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anywhere to be found. She would be at the mercy of her hosts if she wanted to leave the island.

Sveti led them into the single-story remnant of what had once been a much larger building. The

space was low ceilinged, with slits in the wall that allowed shafts of weak light to fall into the room.

An impressive number of air tanks, diving suits, lamps, and fins were stacked up along one wall. A

mattress lay on the floor, a wool blanket folded neatly over it, with a hot plate and a miniature

refrigerator nearby, attesting to Azov’s presence in the room both day and night. The crumbling walls

had shed a fine dust over the floor, leaving them slippery. The entire structure had the appearance of a

ruin, the light fixtures crude, as if the building had been wired for only the most basic functionality.

“Our large diving center is farther south,” Azov said, gesturing to the air tanks. “This equipment is

for personal use. When I want to go down myself, I take the boat and my diving gear and spend time

with the lost world. I can’t visit the ancient settlement often—we need to be dropped by boat about

thirty-two hundred feet off the coast of Faki. But simply going below the surface of the water is

unimaginably relaxing.” Azov sighed. “Not that I have much time for such things. Come, I’ll show you

my collection.”

He led them through a narrow hallway and into a cold, windowless room. Sveti lit a match and

brought it to a series of taper candles whose brass holders rose from a rectangular wooden table, the

surface of which displayed various tools and glass vials. Soon the room glowed with a warm light.

Along the wall, rising from floor to ceiling, stood an elaborate metal case with thousands of tiny

drawers.

“My filing system,” Azov said.

“For what?” Vera asked, wondering what would fit into such small spaces.

“For our collection of seeds,” Azov replied. “We have recovered close to two thousand varieties.”

He went to the cabinet, opened a drawer, and removed a cloth sack, which he tipped gently onto the

table. The contents were as small and white as pearls. “These are an ancient variety of vegetable.

And these,” he said, taking another small sack from a drawer, “are peonies, but unlike any peony seen

in the modern world. I grew one fifteen years ago—the flower was as big as my head, pale purple

with streaks of yellow on the petals, utterly beautiful.”

“Surely these seeds would have been completely destroyed if they were among the objects of the

settlement,” Vera said. “Even anoxic water would damage them. You could not have found these in

proximity to the tablets.”

Azov said, “The seeds were not recovered from the settlement. We found them inland, stored in a

dry, cold space under the ground, a place that may have been built by Noah as a storage center for

them but was later used as a Thracian burial mound. We found a map of the storage rooms among the

tablets. After the water rose and Noah was forced to leave the first settlement, he traveled into what

is now northern Greece but was once Thrace. By that time his sons had begun their migrations,

founding the new civilizations of the world, and Noah was a tired old man nearing his thousandth

year. Noah’s journey inland, meanwhile, had consecrated the land he’d moved through as sacred—

priests, monks, and holy men walked that path for centuries after his death to pray and purify

themselves. This island was used as the starting place of such pilgrimages. The bodies of saints have

been transported and laid to rest on the island. In fact, Saint John the Baptist’s body was entombed

here. His headless body lies in the sanctuary of the monastery.”

“But keeping the seeds safe has been our primary purpose,” Sveti said. She gestured toward the

filing system. “Azov can pursue his study without threat of intrusion, and he has his work cut out for

him: Many of these seeds remain unidentified.”

“Have you grown all of them?” Vera asked, trying to mask her almost childlike desire to see such

an exotic garden.

“Some of them, yes; others, no,” Azov said, “The seeds are limited. I watch over their storage; I

make sure they are not exposed to light or water; I keep potential thieves away—and that is all. There

are many of us appointed as guardians of one kind or another. Our work is relegated to simply

standing at the gate, keeping the Nephilim—and others who wish to do harm—away. I couldn’t bear

the idea of inadvertently killing the seeds, or, worse, losing them to the enemy due to incompetence.

Recovering and protecting them is one thing; growing them is another.”