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and about three months ago
     there had been that man at the library. He’d been passing by, had somehow seen her pendant, and stopped to inquire about the
     origin. He’d seemed harmless, but perhaps she’d been fooled. She could feel the slender chain resting against her neck now,
     the gold pendant resting lightly against her chest.
    Clearly, they fully expected that if they did find the box, she would use her key to open it. But that would never happen.
     She was no fool. All she needed to do was convince them the key was back at her house. They’d have to take her back to London;
     then, at least, she wouldn’t die out here, a place no one would even begin to think to look for her. She could always demand
     they take her to this Raven person—anything to stay alive.
    Perhaps if she deterred them now, they’d stop digging altogether. It was unlikely, but she could try.
    “You’ll never find it here,” she said.
    “Maybe she’s right,” Waters said.
    “She is but a woman. What does she know?”
    She gasped, momentarily forgetting the danger in her indignation. “I know a great deal more than you! That’s for certain.
     Why, I—” But she swallowed her words. Her intellect was her greatest weapon against these men. No need to flaunt it before
     them.
    Thatcher eyed her for a moment before continuing. “The Raven said we would find it here. So we will dig until we do.”
    It had been a silly plan, but she knew she had to keep her wits about her. If there was ever a time she needed her mind, it
     was now.
    Esme scavenged her memory for any reading she might have done on an ancient monastery in connection with the box. She couldn’t
     find any. Whomever these men worked for must have had resources completely different from her own.
    The theory that Pandora’s box was in Britain indicated it was much farther west than they were now. And they hadn’t driven
     long enough to have hit a western coastline.
    “I’ve found something,” Waters yelled. He jammed his shovel back into the hole, and a great hollow thud sounded around them.
    Esme’s stomach lurched. Pandora’s box, here in the same room. Well, same dungeon—or whatever this space was intended to be.
    Thatcher moved over next to Waters, and they both began digging furiously. They must not have been far above the water table,
     because the ground quickly became saturated as they dug. Mud caked onto their hands and arms and flew against their clothing.
     Thatcher fell to his knees and put both arms in the hole up to his shoulders. For several minutes he sloshed mud and scooped
     it behind him, ever increasing the depth of the hole. Finally he pulled back what looked to be a square object dripping with
     mud.
    “Bring that other lantern over here,” Thatcher growled.
    Waters ran to fetch the light, and together they bent over their discovery.
    Esme strained her neck as best she could, trying to catch a glimpse of what they’d uncovered. Her heart thundered wildly,
     and she longed to run toward them and see what it was. Damn these manacles.
    Whatever it was appeared to be wrapped in something, perhaps cloth of some sort, several layers of it too. Finally, when they
     had a pile of discarded fabric, Thatcher held it up to the lantern, inadvertently giving her a nearly perfect view. It was,
     most definitely, a box. About the size of a cigar box, yet not quite as ornamental, at least it appeared as such from what
     she could make out beneath all the dripping mud.
    “Is that it?” Waters asked, his voice lined with disappointment.
    “Let me see it closer,” Esme pleaded, hoping they’d forget she was a prisoner and bring the box over to her. She itched to
     see what from her position looked to be engravings. How could she be this close and not be able to see it, touch it? She’d
     waited so long. It was far crueler to be denied a glance than it was to hang from this monastery wall.
    “I don’t think so,” Thatcher said, turning toward her.