Professor Rollin Ambrose strolled alongside the auburn-haired beauty as if he were walking along the streets of his home city of London instead of delving deeper into old woods shrouded in late-afternoon mist. He was becoming increasingly nervous and unsure, but he was doing his best not to let it show. When he dropped his eyes, that only increased his focus on the feelings that were stirring in his belly—this strange, tugging tension—so he looked back at the Lady Morgan and tried to maintain his demeanor of calm.

She glanced at him, smiled, and touched his arm. “You are excited, aren’t you?” she purred. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Apparently he wasn’t succeeding in hiding anything from her.

In spite of his suspicions about the “find” the Lady Morgan had contacted him to evaluate, Dr. Ambrose couldn’t contain a sense of excitement and discovery. Though he was one of the youngest in his profession—only thirty—he had come a long way toward gaining the respect of his art historian peers; he didn’t relish the thought of endangering the reputation he had fought so hard to establish without cause. Lady Morgan was a long-standing patron of the arts, not a woman to be taken lightly either, however eccentric. He glanced at her beside him, flowing along in an outfit more suited to a dancer or a gypsy than a woman of her standing in the arts community. Questions arose in his mind and he bit his lip, considering his stance with a healthy skepticism. Still, if this statue were truly from the 4th century and in the flawless condition that it appeared to be from the photographs she had sent, it would be like no other in the history of his profession. And yet it was that flawless condition that threw so much doubt on its validity.

When the path weaved through brush that no longer allowed them to walk side by side, Lady Morgan moved ahead. The undergrowth was only rough for a few seconds, then the way opened into a clearing. Rollin found that his breath was coming harder.

He caught the odd glance she gave him as he came to stand beside her, but then his attention was caught by the object of their journey. Or rather, its mysterious housing.

Twisted and tremendous, the ancient oak confronted him with a life that dwarfed his very existence. It appeared to be one entity, but it had begun its days, centuries before Rollin was born, as several trees, strangely twisted together protectively against the advance of time. Dead center, his eyes were drawn—to nothingness. A gaping hole beckoned, mocking and malicious, cutting up the trunk to a point little more than half his height.