61. Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-One

L aura

The phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial yet another number. I’ve lost count of how many calls I’ve made today, each one a carefully worded dance around the truth. How do you ask for help to revive 2,000-year-old bodies without sounding completely insane? One thing I know, we certainly can’t let them thaw and pray they revive, although that worked well enough for Varro.

“Dr. Johansson’s office,” a crisp voice answers.

I launch into my now-practiced spiel, explaining that I’m an archaeologist with a unique preservation case. As expected, I’m politely but firmly turned away. Apparently, most of Scandinavia’s top cryptobiologists aren’t equipped for this level of “unique.”

Sighing, I cross another name off my list. Varro looks up from the book he’s been reading—a modern history text he’s devouring with fascination.

“ Two world wars?” His brow is furrowed. Then he turns his attention to my plight. “No luck? ”

I shake my head, slumping back against the headboard in our tiny cabin on the research vessel. “I’m starting to think we need to invent a whole new field of science for this.”

Just as I’m about to call it quits for the day, my email pings. It’s a response from Dr. Amelia Diaz, who holds a Ph.D. in Molecular Biology with a focus on cellular preservation and revival. I reached out to her via email after I remembered her from a conference I attended years ago. My heart skips a beat as I read her message.

“Varro,” I breathe, “I think we might have found someone.”

Dr. Diaz’s email is intriguing. She’s a biotechnologist specializing in extremophiles—organisms that thrive in extreme conditions. More importantly, she’s not dismissing my vague query outright. We set up a video call for the next day.

I’m so full of guarded excitement, I barely get any sleep, but the next morning, as her face fills my screen, I’m struck by her sharp, intelligent eyes and the warmth of her smile.

“Miss Turner,” she greets me, “I must admit, your email has me curious. What exactly are we dealing with here?”

I take a deep breath. It’s now or never. “Please, call me Laura. Dr. Diaz, what I’m about to tell you might sound impossible, but I assure you, it’s very real.”

Over the next hour, after swearing her to secrecy, I lay out everything—the Fortuna , Varro’s miraculous revival, our recent discovery. To her credit, Dr. Diaz listens without interruption, scribbling furious notes as her expression shifts from skepticism to fascination to serious focus. It’s as though she’s already signed on to the project and is planning her next steps.

“This is… extraordinary,” she says when I finish. “If what you’re saying is true, the implications are staggering.”

“So you believe me?” I ask, hardly daring to hope.

She nods slowly. “I’m skeptical by nature, Laura, but I’m also a scientist. At the very least, this deserves investigation. ”

Relief washes over me. Finally, someone who understands.

Dr. Diaz outlines her thoughts rapidly, her excitement palpable. “We’ll need a multidisciplinary team—cryobiologists, historians, ethicists, translators. And a secure facility with state-of-the-art medical equipment.”

“I think I can help with that last part,” I interject, thinking of the gold we’ve recovered. “But what about governmental approval? These aren’t exactly standard archaeological finds.”

Dr. Diaz’s brow furrows. “That’s trickier. Technically, these are human remains, but they fall into a gray area legally. We’ll need to approach this carefully.”

Over the next few days, Dr. Diaz and I work tirelessly, reaching out to contacts, drafting proposals, and navigating a labyrinth of international laws. It’s exhausting but exhilarating. Varro and I are still on the research vessel, staking our claim to what’s under the sea in case other treasure hunters track this location down.

We settle on a facility in Switzerland—neutral territory with some of the world’s most advanced medical technology. They are allowing us to rent an unused wing of a research hospital and will prepare it the moment we give the word. Dr. Diaz uses her connections to arrange a meeting with the Swiss Federal Department of Home Affairs.

The video conference is tense. I lay out our case, careful to emphasize the historical and scientific significance without revealing too much. Dr. Diaz chimes in with technical details, her expertise lending credibility to our outlandish tale.

Finally, after what feels like hours of deliberation, we receive tentative approval. We’ll be granted temporary custody of the bodies for research purposes, under strict ethical guidelines and international oversight.

As I end the call, exhausted but elated, Varro pulls me into a tight embrace.

“You did it,” he murmurs into my hair.

I shake my head, pulling back to meet his eyes. “ We did it. But this is just the beginning.”

Later that night, as I’m reviewing Dr. Diaz’s proposed team roster, I’m struck by the magnitude of what we’re undertaking. We’re about to attempt something never done before in human history.

My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Diaz: “Just confirmed our lead medical doctor, Albert Petrov. He’s currently the chief of cryobiology at the University of Yekaterinburg. The Russian government has given verbal permission for this collaboration. It’s waiting for the final approval. Laura, this is really happening!”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself grinning at my phone. Despite the challenges ahead, I’m grateful to have found such a brilliant and passionate ally.

As I crawl into bed beside Varro and kiss the handsome face that has become the best part of my world, my mind races with possibilities. Tomorrow, we start the process of retrieving and transporting the bodies. Soon, we might be looking into the eyes of people who last saw the world two millennia ago.

“Varro, we’ve already made the impossible possible once. Who’s to say we can’t do it again?”

“No one, Dulcis. Now get naked and lie on the bunk. I’ve wanted to sketch you since before I ever saw you without clothes.”

I quirk an eyebrow in question, but don’t protest. There’s something about the heat of Varro’s gaze that makes me shed all my inhibitions.

He grabs the notebook and one of the charcoal pencils we bought when we were shopping, then arranges the spread so the rippling folds look artful.

He sits down, rests his ankle on the other knee, and begins to sketch. It’s odd, having him look at me like this. Sometimes it’s dispassionate, sometimes he seems to forget his mission and his hand quits moving as he ogles me with lust.

“I’m not as skilled as I’d like,” he hedges as he uses the edge of his hand to smudge the charcoal. “If my ability was worthy of you, you’d look more beautiful than Venus. Sadly, this will have to do.”

When he turns the journal to show me, I gasp softly. Its style is primitive, but I’m… beautiful. If this is the way he sees me, I’m a lucky, lucky woman.

“You’re so talented, Varro. It’s lovely.”

“Yes, Dulcis. Beautiful. Now let me make sure those nipples stay nice and hard.”

He sets down the pencil and journal and climbs next to me, his mouth homing in on my right nipple like a heat-seeking missile.

He stops teasing my hardened tip to tease me with words. “Where should I hang this, love? In the galley, where everyone can admire my woman?”

“We’ll keep it in your journal, just between the two of us. But if you want to show off, just make me come so hard everyone on the boat can hear me scream.”