CHAPTER ONE: THE NEW ARRIVAL.

It was on the longest night, the winter solstice, when a great black dog staggered towards the farm. Heavy rain lashed, thumping on rooftops and ricocheting from windowpanes.

The black dog stumbled across the yard, casting terrible shadows across cattle barns and sheds. She padded through puddles, breathless and shaking. Crouching under the corrugated iron of the haybarn, she struggled as thick mud slid about her paws. It took what little strength she had to climb the bales and find a safe, dry space. Finally, she settled amongst the straw. Panting and whimpering, she collapsed onto her side, straining to keep both eyes open.

The rain stopped and the clouds began to part. Under the arch of the barn the night sky was just made visible. A fine, bright splinter of moon shone low with a buffed-stained halo. Stars disappeared and reappeared against the pallid sky; dancing and flickering through thin wisps of cloud.

There, under a waxing crescent moon, with the stars in full attendance and the world now still, she gave birth.

Licking and nudging she washed her new arrival: a tiny bundle of black. Wet pelt, eyes closed, body curved, tail tucked. Faint whispers of white fur dappled its chest and paws. She sat, watching and waiting. A faint rhythm- a gentle flicker of life began with a breath. The puppy stirred, it mewed, eyes tightly shut. The mother settled the puppy close to her to feed. She closed her eyes. Then, resting her head, her panting stopped. As the sun emerged from behind the field, the great black dog began to fade. Her form dispersed and flowed out, across, and into the night sky- chased away by the sun.

The farmer awoke with a start. An uneasy sensation rushed through his body, shaking him awake. He hurried downstairs, pulling on his boots and coat. As he opened the front door, he could hear, from the far borders of his land, the hedgerows and coppice erupt. Chirrups, crows, shrieks, and howls- an uncanny chorus filled the air. The farmer checked the sties, the cow shed, the tool shed and the barns. As he reached the haybarn the sound stopped. Every animal hushed, every tree stood stoic, every whisper of a breeze departed. The only sound now heard was a faint, gentle squeak, barely audible. Farmer Hagstone strained to hear. He peeked into gaps and climbed onto haybales, searching and listening then searching again. There, in a corner, up high, nestled in the straw, a black puppy lay, wriggling and mewing.

After the farmer had waited far back and no mother had come, he placed the puppy into the corner of his coat. In the house he found a milk feeder used for the motherless lambs. After a good ten minutes the puppy finished nursing and drifted off to sleep. He settled it into a cardboard box with an old blanket, nestled and content by the warmth of the fire.

“Where did you come from little one and what is to become of you, I wonder.”

CHAPTER ONE.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth is a good girl, a smart girl, a nice girl. She is twelve years old. Her blonde hair is kept in two long plaits over her shoulders, finished off with two blue bows. Emily Huntingdon-Smyth attends Kensington School for Girls, an institution that has spawned actresses and nobility. There, she excels in most things, because that’s what they pay for.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth stands in a 24-hour newsagent that has the distinct aroma of black mould and brown onions. She is looking for still bottled water and chewing gum, enough to sustain a person such as Emily Huntingdon-Smyth. She has never slept on the floor of a cold garage.

Beside her, about four short strides from where she stands, there is a young woman, possibly four years older than Emily Huntingdon-Smyth, with a pram that carries a rather sad-looking baby in sad grimy clothes with a rather sad floating unicorn balloon. She watches the young woman look at the price of the nappies, then look about her. She sees the young woman’s hand tentatively reach for the nappies, all the while looking at the round mirror on the wall. The bulging convex mirror that makes us all look like monsters.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth realises in that moment that the woman just four strides from her is about to commit a crime. Emily Huntingdon-Smyth drops her satchel. The young woman looks directly at her and stops. The young woman’s hand retracts back to the arm of the buggy and, with her head low, she scurries out of the door.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth goes to the till, purchases her items, then leaves. Outside, she spies the young woman with the sad baby and taps her on the shoulder. The young woman looks around. No one is there. The baby lets out a grumpy wheeze of a sound from the pushchair. The young woman looks down and sees a bumper pack of nappies, a packet of biscuits, and some pureed pouches hiding the sad baby.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth joins the other girls heading into the British Museum, their crisp shirts, clean navy blazers, and white socks shining in the spring morning light. They snake around the metal fences as they natter together. Satchels to their sides, they go straight past security, who give them a kind smile and a wave. The girls giggle. They convene in the entrance lobby as their teacher herds them like a border collie into a middling throng. A studious-looking woman enters and chats with the teacher.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth talks to no one. She stares at the great painted ceiling as she holds a sad looking unicorn balloon. She offers some chewing gum to the girls next to her. They sneer a thin-lipped smile then shake their heads. Emily Huntingdon-Smyth places three pieces of white spearmint gum into her mouth.

The studious woman begins to talk. The girls gather around, navy hats forming like petals. They are marched into the Great Court. Light spills from the glass roof, across the pale Portland stone as the girls shuffle past the main desk. They avoid the early scores of pushchairs and low-flying toddlers as they trail up the white marble steps that swirl around the Reading Room and across the clear glass bridge into the oldest part of the museum.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth walks at the back, in the middle of the group, sandwiched between a friend reading a book, and another listening to music. Emily’s hand reaches out and slips a pin badge from the satchel of the friend to her left. She exchanges the pin behind her, using it to stab at a plastic drinks bottle sitting in the satchel pocket of her friend to the right. Then, she places the pin badge back. Liquid drips out and across the polished wooden floor. Nobody in their group seems to have noticed, however, several rooms away, you can hear the unmistakeable squeak and swoosh of those who have found the water trail.

The group trundles on until they reach Room 41. The room is large with a low roof. Many glass cabinets press against the walls. In the centre, taking up the most space, is the Sutton Hoo hoard, the very thing they have come to see. Sat by the entrance to the room, a bored-looking helper wearing a reflective yellow jacket keeps guard. Emily smiles, he smiles back. She catches sight of the dribbling trail of water that has followed them through the building; he follows her gaze. Within a second, he is up and away from his chair, eager to find a cupboard with a mop and bucket.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth joins the back of the group staring at the Sutton Hoo hoard. An intricate gold buckle, the size of a mobile phone and the weight of a thick book, rests at eye level, endless knots hiding a tangle of curious animals. Below the eyebrows of the great helmet sit blood-drop garnets, gemstones that had travelled the Silk Road from the far reaches of India and Sri Lanka.

Nearby lie thirty-seven gold coins, enough to feed a family many lifetimes over. Once kept in a purse of gold, ivory, and ‘thousand-flower’ glass, a vessel worth far more than the money it held. Beside these delicate treasures sit the tools of battle: Steel blades that once carved great men and gold shields to blind them. Terribly beautiful things.

For thirteen centuries, this hoard lay deep in the earth, locked within the stuffed chest of a longship. Farmers grew their crops around it; children heaved themselves up its bumpy grave and rolled back down again. Treasures hiding in plain sight. When those wooden ribs were finally pried open, they surrendered unrivalled treasures, though the man who owned it had long since disappeared; claimed by the soil and the worms. He couldn’t take his treasure with him, but he’d made quite sure no one else could, either.

This was the lesson for Emily Huntingdon-Smyth and her school friends: Hide your greed for long enough, and the world eventually calls it history.

The studious-looking lady begins to speak. Emily Huntingdon-Smyth positions herself close to the back cabinets. Her hand lets go of the sad rainbow balloon as it quietly floats up, behind a stone pillar, and against the front of a winking security camera, enveloping the lens in shiny rainbow foil.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth places her satchel on the floor and pulls out a pink lunchbox covered in rainbow teddies. She kicks it. The lunch box slides beneath a display entitled ‘Byzantine Empire AD 330-650.’ Emily Huntingdon-Smyth looks around. As the studious-looking lady points at a shallow silver platter, Emily stops, drops, and rolls under a display cabinet until she has completely vanished.

It is dark, dusty, and very snug under the cabinet. She feels around the underside. Four small screws hold the corner backing in place. She reaches for the lunch box, opening it to reveal a small electric screwdriver. Emily Huntingdon-Smyth stops for a moment and thinks. She rolls back from out of the cabinet and crouches down low. At the back of the group, the girl with the empty water bottle is still listening to music, her headphones hidden under her hair, wires stuffed under her shirt, a faint, tinny beat barely audible.

Crouched low, Emily snags a single thread from the hem of another girl's coat. Carefully, she pulls at it. She unravels several metres of fibre, then ties it to the headphone jack. Still with the thread carefully in her hands, she backs toward the cabinet and rolls underneath.

Once in position and with the screwdriver in her hands, Emily Huntingdon-Smyth yanks the thread. In one quick motion, the jack comes loose. The room is filled with sudden, loud, heavy music, reverberating across the entire space. Music that could wake the dead. While the group jumps and laughs and the studious lady tries to bring them back to their surroundings, Emily Huntingdon-Smyth manages to loosen all four screws.

She reaches into her pocket to retrieve two black disposable gloves. On her right ring finger, Emily places a gold ring. A very large, very heavy gold ring. A ring that could only be described as ‘a little bit tacky’, but by early Byzantine standards, it was the height of fashion. This ring matches the very same ring displayed in the cabinet above her head. A perfect match in every way but one: the ring in the cabinet was made in 6th-century Sicily; the one on her hand was made two weeks ago by a bloke in Peckham.

Emily Huntingdon-Smyth inches herself around until she is wedged inside the cabinet, sandwiched between the wall and display board. With one hand, she rolls up a corner of the board using her chewing gum to prop it open, leaving both hands free. Emily contorts her hand up, around and into the display. She feels for the soft plinth that holds the ring. With her thumb, she teases the fake ring free to dangle on the edge of her finger as her middle finger carefully glides inside the authentic gold ring. She holds her breath.

From the entrance, Emily hears muffled voices and two pairs of heavy boots. She freezes, her black-gloved hand still inside the display, fingers stretched out, wearing both identical rings. Her face is pressed up against the board, her hot, fast breath causing a misty damp mark against the glossy card. Her legs ache, her nose itches, she can feel her heartbeat against the cabinet. Emily closes her eyes and recites in her head: ring finger fake, middle finger real, as she hears the couple stop right in front of the display.

One minute lasts for ten as she waits. The couple chat about the price of coffee and other boring adult talk as they glance around the cabinet. It goes quiet.