondeau's here," Troy muses as we start up the dirt road that leads to the top of the hill.

On either side of us, a number of vehicles sit idle and temporarily abandoned, their owners and occupants off digging in the dirt somewhere over the hill I presume.

"Why? Which one's his?" I ask, motioning toward the variety of cars, trucks, and SUVs.

"The white Ranger."

"The white Ranger?" I look around, feeling dumb. "I'm really bad with cars," I add, feeling myself blush.

"That one there. The one with the Museum of Brittany logo on the door."

"Ohhhhh, now I see it."

Troy looks at me as we ascend the hill, grinning and nodding as though I'm "special".

"Hey!"

He laughs. "Are you up yet? Need me to dump a bucket of cold water on your head?"

I feel my face grow redder. "No!"

"I can't wait to see what Dr. Rondeau's got to show us," says Uncle Marty as we crest the hill and find ourselves overlooking a dig site the size of a soccer field. "He mentioned in his e-mail to me last night that they'd made an important discovery."

"What kind of discovery?" asks Josh, his attention fixed rather attentively on the goings on of the dig site below.

Uncle Marty shakes his head. "I've no clue. That's what we're going to find out."

You know when the way you imagine something to be turns out exactly how you pictured it?

Well, the dig site is exactly how I pictured it. As we descend the hill, I spy about a dozen people scattered across the dig site. They're all wearing white and grey and blue pants and shirts and visors and they're all grouped together in little clusters of three and four. One group seems to be discussing something on the ground at their feet. Another group stands over a table inside a tent, poring over a large white sheet of paper I can only guess is some kind of map.

"It's going to be a hot one," Troy muses, looking up at the sky.

"I hope you two put sunscreen on," says Uncle Marty, glancing back at Josh and I.

"I did," says Josh.

"Sarah? Did you put on sunscreen?"

"Uh...yeah."

"Sarah..."

"No."

He stops, opens the zipper on his bag, reaches inside, and produces a white bottle with a blue lid. "Put some on, please."

"But...then I won't tan."

"You would rather _burn_?"

"No."

"Well. Put some on. Come on, this isn't up for discussion."

"Oh my god! Uncle Marty! I'm fifteen!"

"Sarah..." Uncle Marty shakes his head in annoyance, replaces the sunscreen, and zips his bag shut. "Don't complain to me when your skin's all burnt and peeling."

"I won't."

Troy gives me a sympathetic look and we continue on.

I linger a moment, hoping for some distance between Uncle Marty and I. Resting my hands on my hips, I inhale deeply and gaze out at the shining sea.

At least the view is nice...

A short distance away stands a large white tent under which a man watches our approach. He smiles and steps out of the shade of his tent.

"Dr. Rosenberg," he calls.

"Dr. Rondeau," Uncle Marty replies, slinging his bag over his shoulder and shaking hands with the handsome man.

Dr. Rondeau lifts the sunglasses from his face to inspect Josh and I. "These must be the niece and nephew you've told me so much about." He extends his hand to me. "Fabrice Rondeau. And you are?"

"Sarah..." I answer, somewhat taken aback by his forwardness.

"Sarah. What a nice name. I knew a women from England once whose name was Sarah." He gives me a nod and a smile before switching his gaze to my brother.

"I'm Josh. I'm going to find the Dumnonian Hoard!"

Dr. Rondeau emits a small laugh and shakes his hand. "Well, Josh, I'm glad you're on our team!"

I glance at my brother and watch (with annoyance) as he nods and beams and acts all proud of himself.

"And that's great your uncle has already explained you about the Dumnonian Hoard."

I notice Dr. Rondeau's English isn't perfect - nowhere near as the Duguays' - but pretty good. Plus his French accent is pretty awesome.

"Yeah. He told us all about Saint Budoc and the Scroll of Isca and how the Dumnonians - I mean, the _Dumnonii_ \- moved from England to France because the West Saxons were attacking them!" He stops and takes a deep breath as Uncle Marty, Troy, and Dr. Rondeau all break out in laughter.

"Wow! That is incredible!" Dr. Rondeau's face is aglow and he looks at my uncle with a satisfied expression on his face. "You have a very smart nephew! Bravo."

"Oh, he's smart when he wants to be."

"You mean he's not smart always?" Dr. Rondeau grins and presses a fist into Uncle Marty's shoulder.

Uncle Marty chuckles and moves away from Dr. Rondeau. "No. Quite the opposite actually." He inhales, draws himself up, and hooks his thumbs through the belt loops on his waistband. "But, we're working on it," he says, his eyes on my brother. "Aren't we, Joshua."

Josh nods. "Yeah..."

He doesn't get it.

"He doesn't even know what you mean, Uncle Marty. You're talking way over his head right now."

"He's not talking over my head!" comes Josh's angry reply.

"Sarah, are you going to be difficult today? Because if you are, tell me now so I can plan the day accordingly. And be warned, if I do end up planning the day, you won't be happy with the outcome."

"I'm not being difficult, Uncle Marty. I'm just saying, you're talking over his head."

"Anyway," says Dr. Rondeau, clapping his hands together, "I have something I must show you, Dr. Rosenberg. We uncovered it yesterday evening shortly after you'd left and we worked all through the night."

"Wow...you must be tired."

Dr. Rondeau smiles. "Tired, yes. Excited, more." He claps a hand on Uncle Marty's shoulder as he looks at the rest of us. "Come. Let me show you what we have found. You will be quite amazed, I am sure."

"What is it? Can you tell us?" I ask jogging to keep up with Dr. Rondeau as his long legs lead us to another section of the dig site.

"I can do better. I can _show_ you."

"Yes, but...tell me _now_..."

"Sarah."

"I just want to know what he found, Uncle Marty."

"Sarah. Don't be rude."

I'm not being rude.

Dr. Rondeau laughs. "I see you are very enthusiastic about this kind of thing. That is good." He turns his head to look over his shoulder at Uncle Marty. "She is like her uncle, no?"

I watch Uncle Marty to gauge his reaction. He musters a small, tight smile.

We're quickly approaching a large hole in the ground, with orange fence all around it and two people standing on the edge of the hole, looking down inside of it.

"I can tell you, it is very promising," says Dr. Rondeau, sensing my excitement. "You will see now," he adds as we arrive at the orange fence.

I jog to get around it - to the opening - and in my haste to see, practically push aside the two people standing at its edge.

"It's...it's..."

"A stairway? A stairwell? How do you say it in English?" Dr. Rondeau's beside me now, peering down into the hole at the two workers below who seem to be digging and brushing (with special brushes) with tremendous fervour.

I nod as I study the narrow set of stone stairs leading down to the bottom of the hole. "A stairway. Or a stairwell. You can use both words. Oh, and staircase works too."

Dr. Rondeau looks perplexed. "Really? All of those are correct"

I nod.

Now he looks almost irritated. "English is such a funny language."

"Funny?"

"Like...strange."

I laugh, now that I get what he means. "Oh, yeah! It is kind of strange."

"It is strange because there are so many words for the same thing..." He looks down at the two people in the hole. "Jacques! Amélie! _Qu'aviez vous trouvés_?"

The workers seem to have stopped and I watch them closely as I feel Troy and Josh and Uncle Marty come up alongside us.

I turn to Troy. "What'd he say?"

"He's asking what they've found," he replies softly.

It's quite the sight - all of us - assembled on the edge of this giant hole and staring down into it - our mouths half open.

One of the people standing beside us - one of the people I kind of pushed out of the way - eases through us and stops at the edge of the hole. He looks down at the pair in the hole, fires off something in rapid French, and Jacques and Amélie move away from whatever they're working on. Dr. Rondeau meanwhile takes a giant step forward and peers down into the hole. We all follow his lead.

"What is it?" I ask, looking from Dr. Rondeau to Uncle Marty.

"I don't know...it looks like some kind of metal covering..." Uncle Marty answers quietly.

Dr. Rondeau turns to Uncle Marty and nods. " _Exactement_. That's what I think also. That is a cover. And behind it is a passage." He turns and calls down once more to the two in the hole.

"What's he saying?" I ask Troy as Dr. Rondeau rattles a bunch of words off to them in French.

"He's asking if there's anything behind the grate."

"Grate?"

"That metal thing. That's the word he used anyway."

I return my attention to the inside of the hole. Everything about the staircase it looks extremely old.

"Dr. Rondeau?"

"Sarah, not now," Uncle Marty snaps, glaring at me.

But Dr. Rondeau has nothing but a smile for me. "Yes, Sarah?"

"I was wondering..." I ignore Uncle Marty's stare. "I was wondering...can we go down there?"

He makes a face \- a sympathetic face - and I already know the answer. "As much as I would love to say yes, I must say no. Simply because we do not know what we are dealing with and because this stairway has not been entirely excavated. We must finish excavating it and then I can get some covers for your shoes and you and your brother (he glances at Josh) and you can go down and have a look. Okay?"

The way he says "okay", he's not asking, he's telling. But he's being nice.

"Okay..."

He nods, seemingly satisfied, and claps a hand on Uncle Marty's shoulder. "Come, Dr. Rosenberg, let's go and see what they have found."

"Certainly, Dr. Rondeau."

"What are we supposed to do?" I ask as Uncle Marty follows Dr. Rondeau down the first few steps.

"Hang out and watch."

"That's a little boring..."

Uncle Marty shrugs. "I guess you'll just be bored then."

"Can we at least go down to the beach?" I point toward the water in the distance.

"Absolutely not," says Uncle Marty with a half smile. "Sarah. If you're not going to do what I tell you while you're here at the dig site, then I won't bring you next time."

"Fine! I'll stay here and be bored!"

Troy catches me arm as I turn to walk away.

"Sarah. Just hang out here for awhile and then we'll go tour the dig site. There's lots of cool stuff going on (he waves an arm at the other archaeologists on site) and we'll go do a little tour of the site. Sound good?"

I feel my anger subside.

How can I ever say no to you?

"Alright..."

"Ten minutes?" He grins as he follows Uncle Marty and Dr. Rondeau, already halfway in the hole, down the stairway. "Okay?"

"Okay."

I look at my brother who doesn't seem overly bothered by the fact we have to hang out and watch Troy and Uncle Marty get to do all the fun stuff.

"You're cool just hanging around here?" I ask.

"Yeah..."

I give him a look that says "really?"

"Well...I don't know. Why? What else can we do?"

"Uh? Look where we are!" I wave my hand toward the ocean. "There's a beach down there. I can go tanning. We can go find some starfish or something. I don't know. What's the point in hanging out here if we're not even allowed to look at anything?"

"You're allowed to look at plenty, Sarah," Uncle Marty calls up from the hole below.

Is my voice really that loud?

"I'm not talking to you, Uncle Marty."

"Well, you are right now."

Oh my god...

"Whatever...come on, Josh," I say, making sure my voice is quiet enough so that only he can hear, "let's go look around. It's better than standing here and just watching them."

He shrugs. "Sure."

"You'd better stay where I can see you!" Uncle Marty calls from down inside the hole as we head away.

"We will!"

Pssssh. Yeah right.

"So where are we going?" Josh asks as we pick our way over buckets and shovels and layers of white tarp.

"The beach. I told you that already."

Josh murmurs something as he stops to look down a hole with a small twine fence built around it.

"Anything cool down there?"

"Nope," Josh answers, jogging to catch up.

"I thought not. You know, I'll bet the Dumnonian Hoard isn't even here. We came all this way and they're spending all this money and they have all these people (I wave an arm at the archaeologists spread across the site), and they're not even going to find anything."

"You know, it's usually when people say stuff like that, that they find something."

I give my brother a funny look. "Who told you that?"

"No one told me that. I just know that's how it is."

"Well, how do you know that's how it is?"

He squints his eyes at me, clearly unsure whether I'm messing with him or not. "That's just how it is."

"Well, whatev - "

"Careful!"

Josh yanks my arm and I fall sideways into the dirt.

"YOU IDIOT! WHY THE HELL DID YOU - "

I stop mid-sentence as I see the massive hole he'd just kept me from falling into.

"Oh..."

"Oh." His tone is sarcastic.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be. I just saved your life."

"You didn't save my life. The worst that would have happened is that I would have broken my leg or something."

Josh looks indignant. "Well then I saved you from breaking your leg."

"Ha! Maybe breaking my leg would have saved me from this trip! I could just take the next plane to Paris, spend a couple days there, and be back in Toronto by next weekend. Which would be in time to go to Stacey's cottage."

Josh says nothing and we amble along, moseying past more holes in the ground and more sheets of white tarp. As we near the back end of the dig site, we find ourselves once more on grass. The grass however doesn't last long as it's quickly followed by a steep drop down to the water.

"How the heck are we going to get down to the beach?"

"I don't know," I answer, following the grass to the edge of the cliff. I peer over the edge. It's about thirty feet to the bottom - the bottom which is a chain of rocks poking out of the water with the frothy surf swirling all around and the waves lapping at the edges of the cliff. I turn my head and spy a strip of sandier, flatter beach further away. "Over there!"

"Over where?" asks Josh, coming up beside me and letting his gaze move to the water below.

"Over there," I say, pointing.

"Oh...still, how do get get down there?"

"I don't know. But we'll figure it out."

"Sair?"

"What?"

"I'm happy we got to go on this trip together."

My brother's being nice to me...why?

"Yeah...me too," I answer, eyeing him closely.

He's got me all nervous now.

"Why're you being so nice all of a sudden?"

"What?"

"You're being all nice to me all of a sudden...and I want to know why."

Josh smirks. "I'm not being nice to you on purpose. Well...I don't know...maybe a little."

"I don't understand you right now, dear brother."

We both laugh and it feels good because it's the first time we've laughed at the same thing in a long while.

"Alright..." I say, wanting to move past this awkward moment, "let's head over to that path. Then we can get down to the beach!"

I'm excited at the prospect of sun tanning.

Josh nods. "Yeah for sure."

We follow the grass until it gives way to dirt and rock and once on the path, we follow its winding trajectory down to the water. It's rather steep and several times I have to stop and grab onto a rock or a branch protruding from the hard-packed earth so as to steady myself.

"I'm glad I decided to wear shoes."

"What else would you wear?" asks Josh as he reaches the bottom, well ahead of me.

"Uh...sandals?"

"Oh...yeah. I only brought these shoes," he says, lifting one foot.

I pick my way slowly along the path, stepping carefully from rock to rock and sliding with my feet whenever it gets really steep.

"Dummy." Just like I do with the stairs in our house, once I've reached the bottom portion of the path, I jump down onto the rocky beach. "You should have brought at least one more pair."

"Whatever. I can buy another pair."

"I plan on buying _several_ pairs of shoes while we're here."

"Here in Porspoder?" asks Josh as we pick our way along the various sizes and shapes of rock that make up the beach.

"No, stupid, in Paris." I feel grossed out by all the seaweed washed up on the beach.

"We're going to Paris?"

"Uh, yeah. Remember Uncle Marty said. When we're done here. On the way home. We'll stay a night or two in Paris."

"Cool."

I nod and make a face as though this was obvious and he should have known.

"I want to check out the Eiffel Tower. How high do you think they let you go up?"

"How should I know?"

Josh shrugs. "I don't know..."

I shake my head. "You're acting all strange today."

He shrugs again and meanders off to one side of the beach. He bends down and picks up a flat rock.

"You'd better not throw that at me!"

"I'm not going to," he says angrily. "I'm finding good skipping rocks."

"I'll bet I can skip rocks better than you."

Josh grins. "Wanna bet?"

As though suddenly full of sugar and caffeine, we both start gathering up all the flat rocks we can find. We're like a couple of crazy people, laughing and yelling at each other. I'm using the bottom part of my shirt as a little basket while Josh is stuffing the pockets of his cargo shorts.

Josh runs past me and gives me a playful shove as he runs to the water's edge.

I, being the klutz that I am, topple over and all the rocks in my shirt go flying.

"You idiot!" I squeal, chasing him down and slapping him on the back as he lets loose a rock.

He winces and we watch it skip across the water. Once, twice, three times.

"Only three? Phhhhhh."

"You try it then!" Josh shoves a rock in my face.

"Alright. I will."

I take the rock and set my feet firmly against the rocks underfoot. Then, cocking my arm, I whip the rock, as hard as I can, across the surface of the water. It takes a wild bounce and then sinks a few feet away.

Josh smirks. "Lame."

"Whatever. Give me another one."

He shakes his head. "Get your own."

"You've got like twenty rocks!" I reach for one and he pushes me away.

Whether he meant to or not, his push sends me sprawling forwards and I hit the cold water, face first.

"JOSH!!!!"

"Oh crap!" He shrieks, a high-pitched shriek that almost hurts my ears, and then takes off running.

"You scream like a girl!" I call after him, picking myself up and stepping out of the cold, salty water. "And you're dead! You are _so_ dead!"

I sprint after him, angrily, and with my heart pounding. "When I catch you...!"

Up ahead, Josh runs on, laughing and zig-zagging from side to side as though this will somehow make it more difficult for me.

I bite my tongue and hurry forward, relishing the opportunity to hit him and cause him pain.

A little ways ahead, protruding from a small tidal pool, I spot a length of Bullwhip kelp.

Perfect.

"Get ready!" I yell as his quick pace puts even more distance between us.

Damn it. I'd better be able to catch him!

I bend down an take up the Bullwhip kelp.

"I'm serious! When I catch you..."

Josh?

A second ago he'd been there, by that rock. And with his orange shirt, he'd been easy enough to see...

"Josh?"

I pick my way along the beach, sidestepping stones and bits of driftwood.

"Josh? Josh....this isn't funny. Seriously."

The stones underfoot are getting smaller now as beach gives way to dirt and grass. As I approach the cliff face, almost perfectly flat and looming up from the beach, I hear what sounds like Josh's voice. Only it's muffled...and very distant sounding.

"Josh?"

"...."

"Josh! What the hell!? Where are you!?"

I approach the rock and walk a complete circle around it. No Josh.

"JOSH!"

"Sarah..."

This time I can actually make out my name. It sounds like it's coming from behind me...

I whirl around and find myself staring at the cliff face. It's like a wall. A very smooth wall, overgrown with grass and brush and...

Josh's face pops through a thick ivy curtain. He's grinning from ear to ear.

"JOSH! YOU IDIOT!"

The ivy curtain shimmers shut as he disappears once more behind it.

Now I've got you.

I brandish my whip, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to give my brother a good lashing.

I reach the ivy curtain hanging down the cliff face and stick a hand through it.

"SARAH! YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS! HURRY UP!"

"This had better not be a trick!" I say, easing through the green strands. The leaves pick at me and catch my hair, but I'm through after a second, and standing in what appears to be a cave.

"Josh...what are we doing in here?"

Suddenly I don't care about getting him back...

Instinctively, my eyes move to the ceiling. I'm surprised there are no bats. Well, at least not that I can see.

"Sarah. Seriously." He waves me over to the opposite end of the cave. "Try and leave those leaves open a bit...so we can get some light in here."

"I still don't get why you're even in here..." I bunch a handful of strands together and loop them around a rock jutting out from the cave wall. "How did you find this place?"

"I was running over here to hide and I fell right through those leaves."

"These ivy strands?" I ask, stepping away from the cave entrance.

A fair amount of light pierces the darkness of the cave through the space left by the strands I've hooked off to the side.

"Yeah...whatever those are."

"They're ivy. It's the same stuff that grows along the brick wall at Aunt Karen's house."

Josh nods. "Okay. Anyway, that doesn't really matter. Seriously, come check this out." He points to something in front of him, piquing my curiosity.

"What is it?" I ask, making my way (nervously) deeper into the cave.

"It's...well, I _think_ it's a statue."

"A statue?"

It takes me a second to get to him - the space between the mouth of the cave and the back of the cave where Josh is standing is about thirty feet. And believe me when I say I'm not at all comfortable in my current surroundings.

"There'd better not be any snakes in here...are there snakes in France?"

"Snakes?"

"Yes, snakes."

Even the word grosses me out.

"I don't think so...maybe little ones."

I stop dead in my tracks. "Really?"

He smiles. "I don't know. I'm just guessing."

"Well don't!" I slap his arm.

"Ow! What'd you do that for!?"

"You're trying to scare me."

"Am not."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You're always pulling stunts like this."

Josh looks genuinely pissed off and I suddenly feel guilty.

"Sorry."

"Whatever. Just _look,_ would you?"

He points at the ground. It's a statue alright. About two feet tall. It looks old. And it's not very well defined - though it definitely looks like the statue of a man...at least I think it's supposed to be a man...

"Who do you think it's a statue of?"

"Well," says Josh, looking at me, his eyes dancing, "remember who Uncle Marty told us was watching over the Dumnonian Hoard?"

I look at him cross-eyed. "You mean, you actually listened to something Uncle Marty said?"

Josh emits a fake laugh. "Ha, ha."

I grin. "Alright..." I return my attention to the statue. "There was that saint guy he mentioned..."

Josh nods, looking at me as though I'm finally following his line of thought.

And then it hits me. "Budoc..." I gape at him as I suddenly remember the patron saint of the Dumnonii. "Saint Budoc...yes..." My eyes dart back to the statue and I bend down beside it, running my hand over the peaked hat atop his head. "Yes...and look there's even a cross on his chest!"

Josh bends down to inspect it further and I remove my hands so he can see.

"It _is_ a cross! Sarah...do you know what this means?"

We look at each other, both thinking the same thing.

"THE DUMNONIAN HOARD!"

We jump up and whoop and holler and I'm sure if there were any snakes in that cave, we scared them all away.

"I can't believe this!"

"I know! We're going to be famous!"

"What's Uncle Marty going to say!?"

A thought occurs to me. "Let's not tell him."

Josh shoots me a quizzical look.

"Let's not tell him..." I repeat, "and then once we find it, and once we have it, we'll just be all casual with it and like what up onto the dig site and be like, oh look, the Dumnonian Hoard!"

The image of this makes us both laugh hysterically.

"Yes! Alright! That'll be pro!"

"Okay, but we have to find it first," I say, scanning the walls and floor of the cave. "Where do you think it is?"

"Well..." Josh looks thoughtfully at the statue. "The Scroll of Isca said that it's being protected by Budoc...right?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"And so..." Josh squats down and starts pulling on the base of the statue. "It's got to be under him or something."

"Yes...yes you're right!" I squat down beside him and start pulling on the rocks beside the statue.

"It's not...moving..."

I watch my brother struggle for a minute.

"What if it's like where he's looking or something?"

I stand up and move to the wall opposite, the wall the statue faces.

"Good idea," says Josh, joining me and beginning a study of the wall. "It could be like in the movies where there's like a button or something...and then you push it and a secret door opens..."

I roll my eyes. "Remember, this was like a thousand years ago. I don't think they had that kind of technology back then."

"Maybe they did."

"I doubt it."

I move my hand along the wall, over the bumps and through the crevices (I'm carefully not to stick my fingers inside these crevices lest some snake or spider be lurking in its depths), tracing its smooth surface with my palm.

"Oh...holy...holy crap!"

My head snaps toward Josh. "What? What is it?"

He's bent down on both knees and he's got his hands glued to a large flat stone.

"This..." he grunts as he strains against the stone, "moves..." He grunts again and I hurry to help him.

"Here, let me take this side."

"You're not strong enough, sis."

"Ah, excuse me, I'm pretty damn strong for a girl. How many times have I hit you and left a mark?"

Josh grins, panting from the energy he's expending. "Alright...alright. Take that side then. I got this side."

"Alright."

Positioning myself on one side of the stone, I push against its weight, digging my feet into the firm, solid rock ground for more leverage.

"This...is...impossible."

"C'mon. We got this."

"It's...so...heavy!"

After several minutes, every muscle in my body feels like it's on fire.

"I...can't...do...this...anymore."

"Just a little further," Josh urges, turning and putting his back against the rock.

"Okay...but...WHOA!"

Where there was once solid rock at my feet, there's now the beginnings of a hole.

Josh stops pushing and steps away from the rock. "What?"

I point at the partial hole we've uncovered. "Look!"

"Holy...Sarah...this is it. It has to be."

I nod. "I think so too."

We look at each other, both of us grinning from ear to ear.

"Do you know what this means!?"

"It means we're going to find the Dumnonian Hoard..." I answer breathlessly.

"It has to be down there!"

"It sure seems like a good spot to hide some treasure..." I take a step toward the hole and peer inside it. "How far down do you think it goes?"

"Let's find out," says Josh, stooping down and plucking a stone from the floor.

He drops it down the hole and we wait in silence.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one - "

TICK.

We look at each other.

"Four and a half seconds," I say.

Josh nods. "That's a deep hole."

"How the heck are we supposed to get down there?" I ask, suddenly feeling less hopeful.

"With some rope?"

"Where are we going to get that?"

Josh's face dons a thoughtful expression. "How about from the Duguays'? They must have some somewhere."

"What if they don't?"

Josh looks down at the hole. "Then we'll figure something out. We _have_ to get down there..."

"And I don't think we should tell Uncle Marty," I say.

Josh looks at me and smiles. "Yeah, me either."

I return his smile. "I say we find it and then we'll just walk onto the dig site and be all casual and be like, is this what you guys are looking for?"

We both laugh and the sound of our laughter echoes off the cave walls.

"That would be _awesome_!"

There's silence now as we realize the enormity of the task we face. We seem to both have our eyes on the big rock still covering most of the hole.

"So..."

"So..."

"Do we move it _now_ then?" I ask, not looking forward to the prospect.

Josh shrugs as he massages his biceps. "We can move it now or when we come back."

"Are you thinking we have to come back?"

Josh shoots me a sideways glance. "Uh...yeah...we have to get the rope from the Duguays'."

I practically slap my forehead. "Right."

"So tonight?"

I shake my head. "No, not tonight. We still have to find some rope and all that."

Josh nods. "Tomorrow night then."

"For sure."

"Alright."

"Let's go then before Uncle Marty wonders where we've got to."

"Good idea."

Chapter Eleven

A PLAN IS HATCHED

"No, absolutely not."

"What?"

"You two aren't coming."

"What do you mean?" I demand, dropping my fork and letting it clatter loudly against the edge of my plate.

"Here, let me get that," says Madame Duguay, swooping in and taking my plate away as she finishes clearing the supper dishes.

"You heard me," says Uncle Marty. "You two disappeared today four nearly an hour and I had _no_ idea where you were!"

I look at Josh and then back at Uncle Marty. "I told you! We just walked around the dig site."

Uncle Marty purses his lips and shakes his head. "Nope. Not buying it, Sarah. Wherever you were, it sure as hell wasn't the dig site because Troy and I spent fifteen minutes looking for you today. You even had Dr. Rondeau worried."

At this revelation, I can't help but feel at least a little guilty. "Well, we weren't trying to be difficult to find..."

"Well you were, Sarah." Uncle Marty pauses to take more olives from the little dish in the centre of the table. "You were difficult to find."

I glance at Troy to see if he thinks the same thing. Judging by his expression, he does.

Damn it.

"So what are we supposed to do tomorrow then?"

Uncle Marty shrugs. "Whatever you like so long as you're not getting in Madame Duguay's way."

I look at Madame Duguay for some sympathy. She gives me a soft, sad smile.

"I can't believe how strict you are."

"Sarah. I'm not strict."

"Uh, telling us we have to stay here all day because you couldn't find us for an hour is called strict."

"I certainly don't think so. You know, when I was your age, I certainly didn't talk to my parents the way you talk to me."

"You're not my parent!"

Uncle Marty looks ticked. "Fine, your uncle. Whatever. I didn't talk to my uncle the way you talk to me."

"Did you uncle bring you on vacation and then make you stay at some boring bed and breakfast all day!?"

I realize suddenly the impact my words might have on Madame Duguay and I look at her.

She looks a little hurt.

"I'm sorry, Madame Duguay. I don't mean that you guys are boring."

"Come," says Armand Duguay, rising from the table. "Come with me, Sarah. Come and see my study."

"But I don't want..." I look around the table at all the faces. They're all watching me. "I'm not the bad guy here!"

Only Armand says something. "Come, Sarah. Supper is over. Let's go."

Feeling very embarrassed, I push my chair back and get up from the table.

"I don't want to see you until tomorrow morning," says Uncle Marty, his tone cool.

"I don't want to see you until tomorrow morning," I mutter, as I turn and follow Armand from the dining room.

Why the hell does he want to show me his study?

I ignore Josh's gaze and follow Armand down the hallway. It's twilight now, the sun is setting. Outside I can still hear birds chirping. A car honks in the distance.

"What do you want to show me in your study?" I ask timidly as we near the door at the end of the hallway, the door Madame Duguay asked us not to go into the very first day we arrived.

"I think it's best you spend some time apart from your uncle this evening." He offers me a smile and opens the door. "Go on," he says, ushering me inside with a wave of his hand.

This is so stupid...

"You can have that chair in the corner there." He comes in after me and closes the door. "As you can see," he says, gesturing toward the eight bookshelves that run from floor to ceiling, "I have a lot of books. Are there any books you like to read?" He moves past me and takes a seat in his swivel chair behind the desk.

I shrug as I take my seat on the padded leather stool (it's most certainly _not_ a chair) in the corner. "I like some books."

Armand smiles and looks at me under from under his bushy eyebrows. "Any in particular? I've got fiction, non-fiction. French, English, American, Italian..."

"I like Harry Potter."

Armand chuckles. "I don't have that one."

I smile, appreciative of his efforts to make me feel better. Now that I get what he's trying to do. "Well..." I suddenly get an idea. It's as though a light bulb's gone off. "Do you have any books about the Dumnonii?"

"The..." Armand's quizzical expression suddenly becomes a thoughtful expression and he sits back in his chair, his thumb and index finger cradling his chin in that way smart old guys often do. "The Dumnonii...yes...these were an early people from this area."

I nod. "They were originally from England actually. They migrated here when the West Saxons began attacking them."

"Wow, you know a lot about them," he replies, seeming genuinely impressed. "I believe this is what your uncle is looking for, correct? The treasure that belonged to them?"

I'm not sure if this is any big secret as Uncle Marty has spoken openly about the Dumnonian Hoard in the Duguay's presence and so I nod again. "Yep."

Armand nods and strokes his beard, his expression thoughtful once more. "Well..." His attention drifts over to the book shelf on the opposite end of the room. "I might have..."

I watch as he rises from his chair and move my legs as he brushes past me.

"It was right about...ah yes...here we are."

I'm intrigued now, watching him, as he removes an old looking book with a plain blue cover from the third shelf.

He blows on it, producing a cloud of dust, and I cough and sneeze as he apologizes and runs for the Kleenex box on the edge of his desk.

"I'm dreadfully sorry. Here."

"It's....AHCHOO!...okay...AHCHOO!...I just have some...AHCHOO!...allergies when it comes to dust. AHCHOO!"

"Oh, goodness, do you ever!"

I take a Kleenex from his and wipe my nose. "Ahhh, that's better. AHCHOO!"

"Goodness."

There's a knock at the door. "Is everything alright in there?"

"Yes, dear," Armand replies. He turns to me and says in a low voice, "my wife doesn't trust me when it comes to guests."

"Are you sure? Sarah? Are you alright in there? I heard some rather violent sneezing."

"I'm fine, Madame Duguay! Thank you!"

"Alright, well, you let me know if you need anything. Your uncle and Troy are going out for a walk."

Good riddance.

"Okay! Thanks! AHCHOO!"

"Oh, you poor thing! Armand, get her some tissue!"

" _Je lui en ai donné!"_

Hunh?

"Well, good. Sarah, as I said, you let me know if you need anything. Alright?"

"Yes, Madame Duguay."

"Alright, bon. I'll be in the kitchen."

"Okay!"

Armand shakes his head and smiles as we both share a private laugh about Madame Duguay's concern.

"Married for thirty seven years and she still doesn't trust me to provide good hospitality."

"Oh, Mr. Duguay, you are very hospitable. Don't worry."

I can see he appreciates my comment.

"Well, thank you, Sarah."

"De rien."

"Oooh, you're speaking French now?" He winks and returns to the book once more. "Now," he cracks it open, "this is a very old book. So I want you to be careful with it."

"Where did you get it?"

"At a flea market if you can believe it."

"A flea market?"

Armand nods. "Yes. For ten francs."

"What's a franc?"

Armand smiles. "It's the name of our old currency. The one we used to have in France. Avant l'euro. Before the euro."

"Oh."

He nods. "Anyway, have a look." He hands me the book and returns to his chair.

"It's in French!"

Armand shrugs, raising his hands in surrender.

How annoying...

I lean back on my stool and flip through the yellowed pages.

Boring...boring...I have no idea what they're talking about...boring...boring...wait.

I stop on page eighty four. There's a picture of an old man. He's got a long beard and a cap on his head that makes him look like he's a religious dude.

I turn the book around and show it to Armand.

"Who's this?"

Armand's eyes narrow as he tries to focus on the image. "I can't see really...here...bring it to me."

I get up off the stool and hand him the book, still open at page eighty four.

"Would that be Budoc? I mean, _Saint_ Budoc?"

I watch him as he studies it.

"Budoc...yes. That's what they have written here." He looks at me, clearly impressed. "How did you know that?" he asks, returning the book to me.

"Well, it was a guess. But I know Budoc is connected to the treasure we're looking for."

Armand smiles and leans back in his chair. "This is very interesting."

"Why?"

"Well, Budoc is one of our most important saints."

"Yeah, I know."

Now, rather than looking impressed, Armand looks amused. "What do you know about him?"

"Uh..."

"Many people know his _name_ , but very few know his story."

"His story?"

"His life."

Now it's my turn to be impressed. "Can you tell me about his life?"

"Of course. What would you like to know?"

"Well...where was he born?"

"At sea. In a barrel."

"In barrel!?"

Armand smiles. "Yes."

"How...?"

Armand chuckles at the perplexed expression on my face. "His father, who was the King of a small fiefdom near Tréguier, had his mother put into a barrel and thrown into the sea. She was pregnant with Budoc and she gave birth to him while at sea."

"But...why would somebody do such a thing!?"

"The king believed she was having an affair."

"Oh...well...still. You can't just put someone in a barrel and throw them in the sea!"

"No...no...you can't. But that is what happened. Bear in mind that this was a very long time ago when things were quite different."

I nod, my brain bursting with questions. "Alright, so, what happened then? I guess obviously he lived, right?"

"Who?"

"Budoc."

Armand nods. "Yes, he lived. The barrel landed off the coast of Ireland and there he and his mother, Princess Azenor, were picked up by some fishermen."

"So what happened then?" I ask, hardly able to contain my curiosity.

"Well, the Irish took them in."

"Really?"

Armand laughs. "Why so surprised?"

"Because...the Irish and the French don't really get along that well...do they? I would have thought that the Irish might have taken the Princess and Budoc and held them for ransom."

Armand smiles, his eyes twinkling. "Remember that this part of Europe was not the same then as it is now. The borders were different. Celtic peoples were much closer."

"Closer how? And who are these Celtic peoples?"

"The Celtic peoples are those who inhabited Wales, Cornwall, Brittany, Scotland, and Ireland during the medieval era. They were close in that the people of these nations traded and their royal families often sent their children to be trained at the courts of other royal families. So Princess Azenor and Budoc arriving in Ireland, even through these were unusual circumstances, was nothing _extraordinaire_."

"Neat."

Armand nods. "It is very neat."

"So what happened to Princess Azenor and Budoc then?"

"Well. They lived at the court of one of her distant relations. A third cousin or something."

"And they could understand each other?"

Armand looks at me as though I should know this. "You mean speaking to each other?"

"Yeah."

"Well, of course! There are different dialects of the Celtic language - and Irish Celtic and Breton Celtic are quite different - but there are also many similarities. Not to mention, Princess Azenor would have been given language training as part of her education and so she was most certainly able to communicate."

"And Budoc?"

"Well, Budoc being but a baby, he would have learned their language."

I nod, my mind mulling over all the facts I've just been presented with. "Did they stay in Ireland a long time? Because Budoc came to Britanny later, right?"

Armand nods. "They stayed in Ireland for about ten years. There is some speculation that Princess Azenor returned to Brittany on her own and left Budoc in Ireland as he was being trained and educated there and quite enjoying himself. She also thought it might be dangerous to bring her son back to Britanny if her husband was still angry with her. They'd exchanged letters of course and he'd invited her back, but as he was getting on in years, she couldn't be sure. Perhaps he was plotting to have his first born murdered so that his younger son could inherit his throne."

"So she went back and left him in Ireland?"

"Yes."

"So what did Budoc do then? And was Princess Azenor safe once she got back to France?"

Armand chuckles. "I don't have _all_ the answers, Sarah. I tell you what. You keep that book. Take it. Learn French. And perhaps in a year or two you can read it."

"Oh my god! That's so mean!"

"Mean? How is it mean?"

I laugh. "Because!" I want to smack him in the book. "I can't read French!"

"But you can if you study!" Armand remarks, sliding his chair back as though sensing my intention. "Study and read it. This is incentive to learn."

"Ahhhhhhhh."

"Ahhhhhh what? Why?"

" _ARMAND! Qu'est-ce qui se passe maintenant!?"_

"Nothing dear!"

There's a rap on the door and then it pops open. Madame Duguay's got her hair tied up in a 'kerchief and a broom in her hand. "Is he bugging you, Sarah? Because you just let me know if he's bugging you..." She narrows her eyes at her husband and brandishes her broom.

I laugh. "No, Madame Duguay. Everything's fine. Armand is giving me this book (I hold up the book) but it's in French and I don't read French."

Madame Duguay gives her husband a look.

Armand laughs and raises his hands in surrender. "What?"

"You tease the poor girl." Madame Duguay clicks her tongue. "Come," she takes my arm, "you can help me with a few chores."

Great.

* * *

With Troy and Uncle Marty gone to the dig site, the house is quiet. Madame Duguay's in the garden out back. She's left me alone now that I've helped her with her chores. Armand's gone into town and Josh is sprawled out on the couch with a magazine.

I still haven't forgotten we need to get rope for the hole we found in the cave. But where to get it...

"Hey Sair...is it true that sixty percent of the Amazon Rainforest is in Brazil?"

I shoot my brother a dirty look. "How should I know?"

"I don't know..."

I glance at the cover of his magazine.

National Geographic.

"You know, you can Google that stuff, right? You don't need to ask me?"

I am a bitch sometimes...

"Alright..."

"I'm sorry," I sigh. "It's just...I'm so frickin' pissed at Uncle Marty. He's making this vacation suck completely."

Josh sets down his magazine and sits up on the couch. "Well, we're pretty close to finding the Dumnonian Hoard...and that won't suck!"

I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I know."

"We still need to find some rope so we can climb down that hole."

"That's exactly what I was just thinking about. But where could we find some rope around here..."

Josh looks thoughtful. "How about the shed out back?"

"Oh my god! Of course! I could actually hug you right now!"

Josh grins. "Well, don't."

I laugh. "Don't worry." I turn and head for the back door. I can hear Madame Duguay's radio on outside. The little portable Sony one that looks like it's from the seventies. "Let's go and look in the shed for some rope."

"I'm right behind you."

We hurry outside and down the steps. Madame Duguay's on her knees, in a flower bed, picking weeds and humming along to the song on the radio.

"Madame Duguay?"

"Ah, oh, who's there!?" She whirls around and pats at her chest with a gloved hand in that way old ladies do when they've suddenly been surprised.

"It's just us, Madame Duguay!"

"Oh, heavens, you gave me a fright!" She pats her chest with one hand now and fans herself with the other.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Oh, it's alright. I know you didn't mean to." She seems to look at us now as though she can tell we want something. "You look like you have a question..."

I smile nervously and look at Josh and back at Madame Duguay. "Yeah..."

Madame Duguay smiles and picks up her trowel once more. "What is it? Are you hungry? Is it supper time already?" She turns her wrist over and glances at her watch. "No, it's not supper yet..."

"Madame Duguay, I was wondering if you maybe had some rope...Josh and I want to have a game of tug o' war and I thought you might have some in the shed or something." I glance at the shed.

"Oh, well, I don't know...hmm...some rope you say. Yes...perhaps...though it wouldn't be in the shed...I _believe_ Armand has some rope in the garage...here," she says, getting slowly (and painfully by the looks of it) to her feet, "let me go and have a look."

"Oh no, Madame Duguay. Please. I don't want to trouble you. I can go and look for it."

The less she knows the better. Besides, there might be some other useful things in the garage - like a flashlight - that we can bring along.

She stops mid-step. "Oh...are you sure?"

I nod eagerly. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Very well. The key is on the hook by the door."

"Awesome! Thanks, Madame Duguay."

She smiles. "You kids have fun."

"We will." I turn to Josh. "Come on, let's go."

Josh grins, a mischievous grin, and together we head back inside.

"This is going to be..." I can hardly control myself right now. "All we need is some rope and we can get back there and, oh man, just imagine the look on Uncle Marty's face when we find it!"

" _If_ we find it," Josh counters as I collect the key from the hook on the wall.

"We're going to find it."

"You're jinxing it by saying that."

"Oh, don't be so superstitious."

Josh shrugs as we turn and head for the front door.

"We're going to find it," I repeat, "and it's going to be awesome." We reach the door and I lead the way outside, down the front steps and around the corner to the old fashioned garage.

It's got a handle at the bottom with key hole and you have to unlock it and then slide the door up. Josh helps me with this and after a minute and some difficulty, we're inside.

"Ahhh, it's dark in here..." I say, staggering toward the string hanging from the bulb in the ceiling.

"Well turn on the light," says Josh.

"That's what I'm doing."

I pull the length of string and the garage is suddenly filled with light.

As my eyes adjust, I scan the walls for anything resembling rope. I'm half expecting to see a ball of twine somewhere. Instead, after just a few seconds I see a coil of rope hanging from a hook on the wall.

"And there it is," I say, feeling victorious. I make my way toward it. "And it's good and thick too. This should be strong enough, eh?" I ask, removing the coil from the wall.

Josh takes it from me and runs a hand across it. "Yeah...it feels pretty strong."

"Do you think you can climb down into that hole with this? Because I sure as hell ain't going down there."

Josh looks shocked. "What? Why do _I_ have to be the one to go down there?"

I smile and take the coil of rope back from him. "Because you're my brother and that's what brothers are for." I pull the string for the light bulb and we're once again shrouded in darkness.

"When are we doing this?" Josh asks as we make our way back outside, the sun feeling rather warm after being in the garage.

"Tomorrow night I think...here, help me with this." I toss the coil of rope aside and start heaving on the garage door handle.

Josh adds his weight to mine and we pull it shut with a _bang_.

"Tomorrow night...okay."

"We should do it soon," I add, "before anyone else finds it."

"It's pretty well hidden."

"Yeah, but you never know," I say, taking up the coil of rope and looping it over my shoulder.

We make our way back up the steps toward the house.

"Where're you going to keep that?"

"Under my bed," I answer, smiling at the simplicity of the whole thing.

Josh makes a sound of approval.

"And we'll leave after supper, as it's getting dark. Not too dark because we still have to find our way down to the cave, but dark enough so that Uncle Marty and Troy don't notice we're gone."

"How're they not going to notice we're gone?" asks Josh as I pull the front door open and step inside the Duguay's.

I wipe my feet on the mat.

"We'll just say we're tired and going to bed early. You can play your video game in your room for awhile. I'll read my magazine or whatever. Stuff some pillows under your blanket to make it look like you're in it...and then climb out the window and we'll meet outside."

Josh nods, looking all business-like. "And then we'll take our bikes to the cave?"

"You got it."

Josh sounds his approval once more. "I gotta say, sis, you're pretty smart for a girl."

"That's rude." I head down the hallway, making for my room.

"Sorry...I didn't mean it that way."

I want to laugh, but content myself with a smile instead. "You don't have to apologize. I know you say dumb things from time to time."

"What are you trying to say - "

I go into my bedroom and shut my door.

Oh, mom and dad, why couldn't you have had two girls instead. It would have been so much easier to have a sister!

Chapter Twelve

UNCLE MARTY'S MAD

The next morning. Troy and Uncle Marty are preparing to leave for the dig site.

"We have to go, Sarah!"

"But Uncle Marty - you didn't tell us about yesterday! What happened at the dig site? Did you find anything?"

"No...no we didn't..."

Uncle Marty stoops down to tie his shoes and I allow myself to smile.

They haven't found it yet...and if Josh and I find it tonight...ohhh, this is going to be so sweet!

"Have you been helping Madame Duguay with her chores?"

"Yes, she's been very good with helping me," Madame Duguay answers for me, coming into the hallway, drying her hands on a dish towel. "Sarah, I'll get a hand if you don't mind to take the compost out."

"Of course, Madame Duguay," I say cheerfully.

I'm in such a good mood now that I know Josh and I stand a good chance at finding the Dumnonian Hoard and rubbing it in Uncle Marty's face.

"The good thing is that we managed to get that iron grate covering the tunnel fully exposed yesterday," says Troy, removing his phone from his pocket. "Here, have a look." He taps away at the screen on his phone for a second and then holds it out for me to see. "There, have a look."

"I can't really see anything..."

"Yeah, there wasn't the best light there," says Troy, sounding dismayed.

"But, I sort of saw it," I lie. "That's really cool. Now are you guys going to take that grate thingy off so you can go inside that tunnel or whatever it is?"

"That's the plan," says Uncle Marty gruffly, standing upright now that his shoes are tied. He takes his jacket from the door knob. "Fabrice has sent for a welding team but it'll be a few days before they get here. They'll be the ones to cut that grate away. Of course then we'll have to make sure the tunnel is structurally sound before we even _consider_ inspecting it...that will take another two weeks I suspect."

"Geez, that's a long time," I say, trying not too sound too excited.

We'll just go ahead and find the Dumnonian Hoard tonight. Let the pros handle it, Uncle Marty.

Uncle Marty sighs. "Yes, it is. But if it yields something promising, then it's well worth the wait...anyway, we need to be getting on now." He glances at me. "You and your brother can come again tomorrow how about. _Provided_ you behave and don't go wandering off again like you did last time."

Whatever, Uncle Marty. We don't need to come to the stinking dig site anyway.

"Alright."

"I appreciate you not complaining too much."

"Complaining too much?"

"About us leaving you two behind again today."

I want to smile but manage to keep a straight face. "Ah, it's alright. Can we at least go tomorrow?"

Because then I can show you the treasure we found.

Uncle Marty looks at Madame Duguay and back at me. "If Madame Duguay says you two are good today, then you two can come tomorrow. Deal?"

"Deal."

Uncle Marty smiles. "Alright." He turns to Troy. "We'd best be going. Fabrice was there at six this morning."

Troy glances at his watch. "That guy's crazy."

Uncle Marty laughs. "Tell me about it."

"He must think we're lazy," says Troy, making his way outside, his bag slung over one shoulder.

"He's crazy, we're lazy. Typical French, North American dichotomy."

"Well, not until recently," comes Troy's answer as the door closes behind them. "You know the French used to work a thirty hour work week and take three hour lunches..."

Their voices trail off as they make their way down the steps. I hear their feet crunching on the gravel outside and then the slamming of car doors and then the revving of an engine, and then they're gone.

Madame Duguay wraps an arm around me. "So? What do you feel like doing today? Would you like to go into town? We can stop by the pastry shop and get a few treats for dessert tonight."

I look at Madame Duguay and smile. "That sounds good, Madame Duguay."

She smiles and pats me on the shoulder before turning and making for the kitchen. "Alright, well, let's finish the washing up and then we'll get going."

* * *

The day passed quickly. Madame Duguay and I bought a box of éclairs from the _Pâtisserie Legault_ , a large, busy pastry place where you can find just about every dessert known to man. There were muffins. There was marzipan. There were cakes and pies and tarts. I think I gained ten pounds just looking at the stuff.

"And you know, because they're closed on the weekend, on Friday afternoons everything left on the shelves is half off," Madame Duguay had gushed as we'd left the store, the box of éclairs tucked safely under my arm. "It's a dangerous place to come to on a Friday afternoon!"

I'd laughed and agreed as we'd made our way down the street, along which, further ahead, we'd stopped at the hat shop so she could show me this white Eugenie Hat she adored.

"They still make their hats by hand, you know!" she'd exclaimed.

I remember being surprised by this and we'd spent nearly half an hour there because I suddenly found myself in love with French hat couture.

"The problem is that they are quite expensive," she'd noted, showing me the price tag on one.

"That's not so bad," I'd said, upon seeing the figure.

"That's in euros, dear."

"Oh."

She'd given me a knowing smile and we'd left shortly after, though only after Madame Duguay had talked at length with the storeowner, a stout, round-faced woman with rosy cheeks and a chipmunk laugh.

After leaving the hat shop, Madame Duguay had pointed out the pet store (I'd wanted to stop but then she'd explained that pet stores in Brittany don't keep animals inside the store like they do in North America) and the café where apparently Alexandre Dumas had once stopped for tea.

All the while, throughout our shopping excursion, I'd kept an eye out for the man with the scar. I'd seen him already - when Josh and I had gone to buy potatoes for Madame Duguay - and so I didn't doubt I would soon see him again.

But, Porspoder isn't very big - there's a church, a school, a post office, a _gendarmerie_ , and a line of shops that stretches from one end of _le rue principale_ to the other (these include the bakery and the hat shop) - and I must have looked in nearly every store and there was no sign of him. This surprised me - not seeing him - though I wasn't disappointed. No way.

At exactly four thirty we arrived home and while Madame Duguay put supper on, I unpacked and put the groceries away.

"The cans go in the larder."

"What's a larder?"

"Goodness me, you don't know what a larder is?"

I'd shook my head and she'd laughed

"Here," she'd said, taking me by the arm, "I'll show you."

Steering me to a door, she'd opened it to reveal a small, windowless room lined with shelves and filled with food cans.

"This is a pantry."

"A...pantry? What ever is a pantry?"

Then it had been my turn to laugh. "You don't know what a pantry is!? How can you not know what a pantry is!? _This_ is a pantry."

Madame Duguay shoots me a blank stare.

I'd smiled. "This is a pantry," I'd repeated, though more politely.

"Hmm, well I suppose it's just in England they call it a larder."

I'd giggled then and expressed my joy at saying the word _lahr - der_ , especially with Madame Duguay's accent.

That had been the end of that discussion however as Armand had returned home with several boxes of books he'd picked up from a flea market in nearby Ploudalmézeau and Josh and I had to help him carry them inside.

I think he'd felt bad about giving me that French book about the Dumnonii the other day (that I can't read or understand) because he gave me a bag containing several English language novels. They were old and dusty, with yellowed pages and they were by authors I'd never heard of - Agatha Christie was one I think - but I did appreciate the gesture.

"You know, once you learn French, you will find it easy to learn any of the Latin languages," Armand had said once we'd lugged all the boxes of books to his study. "Do either of you know the five Latin languages?" he'd asked, looking at both my brother and I.

"Italian" had been Josh's offering to which Armand had nodded enthusiastically.

I'd been able to throw in Spanish and Armand had to explain that Romanian and Portuguese were the other two.

"And all of the Latin languages follow the same rules of grammar and gender accordances...is that a word? Accordances?"

It sounded like a word and so I'd simply nodded though I really wasn't sure.

"So once you learn one, it's easy to pick up another."

He'd seemed so excited by this fact that Josh and I had deemed it important to nod and smile and agree enthusiastically though neither of us were as excited as he.

Supper wasn't until seven - Troy and Uncle Marty had arrived at quarter to - and after recounting the events of their day, we'd dug in to Madame Duguay's incredible scalloped potatoes.

Now, as we sit around the living room, burping and digesting (and Uncle Marty farting), sipping our teas and coffees and licking the dregs of our chocolate éclairs from the corners of our mouths, I plot our night time excursion.

It won't be easy. To leave in the middle of the night. We've got the rope. And Josh found a flashlight in the bathroom cupboard. But we have to sneak out without any of them noticing. Four adults. Well, Troy isn't really an adult. But still.

I cast a wary eye in Uncle Marty's direction. He catches my gaze and clears his throat, stretching out his feet on the freshly vacuumed carpet and wiggling his toes.

"Sarah, you and Joshua are welcome to come to the dig site with us tomorrow."

I don't really care about the stinking dig site now that I know where the treasure is, but, whatever.

"Yeah?"

He nods and takes a sip from his coffee mug. "Yeah. Provided, of course, that you two can be on your best behaviour. We've got some important stuff happening at the moment and we couldn't have you causing any kind of trouble."

"We wouldn't cause you any trouble, Uncle Marty," blurts Josh from the couch where he's curled up with his Nintendo DS.

"You wouldn't sneak away like last time?" he asks with a small smile.

Madame Duguay clicks her tongue and taps my brother on the leg.

"You mustn't sneak away from your uncle. You're in a foreign land where you don't know the language. You need to listen to your uncle and do what he tells you."

"Uncle Marty doesn't speak the language," I say, aware I'm being somewhat rude.

Madame Duguay looks at me. "No, he doesn't. But Troy does. And your uncle is also much older than you and therefore much more experienced than you. You have to listen to your elders. That's the problem with society these days. Young people have no respect for their elders."

"We have respect for our elders! Just...not if what they're saying doesn't make sense."

Madame Duguay looks unimpressed. "It doesn't have to make sense. It's enough that they say something. Us older folks know a thing or two, you know."

I hate that Madame Duguay seems irritated with me. Especially when we had such a good day today.

"Alright," I mutter, feeling completely defeated. "I'm sorry."

Madame Duguay gives me a knowing stare as she pulls out her knitting from a bag in the corner. "You don't need to apologize, just be more respectful. Respect goes a long way in France, you know."

"I know."

There's an awkward silence in the room now. I'm too embarrassed to say anything - well, not exactly _embarrassed_ \- but I don't really have anything to say. Judging by the look on Uncle Marty's face, he doesn't want to override what Madame Duguay just said. Troy looks like he'd be happy to just stay right out of the conversation completely.

It's Josh who breaks the silence.

"So can me and Sarah come to the dig site tomorrow?"

Uncle Marty nods as he drains the rest of the coffee from his mug. "Yes, you may."

"Cool."

"I should like to come to the dig site some time," says Madame Duguay with a hopeful smile.

Uncle Marty returns her smile. "How about tomorrow? You can help me keep an eye on these two," he adds with a glance in my direction.

"Certainly."

"Excellent."

Uncle Marty yawns, stretches, and gets slowly to his feet. "I think then that I'll retire early tonight as it's been a rather long day."

"Would you like anything more to eat?" asks Madame Duguay, setting down her knitting.

Uncle Marty looks at her as though she's asked him to strip naked.

"More to eat!? Goodness, no. I'm absolutely stuffed!"

"Stuffed?" Madame Duguay looks confused.

"Stuffed," I repeat for Uncle Marty. "Like...really full."

Madame Duguay laughs. "Is that what you say?" She laughs again. "That's a funny word for it."

I giggle. Madame Duguay can be really funny at times.

Uncle Marty pats his belly. "Yep. I'm full. At this rate, I don't think I'll have to eat until next week."

"Next week!?" says Josh, his tone incredulous. "Can you go a week without food?"

Uncle Marty looks annoyed by my brother's question. "Yes, you can go a week without food. So long as you continue to get nutrients and enough water."

"Oh."

"You know," Troy interjects, looking up from his book, "there was a story in the paper a few months ago about this guy who got lost and he lasted a week without any food or water. He did have to drink his own urine though."

I stare wide-eyed at Troy. "Ewww!"

Troy grins and Josh laughs.

Boys.

"He drank his own piss!?" Josh is practically guffawing.

"Joshua! Mind your language!" snaps Uncle Marty.

Troy nods. "Yeah."

"Joshua." Uncle Marty looks mad. "You don't use that word when you're a guest in someone's house."

"Sorry...I didn't mean..." he looks haplessly at Madame Duguay, the offended party, half expecting her to slap him.

But all Madame Duguay does is burst out laughing. "Oh, child, I'm an old woman. I've seen and heard it all. There's not much you can say that will ruffle my feathers."

I can tell by her tone she's directing this remark as much as Uncle Marty as at my brother.

Uncle Marty shakes his head. "Well, Joshua still shouldn't be talking like that in someone else's home. Right, Joshua?"

"I already said I'm sorry!"

Josh's outburst instantly changes the mood in the room.

"Joshua..."

"What?"

Uncle Marty looks disappointed. "Why are you behaving like this?"

"I'm not behaving like anything."

Uncle Marty shakes his head again and looks at me,

"Don't look at _me_!"

"What kind of spell did you put your brother under to make him talk like this all of a sudden?"

I laugh. "Spell? Oh my god, Uncle Marty."

He returns his gaze to my brother. "Joshua, you've been so good so far on this trip. Please don't ruin it by behaving badly."

"I'm not ruining anything."

"I can't bring you to the dig site tomorrow if this is the attitude you're going to have."

"Holy, you make it seem like you're giving us this big privilege by letting us come to the dig site. Whoop dee doo. We get to stand around and watch you dig around in the dirt. The treasure isn't even - "

I shoot my brother a warning stare. _Josh! What are you doing!? Don't you dare tell him about the cave!_

"I mean...the treasure probably isn't even there..."

"Young man, you are way out of line right now."

"How I can be out of line if there is no line?"

"Perhaps we should all go to bed," says Madame Duguay quietly.

Uncle Marty smiles, a maniacal smile. "You're grounded. For the rest of our time here in France. You get to stay here every day and help Madame Duguay."

I gape at Uncle Marty, hardly believing what I'm witnessing. Josh turns and looks at me and I can see he's as shocked as I am.

"I will compensate you for the extra burden, Madame Duguay," says Uncle Marty, turning to our gray-haired host, his tone sympathetic.

"Oh, it's no trouble for me to have Josué...you don't need to, how do you say, com - pen - sate me."

I can tell she's trying to soothe things over.

But Uncle Marty's having none of it. "No. I insist. I shall compensate you, Madame Duguay." He returns his attention to my brother. "As for you, you can go to your room and tuck in early tonight. I have nothing more to say to you."

"Uncle Marty...holy - "

"GO TO YOUR ROOM!" he bellows, pointing a finger down the hallway.

Josh looks at me, almost as though he's about to cry, and then slides slowly off the couch.

"I'D BETTER NOT GET ANYMORE ATTITUDE FROM YOU TONIGHT, YOUNG MAN."

As my brother walks past, _my_ brother who only _I'm_ allowed to be mean to, I'm suddenly pissed at my Uncle Marty. "Leave him alone! You keep yelling at him and he didn't do anything!"

Uncle Marty looks at me. He looks tired. "Don't you start now."

"I'm not starting anything. I will _finish_ it though. I'm telling mom you freaked out on Josh and that you're being a total douche," I say, getting up from the couch and heading down the hallway after my brother.

"Tell your mother whatever you like. I'll be writing a full report to her before I go to bed."

I ignore him and continue after my brother. "Josh..."

Uncle Marty's voice follows me down the hallway. "YOU CAN BOTH STAY HERE TOMORROW!"

I continue to ignore him my uncle as I follow my brother out the door that leads to the rear part of the house.

"Josh..."

"Holy crap is he a piece of crap or what?"

Josh turns and faces me as the door swings shut behind us, leaving us alone in the darkened hallway.

I can tell he's as mad as I am.

"Screw him," I say.

"I can't believe he freaked out like that."

"Who cares. Guess what, when we find the Dumnonian Hoard, we'll make him look so stupid. That a couple of kids found a long lost treasure him and all the rest are looking for.

Josh's grin is mischievous. "Yes. When are we going to get it?"

"How about tonight?"

Josh nods, his eyes gleaming. "Tonight."

Chapter Thirteen

INTO THE CAVE

Getting out of the Duguay's undetected was much easier than I'd thought it would be. Of course that's because the Duguay's don't have an alarm system and the section of the house where Josh's and my rooms are lead right out the house's side door.

If anything, the most difficult part was getting the bikes out of the garage. At one point Josh nearly knocked over a metal watering can which surely would have caused a racket. But he caught it and righted himself and that was that.

Now, pedaling side by side along the narrow road that will take us to the dig site, we're both extremely excited about what lies ahead.

"We still have to finish moving that big rock off the hole," says Josh as we cycle past a rather bumpy section of road.

On either side of the road, metre high stone walls mark out one property from the next.

"Yeah...I know..." I groan. "At least we have the rope," I add, fingering the rope tied around my waist. "That's going to let us actually get down the hole."

"Yes, but we still have to move that rock first."

"I know, Josh. I know we have to move that rock." I shake my head in annoyance.

"I'm just saying," he says quietly.

I look at him. Uncle Marty really did a number on him.

"Don't sound so defeated."

"What do you mean?" he asks, his eyes fixed on the lights of the village ahead.

"I _mean_ , don't sound so defeated. You sound like really depressed and it's starting to drag me down. Uncle Marty yelled at you. So what. Let it go. You're my brother and I need you to be my brother."

Josh throws me a sideways glance. "Hunh?"

I smile. "I need you to be strong and brave."

My words seem to put some wind into his sails. "Ohhhhh. Okay. I didn't know what you meant. But now I get it."

I nod. _Bravo...god he's slow sometimes._

"I can be brave. I am brave."

"I know."

"And you know I'm strong."

I nod. "Yeah."

"Well..."

"Well...""

"Let's go find this treasure!"

"Yes. Let's."

The ride to the dig site takes nearly an hour, the road taking us up hill and down, past sleepy farmhouses and wheat fields, and over several small bridges.

I'm grateful when we arrive, grateful for the chance to rest my aching calves and grateful for the chance to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

"Where should we leave our bikes?" asks Josh as we wheel them onto the dig site.

It's eerie here at night. Lights left on by the work crew cast a pale glow across the dirt ground while the white canvas skins of the tents flap noiselessly in the cool, ocean breeze. From further on, through the pitch blackness, I can hear the sound of gulls and the rhythmic lull of waves.

Josh shivers. "This is creepy."

"My thoughts exactly," I say, leaning my bike up against one of the tents. I stop and pick up a small metal mallet left outside the tent door. "We might need this."

Josh nods and parks his bike against mine. " _I'm_ going down into the cave, right?"

"Yes."

For the hundredth time....

Josh looks pleased. "Awesome. And you can like, hold the rope or whatever."

"Well, if you find anything down there, we're going to switch. You can have fifteen minutes or whatever and then it will be my turn."

"I only get fifteen minutes in the cave?"

I roll my eyes. "Josh, we're only going to be there for an hour or so anyways. We'll take it in turns. You can have fifteen minutes, then me, then you again, and then me."

He looks unsure, but finally relents. "Alright..."

"God, you make it sound like you don't get to go into the cave at all."

I adjust the rope so that it's positioned differently around my waist and begin making my way across the dig site.

"I know I get to go into the cave," says Josh, following close behind, "but I just don't see how fifteen minutes is long enough."

I'm ready to pull my hair out.

"Josh. Seriously. It's not that big a deal. If you want to stay down there longer, fine. Is half an hour enough time?"

He doesn't answer and the only sounds that can heard are those of the ocean in the distance and of our feet scuffing against the hard-packed earth.

"Josh."

"What?"

I turn and look at him, growing more exasperated by the second. "Is half an hour long enough? Or do you want to spend all frickin' night down there?"

He scowls. "You don't have to be all bitchy."

"I'm not being bitchy," I snap.

We continue on in silence, there being a palpable gap between us now, and I take the opportunity to collect my thoughts.

What the heck am I doing here and man oh man if I were back in Toronto I'd probably be getting ready to go to Stacey's cottage. Or we'd already be there.

The flies and mosquitoes are annoying...but there are always lots of cute guys at her lake...and we go tubing and water skiing and, ahhhh, I should have just told mom and dad I'd stay with Aunt Karen...or not. Aunt Karen is way too strict...

We've passed the dig site now and we're on the grassy plain that leads to the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean.

"You have a flashlight, right?" I ask my brother without bothering to look at him.

"Yeah."

"Can you use it?"

Gah...

He stops, slips his backpack off his back, and kneels down on the grass to fish out the flashlight.

"Here."

A confident beam of light illuminates the way now and I feel much safer being able to see where I'm going when we're right beside the edge of a cliff.

"Thank you," I say tersely.

"No worries."

His tone is cheerful now and I admire the way in which my brother can go from annoyed to happy.

"I can't wait to see the look on Uncle Marty's face when we show him the treasure," I say gleefully.

Josh grins. "Yeah. He'll totally lose it. And we don't even have to tell him where we found it. Like you said before we can just stroll up to them on the dig site and be like, look what we found. Or not even." He laughs. "We can just, like, wear it, or whatever, and he'll be like, where the hell did you get that diamond necklace?"

I feel a laugh escape my throat. "That'd be awesome. Especially if we didn't tell him."

"Yeah."

The ocean's loud now, with us being so close. Loud and angry sounding. The wind is doing a number on my hair too and I pat it down with both hands, hoping to temper the damage.

"It's cold," says Josh, his teeth chattering.

I nod. "Yeah. That's because there's a wind coming off the ocean!" I find I have to shout now as the wind carries my words away.

Josh rubs his hands together and blows on them. "It'll be good to get into that cave."

"Yeah. Let's jog. It'll warm us up."

Josh nods. "Good idea."

We jog along the edge of the cliff, careful not to venture too close. The grass is soft and cushioning underfoot and I'm warm again after just a few minutes.

"Where's the path down to the beach?" Josh yells eventually.

"There was a big bush by it...um..." It's so hard to see in the dark. I hadn't considered this. "Shine your light over that way a bit more..."

"Over that way?"

"No, that way." I take hold of his wrist and guide his hand to my right. "There. Keep it over there and we'll just go a little more...yep...there it is. Right there."

I smile, feeling satisfied, as we make our way toward the large, leafy bush that marks the trail down to the beach.

"This is going to be tricky," says Josh. "Do you want to go first and then I can shine the light for both of us?"

For once a good idea out of him.

"Yeah...sure." I hop down onto the path, careful not to slide, and brace my foot against a jagged rock. "Alright."

Josh nods and aims the light at our feet. "Let's go," he says, jumping down beside me.

We pick our way carefully along the rocky, dirt path. It's slow going and twice I have to stop to study the ground for the best route, but eventually we make it to the bottom.

"I really wish this was a sandy beach," Josh remarks as we start our trek across the rocky surface of the beach.

"Yeah."

"And holy, the water's in."

"You mean the _tide_ is in."

"Yeah, whatever. The tide is in."

I smirk. "You guys didn't learn about tides in Mr. Jefferson's class?"

He looks at me as though I've just asked him a question in a foreign language. "Hunh?"

"Mr. Jefferson's class. Science nine. You guys didn't talk about tides?"

"No."

"Well, Mrs. Davis taught us about tides and ocean currents and all that cool stuff."

"Sounds boring."

I shrug. "We got to go to Lake Ontario a couple times."

"For, like, a field trip?"

"Yeah. But, like, just our class."

Josh looks annoyed. "Lucky you. The only field trip Mr. Jefferson brought us on was to the landfill."

I laugh, but immediately feel bad when I see the expression on Josh's face. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, but that's too funny. He brought you guys to the garbage dump?"

"The _landfill_."

I shake my head, smiling all the while. "It's the garbage dump. Don't try and give it a nice name."

"Whatever..."

I can tell he's getting annoyed, so I don't press the matter anymore.

"I don't know if I remember where the entrance to the cave is..." he says after a minute.

"Um..." I stop and survey the beach. "I remember there was a big piece of driftwood near it...and obviously the ivy covering the entrance..."

"Right...the ivy..." says Josh, re-directing the beam of light so that it illuminates the cliff face. "It was just...a little..."

We pick our way over the rocky terrain, mindful of the larger pieces of driftwood and wary of the more slippery, seaweed-covered rocks.

"Just a little..." he continues, keeping the light on the cliff face, "...more this way...there! There it is! That has to be it!"

Excited, we race toward the curtain of ivy hanging from the cliff face. When we reach it, Josh parts the strands with the flashlight.

A smile stretches across his face as his hand disappears behind the ivy curtain. "This is it."

I feel anxious all of a sudden. "I can't believe we're actually going to do this," I say, following him inside.

"Well, we need to find the Dumnonian Hoard. If not for Uncle Marty, then for Troy."

Troy...yes...though I'm not quite sure how I feel about him at the moment. He seems to have been taking Uncle Marty's side a fair bit. Or, not necessarily taking his side, but not coming to my defense.

"Let's just find it for ourselves. So that _we_ can be rich and famous."

"Uncle Marty said we can't keep any of it though, Sarah," says Josh as we make our way across the smooth floor of the cave.

"Uh, news flash, this isn't Uncle Marty's treasure."

"Yeah, but it's not ours either."

"Well it will be if we find it."

Josh grins as he drops down beside the heavy rock covering the hole, the heavy rock we'd moved part way.

"If you say so."

"I say so."

"Here," he says, setting his backpack to the side and taking hold of the rock, "help me move this thing."

"Ahhhhhh."

Josh looks at me, his eyes fearful. "What?"

"Nothing," I pout. "I just don't feel like moving this stupid thing."

"Well, we have to move it!" Josh exclaims as though I've just said something unbelievable.

I groan and drop down beside him. "I know...I just don't feel like it." I laugh, knowing I sound pathetic.

"Whatever," says Josh. "It won't even be that bad. Look," he points to the six inches of hold we've already exposed, "we just need to push it a few more feet and then we can get in."

I nod, growing serious now. "Alright."

"Start pushing on three, alright?"

"Alright."

I stare hard at the rock, trying to imagine how two fifteen year olds can possibly move such a heavy thing.

"One...two..."

"Wait!"

Josh looks at me, clearly annoyed. "What!?"

"I brought gloves for this."

"You brought gloves?"

I nod and reach into my pocket and remove the two dirt-stained gardening gloves I borrowed from the Duguay's garage.

"Do you have gloves for me too...or are those just for you?"

"How about I'll wear them for when we're pushing the rock and then you can wear them for when you go down the rope. They'll be good for your hands. You won't get rope burn."

Josh nods and I feel bad because I just made all that up.

"Good idea, Sair."

"The only kind I have," I say with a nervous laugh.

"Alright. Come on now, let's move this." Josh grunts and strains against the rock, pushing against it with his shoulder and using all his might while I hurry to put the gloves on.

"Sarah!"

"Give me a second!"

Josh makes a sound, stops, and stares at the ground.

"Just one second!"

He looks at me. "Hurry up."

I get the gloves on. "Ah, alright, there."

"Now help me move this damn rock."

I nod and lean down beside him.

"You push from the side," he says, indicating the site nearest me, "and I'll push from this side."

"Alright."

"On the count of three. Okay?"

I nod and steady myself against the rock. "Okay."

"One...two...three!"

We push and the rock moves with ease. As though our timing was so perfect that the rock just decided to move for us.

"Wow...I can't believe it..." I say, breathless after just half a minute of pushing against the rock.

"We're not done yet," says Josh, indicating the partially uncovered hole with the back of one hand.

"Just a bit more, eh?"

He nods. "Yeah. I can almost fit through."

"Alright. Let's push again. Just like last time."

"Just like last time. On the count of three."

"One...two...three!"

We push and this time the rock moves all the way for us, the hole being left completely uncovered.

"It's not very big, is it?"

Josh shakes his head. "No, it isn't...and..." He smells the air, "it smells salty..."

"Salty?"

He nods and I watch as he puts his ear to the hole. "There's water down there. There's the sound of water."

I shudder, suddenly picturing myself at the bottom of that dark hole, knee deep in water. "I'm not so sure I even want to go down there anymore..."

"Well, I'll go down then." He points at the rope tied around my waist. "Give me the rope."

I don't like how Joshua's taking the boss mentality.

" _I'll_ get the rope ready. You put these gloves on."

"How about we both get the rope ready...what do we have to do? Just tie it somewhere safe, right?"

"Yeah," I answer as I untie the rope from my waist.

"Where do you think we should tie it?" he asks, looking around. "There's nothing to really tie it too..."

I shake my head. "I don't - shhh!"

Josh snaps to attention. "Shhh, what?"

"Shhh, I think I just heard someone."

Josh looks confused. "What?"

I nod and put my index finger to my lips.

He returns my nod and crouches down beside the rock.

"Yes...there's definitely someone on the beach...can't you hear them? They're speaking in...I think it's some kind of foreign language...I'm not sure."

"French?"

I shake my head. "No...I can't quite make it out..."

And then, just like that, without any warning, the ivy curtain at the mouth of the cave swings open and a flashlight beam fills the cave, blinding us momentarily.

I'm too scared to move or shout or scream or...do anything. And then two figures, impossible to make out clearly behind the blinding light of their flashlight, step into the cave.

"Who....who are you?" I ask, one hand at my brow as I strain to see through the light.

"Why, if it isn't Sarah and Joshua!"

I know that voice...

The flashlight lowers and my mouth drops open when I see who it is standing before us.

Chapter Fourteen

FRIEND OR FOE?

"Mika! Ludwig! What are you guys doing here?"

I glance at Josh whose expression surely mirrors my own. "You guys were on the plane with us..."

"Yes!" Mika giggles and claps her hands together in delight. "Yay, you remember us!"

They both wear backpacks and matching black cargo pants and blue jackets. Ludwig carries a long, police-grade flashlight.

"What are you guys doing here?" I repeat.

"Vell..." her eyes shine and she smiles, flashing a mouth full of pearly whites, "vee ver just out for an evening stroll and saw a flashlight zown here and so vee figured vee vould come and see who it vas." She smiles and looks at me through her almond-shaped brown eyes and long eyelashes. "And look who it is! How is your uncle? Are you guys enjoying Bretagne?"

I nod, still not sure how to feel about this new development. "Um...sort of. Uncle Marty's been kind of strict lately..."

Mika laughs, her familiar throaty, feline laugh. "Uncles are alvays strict. My uncle, Igor, he was a very strict man." Her expression darkens and she stops herself as though she's revealed something she didn't want to.

"What did he do?"

Mika ignores me, her eyes now fixed on the heavy rock and the hole in the ground.

"Vat is happening zhere?" she asks, pointing.

"Oh, this is..." I look at Josh, unsure of how to share our discovery without actually sharing it.

"It's a cave, like an underground cave," Josh blurts. "At least that's what we think it is. And it leads down to the Dumnonian Hoard probably."

Josh!

A curious expression moves across Mika's face. "The...doom - no - ee - an hoard?"

Josh shakes his head. "The _Dumnonian_ Hoard."

"Josh," I say, mustering a friendly laugh, "I hardly think Mika wants you to bore her with Uncle Marty's tales."

He looks at me as though I've said something offensive. "It's not a _tale_ , Sair. There's treasure down here, I'll bet you any money."

I glance nervously at Mika and I can tell by the expression on her face that things aren't going to go so well for Josh and I.

"Vell..." Mika turns and looks adoringly at Ludwig who stands silently in the corner. "You vere right. Kids do know best."

I stare at her, my eyes demanding an explanation. "What do you mean?"

She smiles, revealing her perfect teeth. "I mean, kids know best. Kids are adventurous. Kids like to explore. Unlike old men who follow the rules and go by what is in zee book...kids go out of zee bounds. Kids have..." she turns to Ludwig and rattles off something in German.

He looks at me (I can't read his expression) and then looks at her. He spits out a sentence in German and finishes with the word "imagination".

Mika nods and smiles. "Imagination. Kids have imagination."

"I don't get what you're saying..."

"Vell," says Mika, sliding her backpack off her back and not even looking at me, "it means zat kids don't have old fashioned ideas like adults...they don't follow all the rules. The result of zis is zat they discover things." Now she looks at me. "Like zis hole in zee ground that you say leads to treasure."

I conjure a laugh. "Oh, ha ha, that...I don't know..." I throw my brother a wary glance. "Josh is a bit too gullible. Uncle Marty made up this whole elaborate story about their being some kind of long lost treasure around here and I thought it would be fun to trick my brother into thinking there was treasure down this hole."

"Well that's not very nice!" Mika's eyes shine and I'm not sure she believes me.

"No..." I fake another laugh, "but that's what sisters are for...right?"

Mika's expression grows serious. "No. Zat is not vat sisters are for...is it, Ludwig?" She turns to her brother.

"No," he says quietly, mildly, hips lips forming a tight smile.

"Ah ha!" Mika claps her hands. "You see! Sisters are supposed to help zheir brothers. Sisters are supposed to help zheir brothers and brothers are supposed to help zheir sisters."

"Okay..."

Mika looks at me and nods. "Okay. Okay...okay...that's all you Americans ever say."

"Ameri...what? We're not American, we're Canadian."

"No difference. You are both fat and greedy pigs."

"Whoa! What!?"

"You heard vat I said." Mika's smile isn't so friendly now.

"Okay...I totally don't get why you just said that..."

Mika sniffs, removes something from her backpack, and stands up once more. "Because. It's true."

"I'm so lost right now..."

Mika shrugs and I now see what's in her hands.

"Uh, what the hell!? Are you going to shoot us!?"

Mika laughs and waves the gun from side to side. "Not if you do as we ask."

I shake my head in disbelief. "You're crazy. Cuckoo." I twirl a finger round my temple.

She laughs and says something in German to Ludwig. Ludwig manages a tight smile.

"Why do you have a gun?" asks Josh, his tone hostile.

"For little boys like you who ask too many questions."

"Little - _little_ boys like me!? I'm fifteen, bitch!"

Go Josh!

I want to smile, but Mika and her gun are making this hard to do.

"I see you are also a little boy with a rude mouth."

I glance at Ludwig. His expression's changed and he looks more serious. Serious and scary.

"You're the one with the gun!" Josh cries.

Mika's eyes flicker. "Yes. I am zee vun vith zee gun. So you should respect me."

Josh looks less sure of himself now, so I step in.

"Respect a crazy lady like you? You pretended you were our friend on the plane. And now...what is this anyway? Do you even know what it is we're looking for here?"

She shrugs. "I don't know and I don't care. My boss told me to come and get it, so I come and get it."

"Your boss? Who's your boss?"

Mika clicks her tongue and waves the gun once more from side to side. "I can't tell you zose zings."

"So you're going to shoot us?"

Mika makes a face. "I don't want to. But," she pulls back the slide and aims the gun at me, "if you don't do as I ask, zen I vill have to."

I swallow the knot in my throat. She means business.

"Alright. Just tell us what you want us to do."

Mika smiles. "You are going to cooperate?"

I glare at her. "I'm going to _try_ and cooperate."

"Oh, _wunderbar_!" She claps her hands together. "You can now go in zee hole and get zee treasure."

"Wait...we don't even know if it's down there!" I glance fearfully at the hole in the cavern floor.

Mika shrugs. "Vell, vee are going to find out."

I look at her. She's _actually_ crazy.

"I'm not going down there."

Mika smiles and raises the gun once more. "I zink you are going zown zair. I tell you vat. I count to zhree. If you not down in zhree seconds, I shoot."

I can't help but laugh. "You'll count to three?"

Mika nods, her expression stoic. "I vill count to zhree."

"Wow, learn how to speak English, lady. It's _three_ not _zhree_."

She smiles and takes a step toward me. "I see you are going to make trouble for us. Should I shoot your brother?" She points the gun at Josh and now I'm really scared.

"No. No, I'm done. It won't happen again. Promise."

Mika's eyes narrow. "You had better keep zat promise...I didn't tell you about my Uncle Igor and our childhood in Russia."

I shake my head.

"It vas not like your childhood in Canada. I am sure about zat."

I swallow the latest knot in my throat and remain silent.

"My uncle Igor," she turns to Ludwig and says something in German.

Ludwig gives a grim nod.

"My uncle Igor," she continues, "vas a general in zee Soviet army. Do you know zee Soviets?"

I nod. "The Soviet Union was what Russia used to be called."

Mika smiles, but doesn't lower the gun. "Very good. They teach you something in Canada I see."

I say nothing.

"Our uncle Igor...he vas a man who once killed a puppy in front of me. He said it vas to make me strong."

"That's...terrible."

Mika manages a small, sad smile. "It was normal for us. One time, he put a cup on my head and he shoot it."

"Really?"

"Of course. Vat do you zink? He was Soviet army general. Zis is vat zey do for fun. Russian Roulette? Have you heard of it?"

I nod. "Yeah...it's like a game...where they take turns pulling the trigger. There's one bullet inside the gun and six chances for it to go off."

Mika nods. "Where did you hear about it?"

"From a movie."

Mika smiles. "Uncle Igor make us play. My friend Natalia got the bullet. I watched her die."

My feel my hand fly to my mouth. "Oh my god..."

Mika shrugs. "Uncle Igor vas not a good man..." Her gaze returns to the hole in the cavern floor. "Anyway...vee have vaisted enough time." She looks at me and waves toward the hole with her gun. "Go. Now."

"But...but...we don't even know if the Dumnonian Hoard is down there!"

Mika looks mad. "You are going down to see."

Josh must sense my hesitation because he suddenly blurts: "I'll go. I'll go down. Let her be. I'm going."

"Josh! No! It's too dangerous!"

"Ah, he is a brave boy, your brother," Mika remarks, taking another step toward us.

I round on her. "You can't send him down there! It's murder!"

Mika's expression is unflinching. "One of you is going down zat hole."

I'm more afraid than pissed off now and I can feel tears spring to my eyes. "You can't send my brother down there!"

This time it's Ludwig who speaks. "Your brother is going down that hole!" In four strides he's beside us and he grabs Josh roughly by his shirt collar and pushes him to the ground. "Now, you can go down with the assistance of a rope or you can go down as you are. Which will it be?"

"Leave him alone!" I shriek, lunging at him and clawing at his face.

He swats me aside with a powerful hand.

"You'd be wise not to do that again," he says thickly, massaging the scratch marks on his face with his thumb.

I'm too scared to do anything now. I've never been hit by a man before.

"Don't touch my sister!" Josh roars, taking a swing at Ludwig.

Moving with the agility of a cat, Ludwig sidesteps my Josh's fist and deals him a blow to the stomach.

"Ohhhhh."

I scream as Josh falls to the ground, clutching his stomach. "Leave him alone!"

Not caring anymore, I jump to my feet and throw myself into him. He catches my head however and spins me aside.

"That's enough!" Red in the face and practically frothing at the mouth, Mika's got the gun pointed at me and looks like she might just pull the trigger. "That's enough. Any more of this and I shoot you both." She moves the gun to my brother who's slowly getting to his feet.

"You need us though."

Mika laughs. "I need you like a dog needs fleas. I shoot you both, throw your bodies into zee sea, and come back next month vith a small, skinny Russian. For a thousand rubles he will go down zee hole."

I look hesitantly at her now. Maybe she really is capable of shooting us...

"Let's go," says Ludwig gruffly, nudging my brother toward the hole.

"Alright, I'm going!"

"Use the rope," I say.

I take up the rope and hold it open, like a belt, for Josh. He steps forward as Mika and Ludwig look on, their expressions cold and calculating.

"Go around twice," I say as Josh does a turn and the rope winds around his waist.

"That's really going to hurt," he says.

"It'll hurt less than falling."

"Yeah, but it'll squeeze the air out of me."

"We'll give you lots of slack," I say, hoping Ludwig and Mika intend to help me lower Josh into the hole.

Josh looks reluctant, but takes one more turn with the rope. "Okay..."

I look at him. "I'm scared."

"So am I."

"Be careful, okay?" I look from him to Mika who seems to be watching our sibling exchange with impatient expectation.

"I will."

"And I hope you find the treasure."

Josh offers up a grim smile. "Me too."

"Alright, that's enough," Ludwig snaps, striking Josh in the back with his flashlight. "Get a move on."

"I'm going, I'm going," says Josh, getting down on hands and knees and lowering himself into the hole.

I take hold of the rope and turn away, unable to watch. "Be careful," I say once more, this time through gritted teeth.

"I will," he replies, giving me one last look before disappearing into the hole.

"Excellent," says Mika, her eyes shining.

"I hope you're happy," I say thickly, hating everything about the woman standing before me.

She smiles. "I vill be happy if your brother comes up with zee treasure."

I shake my head in disgust and move closer to the hole to watch Josh's progress.

He's got the flashlight with him and the light from it forms a sort of halo around him, a halo that descends with him as he climbs down the hole.

"How are you climbing down?" I call down, watching the slack from the rope follow him inch by inch into the hole.

"With great difficulty," comes his reply, echoing as it rises out of the hole. "The sides are pretty smooth...there aren't a lot of spots to hold onto...I'm not sure how I'll get back up."

"We'll pull you up," I look at Mika for confirmation, but she's staring into the hole after Josh and I can't read her expression.

"Okay," comes his faint reply, as the light from his flashlight descends lower and lower into the hole.

Several awkward and uncomfortable moments pass whereby I watch Mika and Ludwig for signs that this is all just some big practical joke Uncle Marty put them up to.

But it's not. It can't be. Not with the Russian Roulette store Mika told me.

"Why do you speak German if you're from Russia?" I ask without a second thought.

It's something that's been perplexing me for awhile.

Mika looks at me with contemptuous eyes. "Vee lived in East Germany and when zee Soviet Union went kaput, vee moved to West Germany. My brother and I, vee are German."

"What about your uncle Igor? That's a Russian name."

Mika sniffs. "He was my aunt's husband."

"And why was he mistreating you then? Like, where were your parents?"

Mika's eyes flash scarlet. "Our parents died in a Stalin work camp so we had to go to our aunt and uncle's."

"Oh..."

I have no idea _what_ to say now. Their parents died when they were just kids...

"You ask too many questions," she snaps.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, not wanting to anger her while my brother is down in the hole.

She says nothing, and neither does Ludwig, and it's quiet for several minutes, except for the sound of the sea and the occasional _drip-drip_ of some water near the front of the cave.

It's Josh who breaks the silence.

"There's a lot of water down here!"

"So?" Mika calls down.

"It's sea water...the sea gets in here somehow...and I think it's getting higher..."

"The tide's coming in," I say to Mika.

Mika looks at me. "And?"

"And..." I say, trying hard to maintain my composure, "it's dangerous to be down there with the tide coming in."

"Then he had better be fast."

Oh my god...you are a bitch.

"Hey!"

Josh again.

"What?" I call down.

"I...holy crap! Sarah! You are not going to believe this!"

I have to move closer to the hole to hear him better.

"What? What am I not going to believe?"

"You are not going to believe what I just found?"

I look at Mika. She's definitely interested.

"What did you find?" I call down, keenly aware of both Mika and Ludwig's eyes on me.

"I found...holy crap!"

The suspense is killing me now.

"What!? What did you find?"

"Gold! Treasure!"

I feel my heart leap into my throat. "You're kidding!"

"No! There's like...six boxes here...or chests or whatever...wait...no! There's ten! There's ten chests down here!"

I look at Mika and Ludwig, my mouth hanging open. Even though I have a strong dislike for both of them, they're the only people in my vicinity.

"Send it up!" Mika commands.

"How?" Josh and I ask simultaneously.

"Tie zee rope to zee chest and ve vill pull it up!" Mika snaps her fingers and motions for Ludwig to take the rope.

"No!" I pull away from the both of them and clench the rope tight to my chest. "You're not leaving my brother down there without a rope!"

"Vatch us," says Mika darkly, slapping me in the face so hard I feel like I've been stung by a jellyfish.

She yanks the rope from my hands and passes it to Ludwig.

"You bitch!" I lunge at her but she lands a kick to my ribs which sends me flying backwards.

Owwww.

My ribs feel like they've been broken and as I inhale, I feel a stabbing, searing pain. This pain makes me writhe uncontrollably on the rocky floor and I moan loud enough to hear it echo throughout the cave.

"Sarah?"

Faint as it is, Josh's voice rises up and out of the hole.

"I'm...okay..." I gasp at the pain and grip my side more tightly.

"What did you do to my sister!?"

"She's fine. She tried to attack me and got vat she deserved."

"You touch my sister again and I'll kill you! You hear me!?"

Mika looks at me and smiles. "Your brother loves you as much as mine loves me."

I glare at her through my pained expression.

"Now," says Mika, stooping and leaning over the hole, "you vill send up one of zeese treasure chests vith the rope."

"What if I don't want to?"

Josh...just do it!

Mika laughs. A sharp, cackling laugh. "Then your sister vill join you at zee bottom of zis hole...and vee von't give her zee rope to use eizer!"

There's silence now. I suspect Josh is mulling over the "offer" (if you can call it that).

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Josh's voice rises once more up and out of the hole.

"Alright. I'll tie the rope to some treasure...I don't know if I can get one of these chests...there's so much water down here now...and it's still coming in..."

"Then you had better hurry," Ludwig calls down.

I clutch at my side as I pull myself up to a sitting position.

Uncle Marty...what were we thinking? Come and find us...please...

There's a jiggling of the rope as Josh unties himself.

I glance at Mika. She's still got the gun in her hand and she's staring down into the hole, her cat-like eyes predatory and attentive.

I try to get to my feet, but fall back down because of the pain.

Owwwwwww.

"You broke my rib!" I yell.

Mika hardly looks at me.

I glare at her. "Did you hear me!?"

_This time she looks at me. "I heard you, you silly girl. Now shut up or I'll shoot_ you."

"You broke my rib."

Mika shrugs. "And? Vut vud you like me to do? I can break zee ozher one for you..."

"You're a terrible person."

Mika laughs and says something to Ludwig in German. With a patronizing glance in my direction, Ludwig conjures a small smile and returns his attention to the hole.

"Hurry up, boy!" he calls down.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" comes Josh's faint reply.

Ludwig makes a _tsk-tsk_ sound with his mouth and exchanges an annoyed look with Mika.

"..."

They're speaking German to each other again and I can't understand a word, except Ludwig's checking his watch and Mika seems to be insisting on something.

"..."

More German talk.

Argh. Uncle Marty, come save us...

I never should have even suggested Josh and I try and find the Dumnonian Hoard by ourselves...

This was such a stupid idea! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Okay!"

Mika's and Ludwig's heads seem to snap to attention at the sound of my brother's voice.

"Okay...what?" Ludwig hovers over the hole. "Did you tie the rope to a chest?"

"Yeah! Now hurry up because I need to get out of here too! The water's up to my knees!"

I feel completely helpless as I stare at the brother-sister pair, wondering how this is all going to end.

Mika barks in German to Ludwig and Ludwig hands her the flashlight. She says something else and Ludwig rolls up his sleeves, plants one foot on either side of the hole, and takes hold of the rope with both hands.

Cursing all the while, he begins to pull the rope upwards, toward his chest, inch by inch.

It's a painfully slow process - _painfully_ slow - and I watch in awe as his face turns scarlet, the veins in his head expand to the point where I fear they may burst, and his forehead becomes damp with perspiration.

After several minutes Mika curses, sets down the gun (unfortunately in my present condition I can do nothing to take advantage of this situation), and moves to assist her brother with the business of pulling up the rope.

Uncle Marty...would he notice they'd gone? Surely not until the morning. And by then it would be too late...what did Mika and Ludwig plan to do with us once they've got their treasure?

My eyes strain against the darkness, scanning the cave floor for some kind of weapon - a stick, a rock - anything that might be of use. It's near pitch black where I'm seated as Ludwig's flashlight lies at Ludwig's feet and only casts its light so far.

I run my hands behind me, beside me, and all around me and only after a minute of searching in vain do my fingers encounter a long, dagger-shaped stone.

This is what I will use to maim my enemies. This is what I will use to ensure Josh and I leave this cave together, in one piece.

Mika's barking draws my attention once more to the brother-sister pair. They seem to be getting near the end of the rope now, their pulling become more harried and excited and Mika's eyes alight with great expectation.

"Yes...yes..."

Ludwig's practically salivating and I feel my heart sink as a long and narrow chest (of what material it is, I cannot tell) appears from out of the hole.

The Dumnonian Hoard...Troy and Uncle Marty's Dumnonian Hoard...and they've got it...

Mika are Ludwig chattering away excitedly in German now and as they set the box on the ground, I can't help but drag myself toward them for a better look.

Ludwig hastily unties the rope from the chest and casts it aside. Mika stands over him, watching and waiting, the gun once more in her hand.

"Hey! Can you throw the rope back down?"

Josh's voice is barely audible now, I notice, over the sound of rushing water rising up and out of the hole and of the brother-sister's excited chatter.

I yell at them: "Guys!"

Ludwig looks at me but momentarily as he opens the chest. Mika's hands move to her face as she gasps.

"Guys! My brother! He needs to get out of there!"

Neither look at me as Mika leans over the chest, exclaiming and remarking in German, and though I can't understand what she's saying, it's obvious that she's elated with what's inside.

"Guys! My brother! You have your treasure! Now help my brother out of there!"

This time Mika looks at me. "You should be grateful ver not going to zrow you down zair."

Her tone oozes with disdain.

"Why would you throw me down there? What did I ever do to you? You got your treasure - "

"Yes, we have got our treasure," she says, a smiling forming on her face, "and now we are leaving."

Ludwig snaps the chest shut and hoists it onto his shoulder.

"You're... _leaving_!? But...my brother. You have to help him!" I stare helplessly at the coil of rope lying by the hole. "Just help him out and then you can leave. We won't say anything about this. I promise."

Mika laughs. "You must think vee are stupid!"

"No, I swear! We won't say anything! Please. Just help my brother get out of the hole and _then_ leave."

Ludwig looks at me, snaps the chest straps of his backpack shut, and marches for the door. Mika follows.

"I don't take orders from you, you stupid girl," she says as she passes, aiming a kick at my head.

I duck and the toe of her boot strikes my shoulder instead.

"Ahhh."

I fall backward and the searing pain from my broken rib shoots through my body once more.

"Ahhhhhh!"

I force my eyes open and stare after the Mika and Ludwig as they slip through the ivy curtain that covers the mouth of the cave.

"Please! Please! Help my brother!"

The ivy strands rustle noisily as the pair disappear into the night, the hazy, fading orb of light from Ludwig's flashlight bobbing in the dark.

I'm panicking now. It's dark. It's cold. I'm still sat on the ground, unable to stand, my ribs aching.

All I can hear now are the sounds of my rapid breathing and the steady _drip drip_ from the trickle of water near the front of the cave.

Just relax, Sarah. Just relax. Take a deep breath.

In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. One. Two. Three...

"Sarah?"

My brother's voice rises up out of the hole, faint and fearful.

"Josh!"

"Sarah! Get me out of here!"

"Josh!"

I'm panicking again now as I drag myself toward the hole.

"Hang on! I'm coming!"

My ribs feel like they're on fire now. I ignore the pain and continue to pull myself along the cave floor, through the pitch black, with the palms of my hands.

"Sarah?"

"I'm coming! Just hang on! Shine your light up here! I can't see a thing!"

It's dark and I can't see a thing, but then a beam of light appears out of the hole.

"Perfect. Just keep your light like that."

The rope lies in a knotted, looping coil a few feet from the hole. I take hold of it and drop one end down the hole.

"The rope's coming down!" I holler.

I hear a bit of cursing from Josh.

"Thanks for the warning!"

"This isn't the time to be sarcastic!"

"Sarah, this water is _really_ getting deep! It's up to my waist now!"

"Well, hurry up and get out of there!"

There's a pause and the rope jiggles and vibrates as Josh readies himself.

"Okay! Pull me up!"

I freeze.

Pull him up?

"I can't pull you up," I mutter, taking the rope and wrapping it around my arms for better control.

"Pull me up, Sarah!"

"I'm...trying!" I strain and pull the rope with all my might, but it doesn't seem to move an inch. And now my ribs feel like they're about to burst and I have to stop.

"Josh...I can't. I can't do it."

There's no answer.

"Josh!"

"Sarah! I'm about to drown here! It's up to my neck!"

"Josh!" I begin to cry, hot tears sliding down my cheeks. I pull and yank on the rope and try to retreat from the hole, pulling the rope with me so as to take Josh up, but it's no use. I can't move an inch and the pain from my ribs has gotten so bad I feel as though I might pass out.

"Sarah!"

"Josh!"

"Sarah!"

I'm sobbing now. Uncontrollably so, as I take hold of the rope once more and give it another go.

"Sarah!"

"Josh!" I scream as the light goes out.

There's no answer.

"Josh! Josh! Hold on!"

My screams echo throughout the cave, but still there's no answer.

"Josh!"

I feel my arms go limp and I lie back, screaming and sobbing and clutching my ribcage.

This can't be happening. This is a horrible dream. Any minute now I'm going to wake up and it's going to be a nice, sunny morning...

I open my eyes. They're wet with tears and I can barely see through them and what I can see is just pitch black.

This is real.

A cold shudder ripples down my spine. The hairs on my arms and back of my neck stand up. I'm suddenly cold. Colder than I've ever been. I remember Miss Moen and our First Aid class from two years ago. How when a person has experience a traumatic event, they risk going into shock.

Is that what this is...am I going into shock?

I snap my head around at the sound of the ivy curtain rustling once more.

"Mika?"

Nothing.

"Ludwig?"

A flashlight clicks on, blinding me and I hear the scuff of feet on the cave floor.

A new chill runs through me. "Who...who's there?"

There's the sound of brisk, heavy footsteps as the light comes toward me.

I'm angry now. "Who's there!?"

A face appears before me and I scream.

It's the man with the scar!

He clamps a hand over my mouth, drowning my scream.

"Please! Relax! I'm not going to hurt you!"

His eyes - as blue as I remember - are not cold as before, but warm and sincere.

I cease my screaming and he removes my hand.

"Who...who are you?"

"Who I am isn't important right now. What is important is that we get you out of here. Where's your brother?"

The mention of Josh brings fresh tears to my eyes. "He's..." I point to the hole, "down there."

"Down there? You mean...?"

I nod, my tears sliding down my cheeks. I wipe them away. "The water...the sea water was coming in...at the bottom...and...and...it was getting so deep...and Mika and Ludwig wouldn't help him climb out again..."

I begin to sob once more with the idea that my brother could be dead, _my_ brother, Joshua Noah Rosenberg.

"Don't worry...he might..."

I watch as he slides over to the hole and shines his flashlight down inside.

"Jesus..."

"What? What do you see?"

"Well, for the moment, just water."

"And my brother?"

He looks at me and shakes his head, his expression grim.

"No!" I shake my head, refusing to believe that my brother might have drowned at the bottom of that stinking hole. "No, no, no!" I begin to pound the cave floor with my fists, not caring in the slightest about the pain this causes my hands.

"Stop! Stop that!" The man returns to me side, takes hold of me, and forces me back into a sitting position. "We need to get you out of here."

"No! No!" I begin to fight him, scratching at his face and punching him wherever I can.

"Please! Stop! This isn't helping anyone!"

His grip around me grows tighter and he pulls me to my feet.

"No! No!" I scream as he begins to drag me from the cave. "No!"

"Please, just calm down. You're alright."

I don't know what bothers me more. That he's trying to be reassuring when my brother's lying drowned at the bottom of that hole or that he keeps saying I'm alright.

"Josh!!!!! JOSH!!!!!!"

I'm screaming at the top of my lungs now, as he pulls me through the ivy curtain that covers the entrance to the cave.

"No!!!!! NOOOOO! JOSH!!!!!!"

"Damn it, Agent Langley, what are you doing to that poor girl?"

I see a woman coming toward us, her face scrunched up in concern. She's dressed like some kind of police officer - though not like any I've ever seen - and on her chest is the word "INTERPOL".

"I'm...trying...to...get control...of her," the man struggles to reply as I continue to scratch and strike out at him with all my strength.

"Let her go."

I feel the man release me and I collapse at their feet. My ribs ache. My throat is throbbing from all the screaming I've been doing. My face is warm and itchy from my tears. My hands hurt from beating on the cave floor.

"Are you alright?"

The woman's voice is gentle, yet firm, as she leans down in front of me. I feel her fingers on my chin as she lifts my head up.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

I shake my head slowly, bitterly, completely and thoroughly exhausted. "My brother..." I stare back at the ivy curtain through which we'd just come. "He's..." I point at the ivy curtain, "please...help him..."

And these are the last words that leave my lips as I feel everything go black.

Chapter Fifteen

EMPTINESS

"It was a wonder you found her when you did, Agent Langley."

My eyes open slowly, hesitantly, painfully as they slowly adjust to the light and take in the figures standing in the room. We're back at Madame Duguay's and I'm on the couch in the living room, swathed in two heavy woolen blankets and what feels like a clean set of clothes.

"Well, as I said," says the man with the scar on his face, the man my uncle referred to as "Agent Langley", "we've been tracking those two for quite some time now."

"How long exactly?" comes Troy's voice from across the room.

"About three years."

Uncle Marty sounds surprised. "Three years? That's quite awhile..."

A fleeting change in his expression suggests Agent Langley is somewhat perturbed by the remark. Nonetheless, he maintains his composure. "It's difficult when you've got antique smugglers like those two constantly crossing international borders. It's hard to pin them down - "

" - and when we do, we can't always arrest them because they aren't in a friendly jurisdiction," interrupts the pretty female agent I'd seen on the beach when I was carried out of the cave.

"I only wish I would have arrived on the scene ten minutes earlier," says Agent Langley, quashing a fist into his hand. "I'd have caught them."

Uncle Marty clicks his tongue. "You did what you could...you saved Sarah." His attention drifts over to me and his eyes widen. "Sarah! You're awake!"

He's at my side in an instant, stroking my forehead and making sure the blankets cover me properly.

"I was so worried. Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

I look at him, tears filling my eyes. "Josh..."

Uncle Marty sighs, a heavy sigh, and a single tear rolls down his cheek. He wipes it away and strokes my forehead once more. "There's a dive team going to look for him tomorrow."

I turn away, unable to look at my uncle any longer. My eyes find Troy. He's standing in the corner talking in hushed whispers with Madame Duguay.

"I've already sent an e-mail to your parents and I expect a reply shortly."

I nod, still avoiding my uncle's gaze. I stare at the ceiling, tilting my head back so my tears won't spill over.

"This is..." Madame Duguay's tone is sad and mournful, " _une tragédie._ "

There's silence now. A gnawing, biting, uncomfortable silence that I wish would go away. But then, I have nothing to say, and neither apparently do Troy or Uncle Marty.

It's the female agent who finally breaks the silence. "We're going to go now, but we'll be back tomorrow to update you with any new developments. Also," her eyes fall on mine, "we're going to want to talk to you at some point, Sarah. We'd like to know exactly what happened (the tears come fast now) so that we can catch these guys."

Agent Langley murmurs his agreement.

"Thank you, both of you," says Uncle Marty, his voice sincere.

The two agents give us a nod and Madame Duguay opens the door for them, chattering away in French with the female agent as they all step outside.

The door closes behind them, leaving the rest of us in cold and empty silence.

I close my eyes, not wanting to take part in any further discussion. I still can't believe this is happening. My brother is actually...dead. Drowned. Trapped underwater in some stinking hole. And all because of some treasure...

An intense surge of anger courses through me and I vow to kill Mika and Ludwig if I ever see them again.

They'd better have left the country...

I unclench my fists and try to reassume normal breathing.

"This is absolutely _terrible_ , Monsieur Rosenberg," says Madame Duguay quietly as she returns a minute later and shuts the door behind her.

"I know...I know...and I'm sorry we have to put you and Armand through this - "

"Nonsense! Monsieur Rosenberg, you are our guests and we grieve for Josué as you do."

"Thank you."

The woman clicks her tongue in disgust as she makes her way to the kitchen. "Poor Sarah...she may never recover from this..."

I hear a heavy sigh from Uncle Marty as he follows her into the kitchen, the sound of his footsteps slow and heavy on the hardwood floor. "Yes...I know."

"She's so young...to lose a sibling at that age..." There's a pause. "I'll make us some tea. Would you like some tea, Troy?"

"Thank you, Madame Duguay. That would be great."

A second later I hear the sound of the tap running.

"We'll take her to the doctor's tomorrow," I hear Uncle Marty say. "She'll need some time to mend before we can head hope...I hope that's alright we continue to stay here, Madame Duguay."

"Of course, of course. Don't even ask. You just take care of your family now."

Uncle Marty makes a sound. "Take care of my family is what I should have been doing all along...my brother and his wife will never forgive me...they trusted me with their two children and look what's happened..." I hear his voice break and suddenly I want to cry.

"There, there, shhhh," comes Madame Duguay's voice.

Listening from the couch in the living room, I wipe my eyes, surprised I've still got tears to shed.

"He was...only fifteen!" Uncle Marty sobs.

And this is where I have to leave. Right now. Like right this second, since I can't stand to be around all this sadness.

I throw off my blankets and head outside, letting the front door bang loudly shut behind me. Pounding down the steps, I ignore the fact I'm in sock feet.

Troy calls out to me as I'm halfway down the driveway. "Sarah!"

I stop and turn around. "What?"

His hands rest on his hips and he's got a look on his face that says, "where are you going? I know this is difficult for you."

"Sarah..."

When I don't answer, but hang my head, he trots down the steps and comes toward me.

"Sarah."

"What?"

He looks sad and sorry and I feel bad I can't give him a smile.

"I can't do this..."

Troy looks at me. "You can't do what?"

" _This_ ," I repeat, pointing at the ground. "All this...bullshit. Everyone crying and Uncle Marty sobbing like that in there - I can't do it, Troy."

"Sarah, no one's asking you to do anything."

"Well..." I look at him, feeling completely lost and helpless, my eyes flooding with tears again as my anger subsides. "Troy...my brother..."

Troy's bottom lip starts to quiver and now he looks like he too is about to cry. "I'm so sorry, Sarah."

The tears stream down my cheeks and I can't recall having ever felt this terrible. Ever. At all. In my entire life.

But then Troy hugs me, a comforting hug. A hug that quashes all the messed up, depressed thoughts swirling around inside my head. And for a moment, for this one, special moment, I forget how terrible I feel.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning.

"You have to eat _something_."

I look up from my empty plate while Madame Duguay hovers over me, eggs in a pan and a spatula at the ready.

"I can't."

"Just..." Madame Duguay sounds desperate. "Just a piece of toast. Just one piece of toast. With some jam or honey."

I shake my head as she gazes hopefully at me. "I'm not hungry."

"You're not hungry!? Girl, you've hardly eaten!"

"Madame Duguay is right, Sarah. You should eat something."

"I'm not hungry," I say through gritted teeth, glaring at my uncle.

Uncle Marty shrugs and gives Madame Duguay a look that says "Sarah's hopeless."

"I'll eat when I'm ready..." I mutter softly.

Mrs. Duguay sighs and moves on to Troy who, despite the grief he exhibited yesterday, seems to still have an appetite.

"Thanks, Madame Duguay," he says as the woman slides the remaining egg onto his plate.

"Don't mention it. You need your strength in these tough times."

Troy nods and murmurs his agreement, taking a second to glance at me. "Sarah? Would you like some tea?" He cradles the pot on the table and pushes it in my direction.

I shake my head. "No." I turn to Uncle Marty. "So did those agents catch Mika and Ludwig then?"

Uncle Marty shakes his head softly. "Agent Langley called this morning. No luck so far, but they're still searching. They want to talk to you. I told them tomorrow."

"They want to talk to me? What am I supposed to tell them?"

"Tell them what happened. Tell them what they look like. What they said."

"They murdered my brother." I slam my fist on the table. "They murdered Josh!"

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the room as tears fill my eyes yet again.

"Oh, you poor thing," says Madame Duguay, clicking her tongue as she gets up from the table and goes to get me the Kleenex box from on top of the fridge. "Here, take a handful."

I do and I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. When I'm done, Madame Duguay takes my dirty Kleenex and puts them in the garbage under the sink.

"Agent Langley did tell me something else," says Uncle Marty slowly.

I look at him. "What?"

"Well, remember I told you about the man who came to visit me at my hotel the day I was leaving London?"

I nod.

"Well, INTERPOL believes he employs Mika and Ludwig."

"He employs them? You mean, they work for him?"

"That's right."

"And let me guess, they haven't caught him either."

"Actually," says Uncle Marty, his expression brightening, "they did hold him for questioning."

"They held him for questioning?"

"They held him for questioning. Unfortunately that's about all they were able to do as there was no substantial evidence to link him to Mika and Ludwig, though they do have him under surveillance and when he slips up, they'll arrest him."

"What if he doesn't slip up? Then what? They all just get to walk free?"

"I'm not sure - "

"They're murderers! And they should pay!"

"And they will," says Uncle Marty.

"When? Fifty years from now? I swear I'll kill Mika and Ludwig if I ever see them again."

It felt good to say that.

"You'll do no such thing!" cries Uncle Marty, seemingly offended.

I gape at him. "Uh, yeah, I will. I'll freaking kill them if I ever see them again. So they'd better hope I never see them again."

"Sarah. You don't solve violence with violence."

"Well I do, Uncle Marty."

Uncle Marty looks at me in seeming disbelief. "Then I certainly hope you never see them again. Personally, I think if someone's murdered someone, it's crime enough without all the anger and the court room drama. People need to realize that there are consequences for wanting eye for eye justice. In this case, my hope is that they are caught and sent to prison. For a very long time."

"But they'd still be alive...and Josh is dead. I say, if they took his life, why should they get to have theirs?"

Uncle Marty sighs and stirs a teaspoon of milk into his coffee. "I don't know what to say, Sarah. I don't believe that killing solves anything. In fact, in my experience, it simply makes things worse."

Madame Duguay nods and murmurs her agreement. "Yes, your uncle is right."

"Well...whatever. If I ever see those two again..." I say softly, returning my gaze to my plate.

"How's your injury doing?" asks Uncle Marty in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

"It's still sore," I answer, massaging my ribcage.

"Should we take you to a doctor?"

Madame Duguay nods as she puts down her egg fork. "You must. Perhaps it's broken."

"It's...I don't know..." I adjust my posture to see if sitting differently makes it feel any better. It doesn't.

Uncle Marty clears his throat as he finishes chewing and wipes the toast crumbs from his chin. "I think we should take you to a doctor."

"I don't - "

"Doctor Aubry not far from here," says Madame Duguay.

My uncle stares blankly at her. "Doctor Aubry?"

"Doctor Aubry," Madame Duguay repeats, nodding and pointing out the window. "His office is right in town. It's the little white and blue building across from the cemetery."

Uncle Marty nods. "Alright." He looks at me. "I think we should take you. And the sooner the better."

I shake my head. "No."

"Is he open today?" my uncle asks, ignoring my "no" as he returns his attention to Madame Duguay.

"I don't know...we could call. Perhaps it's best if we call," she says, rising from the table and making for the phone.

"Oh, Madame Duguay, there's no need right this instant. I'm still waiting for a reply from my brother. I suspect they'll try and call...I gave them your number...I hope that's alright?"

"Of course, of course. Whatever you need."

Uncle Marty nods with appreciation. "I don't know how I can ever thank you for everything you've done..."

Madame Duguay waves a hand. "It's no trouble. Really."

Uncle Marty sighs and returns to his tea.

"Would anyone like anything more to eat?" asks Madame Duguay, casting a hopeful eye at Troy.

Troy shakes his head politely. "No, thank you. This was an excellent breakfast, Madame Duguay. You feed us so well."

Madame Duguay returns Troy's smile. "When in France..."

Troy tips his coffee mug in appreciation and offers a small smile.

"Anyway," says Madame Duguay, rising from the table and beginning to gather up the dishes, "let me know if you'd like anything more. Otherwise I'll start putting things away..."

Uncle Marty drains the rest of his coffee and wipes his mouth with his napkin as he sets his mug down on the table. "I think we'll be fine. I'd like to drive Sarah over to that doctor's office right now." He looks at me. "Alright?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"If something's broken, you should know," says Troy, shifting his gaze to where I'm clutching my ribcage with both hands.

"I just...I don't get the point. Besides, isn't the dive team looking for..." I can't say my brother's name.

Uncle Marty rests his head in his hands, his eyes on the table. "They are looking for your brother as we speak, yes."

An uncomfortable silence follows, though only for half a minute, while Madame Duguay gathers up the rest of the dishes and carries them to the sink.

"I want to be there," I say as Madame Duguay busies herself in the kitchen.

"Where?"

"At the cave."

Uncle Marty's expression is severe. "Sarah...I really don't think that's - "

"Uncle Marty. I want to be there. I _need_ to be there."

He purses his lips. "Sarah. I just...I don't think that's a good idea."

"Uncle Marty! He's my brother! My bro - _ther_. I have a right to see my brother."

"Of course you do...but..." his tone is desperate now, almost pleading, "I don't think you should be there when...you know..."

"Uncle Marty. I'm going whether you take me there or not."

I look defiantly at Madame Duguay who has since stopped bustling in the kitchen and turned to watch me.

"Sarah...it's just..."

"Uncle Marty, I'm going. I'm going."

I fold my arms across my chest and take to staring him down now.

He lets out a long sigh and exchanges a look with Troy.

"Alright..." he says at last.

"Really?"

I'm taken completely off guard by his response. I thought for sure that he'd say no and that I'd be stuck hitchhiking there (as the bikes are still at the cave).

He nods, watching me carefully, his expression concerned. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Uncle Marty lets out one more heavy sigh. "Alright." He glances up at the clock on the wall. "I guess we'd better get going..."

Chapter Sixteen

ALL IS NOT LOST

Thirty minutes later. The dig site.

They say that those who die watch over us, at least, those who were close to us. But I don't feel as though Josh watches over me. No. It just feels like he's gone. It just feels like he's gone and that he's left a big hole in my heart. A big hole in my heart that no amount of crying seems to fix.

I wipe my tears and head away from Troy and Uncle Marty who've fallen into conversation with Fabrice.

"Don't go too far, Sarah!" Uncle Marty calls after me. "We'll just be a few minutes. I want us to walk down to the beach together."

"Okay!" I call back, happy I'm facing the other direction so that none of them can see the fresh tears that have begun to trickle down my cheeks.

I pick my way across the trodden down dirt, careful to avoid the holes and large rocks that pocket the area.

I still can't believe this is happening. Why did this have to happen?

I wipe my eyes.

My brother...Josh...he's gone...

I look up at the sky, the sun just beginning to show its face after a cloudy start to the morning.

Poor mom and dad...

In a way I'm glad we're thousands of miles apart. I couldn't bear to see my mom break down.

And she will break down...

I trip over a rock and right myself after several staggering steps.

Stupid rocks...stupid dig site...stupid France...

I wish I'd never come.

If Josh and I hadn't come...

The tears come faster now as I think of what could have been had Josh and I decided to stay with Aunt Karen instead.

It would have sucked...but Josh would still be here...

I glare at the tarp covered hole in the ground we'd seen the first day. The ends of the tarp rustle in the soft breeze.

Stupid Dumnonian Hoard...

I wish I'd never heard of the Dumnonian Hoard.

I stop and pick up the biggest rock I can find. It's heavy, but not too heavy to throw, and with a burst of anger, I send it flying in the direction of the tarp covered hole. The rock whips right through the opening in the tarp and clatters noisily down the set of stone steps Fabrice and his team had uncovered several weeks before.

"Hey! Hello! Can anyone hear me!?"

I stop dead in my tracks at the sound of a muffled voice coming from beneath the tarp.

"Hello! Please! Help me! I'm stuck...please..."

The voice sounds oddly familiar.

But...it can't be...it's not possible...

I hurry toward the tarp, its ends still flapping in the gentle breeze coming off the ocean.

"Please! Somebody! Can anyone hear me?"

I yank back the tarp and find myself staring down the flight of stone steps Fabrice's team uncovered.

"Hello?"

"...Josh?"

"Sarah?"

"JOSH!"

I scream. I feel amazing. There's adrenaline. My blood's pumping. My chest is about to burst with happiness. I feel like I'm flying.

"JOSH!"

I hurtle down the steps and there he is. My brother. Joshua Noah Rosenberg.

He smiles as I approach. "Sarah..."

"Josh...oh my god...thank you, god. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Tears. Warm and salty. Flowing down my cheeks.

I drop to my hands and knees and stare at my brother through the iron bars that separate us.

"Josh..."

"Did you miss me?" he asks with a grin.

"Don't even," I say, glaring at him even though I'm smiling.

I wipe my tears with the back of my arm and stick a hand through the iron grate.

"I still can't believe it..." I say softly, studying him from head to toe to make sure he is, in fact, real.

"Neither can I. I was so lucky. That water...it was up to my nose and I thought I was going to drown. You can't even imagine. I had no light and so it was pitch black down there..."

"And you were in the water!"

He nods. "And I was in the water."

"So...so how did you get out of there?"

"The water pushed me out. Pushed me into this passage and I had to climb a bit but then I was out of the water and I just kept moving because I couldn't be sure the water wouldn't come back.

"So wait...this passage...is that what this leads to?" I ask, growing excited.

He nods, beaming. "Yep."

"How did you find your way through the passage?"

"With my hands. I just felt my way along."

I gape at him. "How long did that take?"

"Right until about an hour ago."

"You've been here for an hour already?"

"When I got here I shouted and shouted and no one answered. So I sat down...(he rubs his eyes)...and I guess I fell asleep."

I feel myself smile. "And then I rudely awoke you with a rock."

"Is that what woke me up?"

I shrug. "Most likely."

"Sarah!"

The sound of Uncle Marty's voice from without interrupts our conversation.

"Down here!" I holler back.

A second later the tarp is peeled back once more and I see Troy and Uncle Marty standing at the top of the stairwell.

"Joshua?" It takes awhile, but eventually the expression on Uncle Marty's face changes from one of sheer confusion to one of utter joy, and then he races down the stone steps, two at a time, toward us. "Joshua...oh...Joshua...my dear nephew..."

I so seldom see grown men cry (I can't remember the last time I saw my dad cry), that when I do, I start to cry too. And as tears flow freely down Uncle Marty's face and he sticks his hands through the iron bars to embrace my brother, I feel my own tears start to flow fast and fierce.

"How ever did you manage to end up here?" he asks, astounded, as he takes a step back and wraps an arm around me, his eyes still on my brother, examining him from head to toe as I had done minutes earlier.

"Well..." And Joshua tells Uncle Marty what he'd told me - how the water had pushed him into a secondary passage that branched off from the main hole and how, with no light to guide him, he had felt his way along the passage, foot by foot and step by step, until he'd reached the iron grate.

"Well now _that_..." and Uncle Marty shakes his head in bewilderment.

Troy, who'd been standing silently behind us on the bottommost step, murmurs his agreement. "Yeah...wow."

"Doctor Rosenberg?"

We all turn and now it's Fabrice who I see standing at the top of the stairwell, looking down at us.

"Is everything alright?"

Uncle Marty smiles and moves to the side so that Fabrice can see Josh. "Everything is fine, just fine, Doctor Rondeau."

Chapter Seventeen

GOING HOME

Our last days in France were a blur. Josh and I had interview after interview as the story of the discovery of the Dumnonian Hoard and our run-in with Mika and Ludwig became front page news.

There were other chests filled with treasure at the bottom of the hole and these were pulled up, one by one, by Fabrice and his team the day after Josh had been found alive. According to Uncle Marty, the treasure was valued at more than ten million euro (I'm not sure how much that is in dollars) and it was already being hailed as one of the biggest finds ever.

Mom and dad video chatted with us every night - they'd seen us in the news - and needless to say, they were relieved we'd soon be returning to Canada.

"Your Aunt Karen will pick you up from the airport," mom had said during our last conversation, casting a stern eye at Uncle Marty. "We'll be back a few days after you and your dad has already said we'll rent a cottage for a week."

The prospect of this, coupled with our impending trip to Paris the following day had given me more excitement that I could handle and I'd squealed and hugged Josh so tightly he nearly lost consciousness.

For our last supper at the Duguay's, Uncle Marty took everyone out (Armand and Madame Duguay included) to the fanciest restaurant in Porspoder - Chez Gustaud - a dinky little hole in the wall kind of place with some of the best food I'd ever eaten.

Josh had ordered five rounds of crême brulée, earning him praise from our server, Rémi, though Uncle Marty wasn't too impressed.

When it was finally time to leave, the following morning, there was a tearful goodbye and Madame Duguay pinched my cheeks so many times I doubt I'll ever need to wear blush again. Josh was given new headphones to use with his Nintendo DS and Armand gave us a stack of books on Brittany.

Troy was in great spirits because he too had been interviewed by the French press for his role in the discovery of the Dumnonian Hoard.

As for Uncle Marty, well, let's just say he vowed not to take Josh and I on another expedition anytime soon.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Originally from Saskatoon, Adrien makes his home in Victoria. He is a graduate of Carleton University (B.A. '10) and is passionate about Canadian history. An avid reader and writer, Adrien hopes to write and publish many more works in his lifetime. Be sure to check out his other novels and short stories, available through all major book retailers. Follow Adrien on Twitter: @auleduc
