Clutching her worn canvas bag with her precious notebooks stuffed inside, Dame Jolaine Tradescar crossed the forecourt of the Temple of the Source, all the while glancing back over her shoulder to see if anyone had followed her.

Inside the Temple, she dipped her handkerchief in the shell of sacred spring water and dabbed the perspiration from her brow.

A curse on the Mayor and his meddling clerks! And, more particularly, a curse on erudite young Dr Philemot. A wicked thought flitted across Jolaine’s mind, a scholar’s revenge. Perhaps she should inscribe her rival’s name backwards on a thin sheet of pewter and cast a curse into the spring as her ancestors had done! Boils. Boils were particularly irksome and unsightly. Yes, boils would do nicely for a start… and maybe a touch of scrofula?

Why couldn’t they have waited a week or two more? Her life’s work was so very nearly complete. And there was no way that her successor was going to snatch it from her now.

She took up her bag and made towards the stair to the Under Temple. A Priest rose up from the shadows to bar her way.

‘You cannot enter the Under Temple today.’

‘Whyever not?’ cried Jolaine, exasperated.

‘It has begun. They must not be disturbed.’

‘What the deuce has begun?’ Why must the Priests always speak in riddles?

‘They are almost ready to be born again into the Light.’

‘The dragonflies!’ Jolaine struck her palm to her temple. The Day of the Dead was approaching – and sooner than she had anticipated. This was a double blow. But there was no way accurately to predict the hatching patterns of dragonflies.

‘And besides, Dame Tradescar,’ the Priest said, ‘there has been some concern expressed in the Temple Court about your excavations.’

‘This is a fine time to start expressing concern!’

‘There have been portents. Warnings.’

‘This is the first I’ve heard of it –’

‘Disturbing the ancient sacred sites. The unravelling of mysteries that are better left unravelled. It must cease.’

‘Portents? Hocus-pocus! A fig to you and your silly superstitions!’ blustered Jolaine. ‘I’m City Antiquarian –I have unlimited access to all the historic sites. I’ll be taking this up with the highest authorities. I’ll go straight to the Mayor!’

The Priest did not budge, his face bland, expressionless.

Fizzling with frustration, Jolaine hefted her bulging canvas bag under her arm and left the Temple.

In the Temple forecourt she sat down on a bench to think. She knew all the hidden ways into the Undercity… but the stelae she wished to reexamine were all located on the rim of the Main Reservoir.