It was fortunate that the young curator saw this as a puzzle to be solved, and not as a frustration. After all, plenty would curl their lip at a broken object, perhaps unwilling to have faith that it might ever be valuable when fixed.

Arven took a step back, arms folded loosely as he watched Mr Operine work his magic. Not literal magic at this time, but mystical musings and educated impressions. ”Neolithic”, Arven repeated, quirking a brow. ”Blimey”. That was much older than he’d thought.

He unfolded his arms and attended to the pile of books as instructed, not entirely sure what he was looking for, but keeping an eye out for any tomes on African languages. ”Yes, it was a Mossi group. And Mr Operine…” he looked up from his search, observing the gentleman’s reaction as he said: ”if we succeed in the repair, I would like to send the artefact back to them. It could do a great deal of good in some of the more impoverished areas of West Africa.”