I asked Vic to grant me a moment so I could buy a copy of the comic book for my growing collection—a guilty pleasure. Matt said goodbye to Geraldine while I stowed my purchase in my backpack. The curator kept hold of his hand for perhaps two seconds too long, but my partner ignored it with an innocent smile. Vic hid her grin and led the way down the stairs. To my surprise, they took us into a high-ceilinged basement where an impressive collection of Roman stonework was on display.

I stopped to glance around, making out panels and gravestones with neat inscriptions, flowery capitals, and several statues. The walls of the back end of the room were covered by a restored Roman mural painting. The vivid colours of floral motives and persons on a dark red ground made me wonder how such a fragile artwork could have survived into our times.

As Vic led us through the exposition, a limestone carving of a bearded man with an enormous fishtail caught my attention, and I stopped to study it up close. The face of the fish-man was carved in astonishing detail, lifelike, his features wearing a crooked smile. He held a naked woman, pulling her into his lap. To me, the face of the lady wore a distressed or even disgusted expression, as if she were unhappy with being manhandled by the mythical being.

Vic noticed my fascination with the group. "Nice craftsmanship, isn't it? The fragments of this relief were found in the En Chaplix cemetery and formed part of a larger relief decoration. We assume this frieze depicts Triton and the Nereid. Wish we would have discovered such a fancy piece during my current dig."

"Seems quite exquisite for a grave marker." I couldn't define why this relief stood out to me, but the longer I looked at the masterful stonework, the more I wanted to know about it.

A smile played on Vic's lips as she showed me an information panel mounted left of the artwork. "We're not talking a simple headstone but part of the elaborate figural decoration of a memoria, a huge funerary monument for the members of an important local family. Their life-sized statues on a columned dais crowned the whole installation." She pointed out the drawing of what looked like a miniature temple on the panel. "The spire of the building reached over twenty metres high. What makes it remarkable is the fact it was constructed in the marshy part of the plain near the lake. To stabilise the ground, the Roman workers had to sink dozens of oak piles into the soil to support the sheer weight of the masonry."

I studied the reconstruction of the monument. With all the cornices and carvings, it could have been a baroque spire. "Impressive. Do you know how old it is?"

"Yes, we're lucky. Dendrochronology dates the supporting piles into the year 28 CE."

Matt, who had been reading the info panel, turned around. "Dendrochronology is counting the year rings on slices of trees, right? So you can say the monument was built almost 2000 years ago?"

"Right, if the oaks were cut down in the year 28 CE, the construction would have followed in the year 29 or perhaps 30. Very few Roman sites of this period are dated as precise as this one. It's almost a miracle. Now, shall we move on and visit my dig? It won't be as spectacular as En Chaplix, I'm afraid, but it's still a great example of an average Roman funerary site."

With a last glance at the suffering Nereid, I followed the archaeologist through an emergency exit that led us out on the street level. Behind us rose the hill that contained the amphitheater, topped by the museum's tower.

Vic unlocked a battered forest green estate car and cleared a space in the cluttered trunk for Matt to drop in his bag.

He grinned. "Still driving your old bathtub, I see."

"It's more trustworthy than most boyfriends I've had over the years." A cheery tune from the side pocket of her working pants made her dig for her phone. She picked it up with an apologetic smile.

"Hey Paul, what's up? I'm already on my way."

Matt raised his brows and mouthed, "Paul?" Was it worry that pulled down the edges of of my partner's lips?

Vic nodded and answered the phone with a chuckle. "No, not driving, but just about to. What's so important?"

She listened for a moment. "Sure. Yes, I will. See you."

Vic shoved the phone back into her pocket and opened the driver's door. "Do you mind if we drop by the depot first? Paul says he's run out of packing cases for the grave goods. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you, Matt."

If I judged my partner's reaction right, the pleasure wouldn't be mutual. But he didn't comment, and we passed the short drive to the archaeological depot in silence. I didn't want to intrude into his morose thoughts in front of his childhood friend.

Vic pulled her car into the parking lot in front of an old production hall and led us to the entrance set beside a broad steel double door. "This building was constructed as a sawmill back in the eighties and turned into our depot in the nineties, if I'm right."

The windowless place was roomy, with a small, semi-separated office and a cluster of work tables in the front and rows of pallet racks in the back. They contained thousands of boxes and stacks of limestone masonry. I couldn't fathom how many there were. "Are these all artefacts?"

"Yes, and we also have a second, smaller depot and keep further stacks of Roman construction materials in different places around town. In here, we only store what's valuable from a scientific point of view."

Matt whistled between his teeth. "Now I understand why you need a new museum."

A man passed by driving a forklift with a stack of masonry blocks, overheard him, and laughed. "If the department head can raise the exorbitant funds." He waved and moved on.

Vic sighed. "Alex is right, and even if the cantonal government is ready to invest the money, there still will be less than one percent of the artefacts of the full collection on display. It's too vast to be shown in its entirety. Plus, the construction of the new building will take several years. Here." She picked up an enormous bundle of padding material from a packing table and handed it to Matt.

From a tall stack of boxes in a corner, she picked the topmost five boxes and pressed them into my hands. "Would you mind loading these into the car? I'll fetch some documents from the office and will be right with you."

The boxes were bulky, but empty, and I had no trouble handling them. However, Matt pushed open the door and stepped aside to let me pass. I thanked him and moved by, closing my eyes against the bright sunlight outside. As soon as I opened them again, a hoarse croak tore the air and the shadow of a gigantic bird swooped down towards me. I gasped, dropped my load, and protected my head with my arms.

After a few seconds of silence, I peeked out between my fingers and lowered my makeshift cover. There was no bird in sight, but Matt stared at me with narrowed eyes. "What's gotten into you, San?"

"Didn't you see him?"

"Him?" He shook his head and scanned the empty parking lot, a frown on his forehead. "Whom?"

Instead of answering, I looked up to study the clear blue sky. Not a cloud in sight, and nothing that looked like a bird. It was gone, and the only thing telling me I hadn't imagined things was a slight itch tempting me to scratch the skin of my left wrist. I rubbed the sore spot, aware the tingle announced a ghost's fleeting presence. "Huh. If I didn't know better, I'd say the Raven has found me."

"A raven?" Matt saw I was rubbing my wrist and raised his brows. "Oh, you mean the ghost bird from Corbières. How is this possible?"

"No idea." It had been two months since I had felt the characteristic signature of this unforgettable ghost. Back then, I had been sure I would never be bothered by him again. "But I've seen a bird diving at me, like in that Hitchcock movie. That you didn't see him makes it even more obvious it was a ghost."

"Strange."

"I agree, but standing around here won't help us find out what the Raven wanted. Come on, let's load these boxes."

When I stooped to pick them up, my gaze fell on a bundle of yellowed paper. Where had that come from? I squinted to study the fine black print filling the page in narrow columns—an old newspaper. To judge by its torn and crumpled edges, it had been lining a case and must have fallen out when I dropped them, trying to avoid the bird attack. When I picked up the journal to place it back where it belonged, a small black feather fell from the pages and drifted away on a sudden cold gust of wind. My wrist tingled until I lost sight of it.

Something was off, and I needed to find out what it was, fast.