Page 35 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Shut up, Gwen.

He walked to the door and vanished through it.

I turned back to the laptop. The images had finished uploading while I was fawning over Arthur, so I opened the photo-editing software. Contrast up. Brightness adjusted. Color spectrum inverted to pull the faded carving out of the surrounding stone.

The letters emerged from the dark surface: PORTA NOVAE AVALLONIS.

It can’t be.

I stared at the screen. Reverted the changes, tweaked the color balance more, kept adjusting until every last ghost of texture emerged from the image.

The same words. No extra letters.

Porta Novae Avallonis.

The Door of New Avalon.

I opened the pommel photographs on my cloud drive, unable to calm my shaking hands. I pulled up the highest-resolution shot of the gold inscription. The words were worn, but enough of the shapes were distinguishable.

There were two Vs, separated by other letters.

There was a double L.

An S at the end.

I pressed my hands flat on the laptop to stop the trembling.

Clavis Novae Avallonis. The Key of New Avalon.

The sword said key. The church said door.

And they both referenced New Avalon.

This was it. This was the kind of discovery that could make a career.

Or break one, Gwen. Be careful.

The last time I’d been this excited about a discovery—this sure I’d found something no one else had—I’d been terrified I was misinterpreting things. I’d only been twenty-eight at the time, working as a post-doctoral researcher at the Marlcombe Collection. I’d brought my research to Lionel, who’d poked so many holes in my theories that I’d cried for all the time I’d wasted.

But I’d stayed over at his place despite it all. And he’d gone through my laptop while I slept, downloaded it all, and published it under his name a month later. I lost everything the day I found out. My research position, my boyfriend, my career…

This isn’t the same situation.

But the churning in my stomach was identical. The electric certainty of what I’d found warred with the desperate need for someone with the right expertise to tell me I wasn’t imagining it.

But I didn’t have anyone like that anymore.

The man who’d been browsing the book in the small chapel approached me. “Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“I couldn’t help but notice your work in the tower.” He spoke with a faint British accent and gestured at the sword. “But I was wondering if I could take a closer look at this?”

I closed the laptop halfway. “Sorry, I’m busy with some academic research.”

“My apologies. I should have introduced myself properly.” He held out a hand. “Theo Hopkins.”

It couldn’t be. “Theodore Hopkins? The Dr. Theodore Hopkins who wrote the British Museum’s paper on the Crediton fibulae?”