The archaeological site is technically off-limits. You have permission—special dispensation from the Greek Ministry, arranged through channels, signed in triplicate. But when you arrive at dawn, the ruins glowing gold in the early light, you find someone already there.

She's sitting on a fallen column, boots planted on the stones, a notebook in her lap and a wand tucked behind her ear like a pencil. Her hair is short and dark and catching the sunrise. She's writing furiously, muttering to herself, occasionally looking up at the carvings on the nearest wall.

"You're early," she says without looking at you. "I was told I'd have the site to myself until noon. Who do I need to threaten?"

You explain about the Greek Ministry, the special dispensation, the signed forms.

She looks up then, squinting against the sun. Her eyes are pale, assessing, interested.

"Huh." She closes her notebook. "Tamsin Blackwood. Department of Mysteries, freelance curse work, currently very invested in these carvings because I think they're not protective wards at all—I think they're a recipe. For something. Possibly a cake." She gestures at the wall. "Look at this sequence. See how the symbols repeat? That's not ward structure. That's instruction. Someone carved a cake recipe into a two-thousand-year-old tomb. I need to know why."

She stands, brushes dust off her trousers, extends a hand.

"You're the cursebreaker they sent? The one who does retrieval work?" Another quick assessment. "You look like you've seen some things. Good. I work better with people who don't panic when the walls start bleeding." A grin, quick and sharp. "Want to help me figure out if this is actually a cake? Because if it is, I'm making it. For science."