She braced herself with the rope in one hand, then put all her weight behind the tomahawk. There was a groan from the wood of the ornate eagle—and then an edge started to come loose. Hailey leaned farther back—Nick groaning at the strain on the rope—and the edge shifted a little more, there was a light crackling sound, and then the wing pried loose from the stern. The rest of the eagle was still affixed, but Hailey was able to reach behind the wing, to the boards beneath.

These were smooth and strong—but Hailey was determined. She lifted the tomahawk above her head, took a breath, and then swung it forward, hitting the wood with the sharp edge of the blade. Wood splintered around her, but she kept swinging. In a matter of minutes, she was through the first board, and then into another, deeper into the frame behind the ornate stern. Two more swings—and she heard the distinct clang of metal against metal.

She put the tomahawk back in her waistband, then leaned forward, gripping the rope with just her legs, and reached in with both hands. She didn’t know what she expected to feel—the smooth curve of an enormous bell, hidden in the wooden frame?—but she was shocked to find something much smaller. There appeared to be a carved-out hiding place in the wood, and in that space, a metal box. Too small for the bell, Hailey realized, but she grabbed it anyway and pulled it free.

The box glinted in the moonlight, and Hailey realized with a start that it was made of what appeared to be solid gold.

“What is it?” Nick hissed, from above. She could see that he was leaning over the edge, holding the rope, staring down at her.

She shook her head. She wasn’t sure. But she needed to find out.

“Pull me up,” she hissed.

*  *  *

Minutes later she was topside next to Nick. He was still holding the backpack, and they were both breathing hard, but Hailey’s mind was entirely focused on the gold box on the deck between them. Before either of them could speak, Hailey dropped to one knee. The box had a clasp, but no lock; she wouldn’t need the tomahawk this time.

With trembling fingers, she undid the clasp and opened the box.

Inside there was a small bit of yellowed paper, very old. Written across the paper were words in sweeping cursive, by the hand of someone who had died very long ago.

“What does it say?” Nick asked.

Hailey read the words with difficulty.

“‘From she who made the box.’”