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“Oh.” Papa started walking again. “No, indeed. He meant to humiliate me. I shall hurl it in the river.”

“You mustn’t.” Papa liked to be begged not to follow through on his threats, as though there was a chance he would. “Add it to your coin cabinet. You’ve made such important contributions to the study of British numismatics. Mr. Clutterbuck knows that.”

“He knows nothing. He has not so much brain as earwax. Mark my words. I will pen my letter of resignation this very night. I, Harold Marsden, esquire, refuse to carry on the works of the Society another day under a hog’s turd such as Walter Clutterbuck!”

When Papa began to mix the insults of Shakespeare with the insults of Chaucer, there was nothing to do but play along.

“Don’t resign from the Society, Papa,” she begged. “You hate London. You skip three-quarters of the meetings. That’s why the Fellows elected Mr. Clutterbuck. They don’t respect him more than they respect you. It’s just that he’s there. The president attends Society business in Gray’s Inn. No one believed you would take up residence in town.”

“I wouldn’t. If I were president, Society business would come to me.” Papa stopped walking again. “That is what Bartholomew Mortimer intended.”

Bartholomew Mortimer, the previous Society president, had died last spring, leaving the office vacant. Elfreda had wished for Papa’s appointment as fervently as Papa himself. If Papa were president, he’d rally the Fellows to submit a supplemental charter for her admission. Mr. Clutterbuck would be much harder to convince.

“You were Mr. Mortimer’s rightful successor.” Elfreda spoke in soothing tones. “He held you in the highest esteem.”

“Yes, I was. Yes, he did.” Papa turned his gaze on the clouds. He was a big man, with a large beard and white hair that waved back from his brow to end in a perfect curl below his ears. When Elfreda was a little girl, she’d thought that he looked like God, or at the very least, like King Alfred.

“Clutterbuck, Clutterbuck.” Papa sighed and put on his quoting face. Of late, he had been comparing himself alternately to Caesar and Macduff.

Silence settled over them.

Elfreda guessed Caesar.

“This was the most unkindest cut of all,” said Papa. “The toad-hearted knave. The wretch. The traitor! I championed his candidature for fellowship. I read a testimonial on his behalf before the whole Society. See how he repays me! With a stolen presidency and a rotten half penny!” Papa opened his hand and glared at the fragment of silver in his palm.

The moment had come.

“Papa,” she said. “The Fellows won’t care what Mr. Clutterbuck finds in Watford, or Llangollen. Because I have found something extraordinary. On the bluff.” She stood straighter. “An amulet. Hammer shaped, cast in lead, about the size of my thumb.” She paused, the engravings appearing in her mind’s eye. Her finger twitched and traced the angles in the air.

“Papa,” she said. “It was inscribed with runes. From the alphabet of the Northmen.”

His expression altered. “Youngling. Are you saying what I believe you are saying?”

She nodded. “The Great Heathen Army made their camp on the bluff.” She gazed over the green sweep of the park, up to the towering bluff, and the miracle of it hit her again.

“The Northmen were there, just there,” she whispered.

“Oh, my dear girl!” Papa was all smiles. “Tonight, we celebrate with a saga. And you can drink a glass of my Canary sack. Out of the green goblet.”

Elfreda’s chest warmed. Papa never shared his sack. And the green goblet had been Grandpapa’s. Fourth century, Roman. Touching it was absolutely forbidden.

“Now.” Papa tucked the penny into his pocket and held out his hand. “The amulet. Show me.”

The warmth in Elfreda’s chest leached away. She hadn’t thought this part through.

“I don’t have it.”

“You don’t have it.” Papa blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of her words.

“I found it.” Elfreda swallowed. “And then I lost it.”

Papa’s lips moved inside his beard, but no sound came out.

“The army camped in Twynham.” She tried to push her certainty through her eyes. “It says so in the Chronicle. And the hammer is proof. Once we mount a serious excavation, we will—”

Papa laughed, not a nice sound. “You propose I hire more laborers? Incur enormous expense? On what basis? You’ve shown me nothing. For all I know, you had a whimsical experience with a pebble.”

That stung.