Margaret Springer picked her way through the rubble of her London street on her way to work. As the chief curator at the Victoria and Albert Museum, she was responsible for all incoming and outgoing exhibits. A Ph.D. in Religious Studies from Oxford helped her rise to the top in her career.

Like every other person in the city, she carried on through it all, and frankly for the first time felt blessed to be single. No children to try and feed with limited resources, no husband so she did not worry about receiving a telegram from the War Office, and her parents had moved to York so she knew they'd be safe.

The evening bombings were becoming second nature to her and her neighbors. Once the air raid sirens blared, they grabbed their teapots and fags and chatted as they walked down the stairs to the Underground station. Typical topics such as the weather or ration coupons or how to make cakes without eggs. Normal conversations in an abnormal situation.

As the night wore on, as it often did, Margaret would doze off, leaning back against the cool subway tiles. Always the same odd dream. Dressed in khakis and sunglasses, carrying a backpack and a voice that crept into her soul, in a soothing repetitive rhythm: find the spear, find the spear, find the spear. She would trudge across miles and miles of sand and once she crested a high dune, there it was. An ancient barely recognizable hut, worn down by thousands of years of drifting sand. The voice pushing her forward. Find the spear, find the spear. As she was about to enter, she woke up. Every time.

Margaret was determined to get to the bottom of this nocturnal adventure. She wouldn't have to wait long, her role at the museum was about to give her the answer. Or so she thought.