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She knelt lower, looking all the way under the berth. She stood, tore at the bedcovers and then opened each cabinet. Nothing. Turning, she ran from the room and rushed to the helm. Warrington stood by Gidley, who steered the ship.
‘My treasure,’ she gasped.
She ignored the startled look in Warrington’s face and grabbed his arm. ‘My treasure. Where have you put it?’ Her hair blew across her lips, but she didn’t brush it aside. ‘Tell me. Now.’ The words came out too slow. She wanted to speak faster. She wanted to have the answer now and he only looked at her, his mouth half-opened and silent.
‘Tell me,’ she insisted, her grip tightening on his arm.
‘Melina. What are you speaking of?’ He took her hands from his arms, stepping back, and pulling her so they faced each other. ‘I’ve not touched the blasted thing. It’s a rock.’
‘It’s gone.’
‘It’s under the berth—resting better than either of us.’
‘No.’ She moved backwards. ‘It’s not. It’s not in the room.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ He nodded to Gidley. ‘I’ll be back as soon as we get this sorted.’
She rushed ahead, not waiting to see if he followed. Maybe she had imagined the loss. Maybe she had become addled from listening to the captain and perhaps the arm still lay wrapped safely.
But when she ran inside the room, leaving the door open behind her—she hadn’t dreamed anything. Her treasure was gone.
Warrington trudged in behind her. She stood silent as he touched the bunk, then repeated her earlier movements, looking through the small space.
After he finished searching, he grasped her shoulder. ‘You are sure you didn’t move it?’
She grabbed on to his waistcoat with both hands. ‘My treasure...’
His mouth pinched. ‘It’s a rock, Melina. Rock. Not treasure.’
She put both palms flat on his chest. ‘It’s a treasure. The French museum curator visited Melos two years ago. He told everyone on the island we might have artefacts buried in the ground. Most of the others ignored him. But I remembered the rocks and seeing the white shards mixed with the dirt, left from a structure long before my grandmother’s time. Every time I could, I went to dig. And then I found the arm, and more. I knew I had discovered what the Frenchman wanted for his collection. Now someone has taken the arm.’
‘Melina. No one on this ship believes the marble is anything but a carved stone. And we’ve all seen carved stones before. And it’s broken. Cracked and chipped both. Any sailor here would prefer a drop of ale to your treasure.’
‘Open your eyes.’ She clenched her fists and wanted to thump at his chest. She would have if it would have done any good.
He touched her chin. ‘Don’t get overly worked up. How is a man going to take the arm from the ship? It’s too big to hide in his shirt or his trousers—and he knows we can search everything he has before he leaves.’
‘You truly believe the marble is worthless?’
He nodded. ‘Why would you think it valuable?’
‘I know more of art than you’d expect.’ She spoke the words softly. ‘My father told me of art constantly. He spoke of nothing else. He’s not dead—at least I don’t think he is.’ Pulling back, she watched his eyes. ‘He’s a painter. Robert Cherroll. Have you heard of him?
Warrington shook his head. ‘I haven’t. But Ben has. At least, he mentioned seeing a painting of you. In London. It showed the birthmark.’
She nodded. ‘I had to sit, for hours and hours, and couldn’t move while he painted. At first, my sister Thessa stood behind him and made faces, but then she grew tired of it and left. I ached from not moving, but I did it. I wanted to see my face on the canvas. My mother wanted to keep it, but he refused. He said some day he’d paint another one, but I knew he wouldn’t. He took it, along with all the artwork he completed on the island. Taking them to England, always, to sell. He had to have funds to support us, he said. The work had to be sold, he would tell us, and leave.’
She backed away but held her shoulders firm. ‘My father once told me of the British Museum.’
She tilted her head. ‘If the stone is seen as a treasure, then both the English and French may want it. Think of it—how much more valuable something is the more it is wanted. I already know the Frenchman will make an offer if he can see part of it. I think the English will, too.’
