Bram sighed. ‘We expected as much. But what were we supposed to do, Feine? Just leave those things down there? Let the storm wash them away?’ His voice had risen an octave, fuelled by the force of his words.

There were no easy answers to his questions. They echoed the complex relationship between world heritage committees and amateur collectors that had been going on since the dawn of time. In Texel, scavenging had always been a way of life. Ships broken apart by storms spilled their cargo into the sea and the tides washed their goods ashore where eager locals waited to take their pick of the spoils. Sometimes rare and useful items materialised. One year, a midnight squall sank a tanker carrying luxury fur coats. Everyone showed up at church the next day dressed like glamorous movie stars. Locals had a name for this unique beachcombing tradition. They called it jutter: what the sea gives, the finder keeps. But even a remote place like Texel couldn’t escape regulation altogether. In 2007, the Netherlands had committed to an internationally binding agreement designed to protect sites of marine archaeological significance. If you found something valuable on Texel, you were supposed to report it to the Strandvonderij – the official beachcombing board – who would take possession of the goods, if they were valuable, and decide whether a finder’s fee should be paid. Penalties for violating the agreement ranged from a slap on the wrist to extensive jail time. I tried to imagine Bram sharing a cell with hardened criminals, trading heroic diving adventures for tales of bikie vengeance and corporate greed. The image refused to stick.

‘We’ll sort it out when I get there,’ I promised him.

2

An hour later, I was back home and packing when Marieke burst in. ‘I’ve got tickets to a play tonight at the Sydney Theatre Company! Margaret was supposed to come along but her daughter’s sick so she’s watching the grandkids. I thought you might like to join me instead.’

Her gaze swept the room, taking in my documentation folders and the camera lenses cushioned in their fabric packing cubes. The wardrobe door stood ajar, revealing the gaps where clothes once hung. In the open duffle bag at my feet, a cross-section of jeans and jumpers was layered between the delicate paintbrushes and fragile fibre-optic lights to protect them from damage during the flight.

Marieke’s smile faded.

‘You’re leaving,’ she said, sinking onto the bed. She was wearing a tight, sleeveless shift dress patterned with purple hyacinths which showed off her tiny waist. A green sweater tied around her shoulders softened the sharp protrusion of collarbones.

‘What about the university? I thought they were expecting you to stay on until the book’s finished.’