As the sun began to slink towards the horizon, Alba wandered the wintry streets of Lagos and mulled over the objects she had silently dubbed the AREX artefacts. With a light blush, Marcos had confessed as to why he offered such generous conditions to Alba — his employees whispered the artefacts were evidence of the lost Atlantean civilisation and he was eager to smother out these rumours.

The Atlantis theory was nonsense of course. And a disservice to Lagos itself.

While most tourists were content to relax on the town's numerous beaches, those who looked could espy vestiges of the town's tumultuous history just about everywhere. Lagos had been first settled in the pre-Punic times and then became home to the Carthaginians. It had been integrated into the Roman province of Lusitania. After the fall of the Western Roman Empire, the Visigoths had occupied the town. Then the Byzantines. In the Eighth Century, the Moors had annexed the town and renamed it Zawaia. It was only recaptured by Christians in the Thirteenth Century and the old Moorish walls still surrounded Lagos' old town.

Lagos had played a crucial role in the Age of Discovery. Henry the Navigator had made it his home base, directing expeditions to Morocco and West Africa. And from the front steps of the Santa Maria, where Alba now paused to catch her breath, she could see the remnants of the old slave market. As unpalatable as it was to remember now, Lagos had been the gateway for the African slave trade in Europe.

The key to this all is somewhere in these two thousand years of history.

But Alba did not know where to begin. Usually, the material an instrument was made out of or its design narrowed down the instrument's origin in moments. This one, however —

Perhaps it was better if she were to restart from the beginning once more. She adjusted her scarf and resumed her aimless walk, while the cogs of her mind continued turning.

First, the shape. The harp lacked a pillar, which was almost unseen in European harps. Yet its overall shape evoked a European tradition. On the other hand, the city carved onto the soundboard pointed elsewhere. The helmet-domed towers made Alba think of Kievan Rus', while the scene's overall style suggested something Near-Eastern, although she could not put her finger on the exact culture or historical era.

But then, her expertise was in musical instruments, not architecture or artistic styles. She would need to get someone who knew what they were talking about to make their assessment. It was best she stuck with what she knew.

Ok, moving on then.

Two — the soundboard itself. Alba thought the soundboard was made out of willow wood. Not the most common choice, but nothing out of the ordinary either for a harp that originated from the temperate regions where willow trees commonly grew. She was eager to find out what Carbon 14 dating came up with.

Three — the strings. Wire strings. Vikings may have been making wire, but musical instruments with wire first appeared in the Twelfth Century. As to their condition, she refused to believe Marcos' workers had not tampered with the strings. The ground around the harp had to have been dry, otherwise the wood would have rotted, so the conditions were beneficial to preservation, but metals tarnished over time. That was all there was to say on that point. Except, what about the half-rotted wood and cloth found just next to it?

A closer examination of the excavation site would probably explain that.

More importantly, the harp was cross-strung. That settled it, didn't it? The arpa de dos ordenes first emerged in the Seventeenth Century. A bespoke design had been a whim of some aristocrat, nothing more.

And yet, doubt gnawed at Alba. There was also the matter of that strange script — an alien looking series of loops and vertical strokes that resembled nothing Alba had ever encountered. The harp's neck was covered with this script and when Alba had lifted up the harp, she had spotted another inscription in the same script on the harp's base. That one was short, four words in all (if spacing in this script worked the same as in Portuguese or English). Was the lettering some aristocratic version of an inside joke? Why then ruin such a beautiful work with that dodgy leather repair?

Alba sighed and glanced up to find herself peering up at the AREX construction site. She had been too fixed on her thoughts to notice where her feet led her. But it felt right. The mystery would only keep her up all night; she might as well have another look at the harp. To her luck, she caught Jan just as he was leaving for the night. He handed her the keycard and waved goodbye.

As she opened the door to the back room, the light from the corridor offered just enough light for Alba to see the outline of a man hunched over the tables.

'Who is this?' Alba asked, palpating the wall for the light switch. 'What are you doing here?'

Once she found the switch and flicked it on, she saw a man peering back her with a weary expression etched on his face. The flautist from the hotel. Up close, his exact age confounded her. There were lines on his face and hints of grey amid dark brown on the sides of his temples. His beard was thin, but not the pathetic wisps of a man in his last days of life, rather as if it were growing in for the first time. And yet, there was something in his eyes. They seemed older than that of any person Alba had ever met. The eyes of a surrendered man, Alba realised. Fernand had looked quite similar in his last days.

'Why are you in here? Who are you?' she demanded.

'Of late, I have been named Gershom. Call me thus. What shall I call you?'

'Alba.'

'Curious.' A crooked smile crept onto Gershom's face. 'Are you the one hired to identify what the workmen recovered?'

'What's that to you? How'd you get in here? I've got a feeling you didn't arrange for a visitor's pass; I ought to call the police.'

'The police will only spoil the evening, both mine and yours. Rather, shall we agree on a trade?' Gershom cocked his head. 'You do not mention my presence here and I shall tell you what these objects are.'

'How would you know?'

'A man as long-lived as myself is sure to know something of the history of the world.'

Alba played with a loose strand of her pale hair. Jan had been the last one in the office, it was just Alba and Gershom now. But the old man did not seem aggressive. More likely than not, he had charmed one of the workers into letting him in. What harm would it do to humour him? She had no better place to be tonight. Besides, the annals of historiography were replete with tales of researchers outwitted by the knowledge of a local. At worst, she could call the police later. Gershom was known around Lagos; he would be easy to find.

'Very well,' she said. 'Enlighten me.'

'These are remnants of a tent my brother Russandol and I once shared,' Gershom replied. 'At the beginning of that war, when all the hosts of Valinor and Beleriand assembled as one among the willows of Tasarinan, one might have mistaken the scene for a festival gathering. Never have more great princes assembled nor more bright banners blew than in those days. But the War of Wrath drew long and so many fair lands were torn asunder and so little remained of what we once held dear.'

'I don't understand.' Alba shook her head. 'Were you in the Second World War? Is that what you're trying to say?'

'We made camp in haste where we could,' Gershom continued with no sign that he had heard Alba. 'A balrog, among the last in Morgoth's reserve, beset upon us in the darkest hour of the night and we could not spare the time to gather our belongings. Truthfully, I am as bewildered as anyone to see our property recovered. The lands and the seas have altered there many a time over the ages, I can no longer envisage how the world in the Elder Days and in the present align.'

Alba began to speak, but could not find the right words. Where was she supposed to begin? Valinor, Beleriand, Morgoth… Not a single one of these words meant a thing to her.

'So are the rumours true?' she snorted at last. 'Are you from Atlantis then?'

Gershom scowled. 'Most certainly not.'

He sighed and reached for the folded up cloth in the first tray. Alba was about to tell him to stop, but his hand hovered over the fabric as if he were too afraid to get closer to it.

'The banner of the House of Finwe, the first of the Noldor. In later days many thought it to be the sun, but any man with a head on his shoulders should see the folly of that. My grandfather died ere the sun or the moon ever rose.'

This is bullshit. The man needs help. While Gershom's gaze was fixed on the banner, Alba snuck her phone out of her pocket, dialled the emergency number, then muted the speaker on the other side.

'You're not making any sense, Gershom,' Alba said, hoping that the dispatcher on the other side of the phone-line could hear her. 'This is the construction site for AREX's new hotel, you're trespassing here. The police should come out and arrest you.'

Gershom dropped his hand and squared his shoulders. His lips thinned as he noticed the lit-up screen of the phone in Alba's hand.

'All my family, save myself, have passed out of this realm. I am the sole heir of their legacy. Is this not my property?' he said in a low tone. 'You are interested in the harp, are you not? My flute caught your attention yesterday.'

'It's some special commission for an eccentric. A series of peculiar events left these artefacts to lie far deeper than they would be normally. It happens.'

'You are not wholly wrong, Alba.'

'Is that so?' she said. She half-regretted calling the police already, Gershom was now agitated and she had to keep him talking so he didn't flee. Alba just had to hope the dispatcher was able to triangulate her location from their conversation and the phone signal.

'Have you seen the inscription on the bottom of the harp? It translates to "Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, made this". Celebrimbor, my nephew, fashioned this harp for me. He had an unfortunate mania for carving his name on any work his hand touched, but his talent is self-evident. After all the ages that were born and have died since this harp last saw the daylight, she still earns to be played.'

Gershom plucked at the harp strings with his thumb. The sound, although out of tune, was full and resonant. However, it was Gershom's hand that caught Alba's breath. Before she had been too transfixed by his skill or too afraid he would damage the banner to pay attention, but the awkwardness with which he now touched the harp made it impossible to miss his impairment. The middle and the ring fingers of his left hand were stumps. All else was scar — the skin, where it remained and the tendons were not exposed, was knotted so badly Alba doubted Gershom could fully straighten his fingers.

'What…' she stammered. 'How did that happen?'

'Do you mean my hands? I took something I thought was rightfully mine, but it was not. This is the price of youthful folly.'

Alba swallowed. 'I'm sorry. I can see why you choose the flute these days.'

In lieu of a reply, Gershom let his hand sink to his side and turned to gaze at the door. A moment later it swung open and two policemen charged in. Alba scrambled out of their way.

'Identify yourselves!' the older of the policemen demanded. 'What's your purpose here?'

Quickly explaining the situation, Alba showed them her university ID card and the keycard, but Gershom did not offer any form of identification. Nor were the police eager to hear his wild stories. The younger policeman handcuffed Gershom, then led him outside.

While Alba covered up the trays once more, the other policeman called to her, 'It was a bit of luck we were two blocks away, wasn't it? But please follow us, miss. We'll require a statement from you.'

Gershom was right. I've just ruined both our nights.

Alba trailed behind the older policeman out onto the street. There must have been a malfunction in the wiring — the sun had now sunk below the horizon, but the street-lamps remained unlit. While the policemen turned their attention to a debate about the nuances of some protocol, Gershom peered up and Alba instinctively followed his gaze. It was still early and only one star shone amid the murk.

'Eala Earendil, engla beorhtast ofer middangeard monnum sended,' Gershom said and winked to Alba.

Shivers ran down Alba's back. She had heard those words before.