of those occupations required an advanced college degree to back her up, and Bridget had never finished high school. By the time a friend suggested she could pay to have forged whatever diploma she needed, Bridget had decided that smuggling and brokering for the Westies was more interesting.… and allowed her to keep the choicest pieces.
There were more belongings of the Russian family: a chalice, two swords, a bejeweled glove with the leather rotted, a mug with crudely cut emerald inlays, a gold anklet that once belonging to Rurik’s raven-haired mistress, a wood horse the size of a pumpkin; Bridget felt the hands of Rurik’s young son carving it.
All interesting and all able to be sold above and below the counter in her Fort Greene antiques shop, but nothing truly outstanding. Perhaps the goods on one of the other tables could yield more.
“See anything here you’d like for your birthday, Otter?”
“Anything? I can have anything?”
“Of course.” Bridget hoped the boy would not realize the value of some of the oldest pieces and would make a selection based solely on appearance. Still, tonight she was prepared to give away whatever caught her son’s fancy.
“What about this?” Otter was several feet away, looking at a table filled with ornamental swords and daggers. Bridget sensed that they had once belonged to French nobles. She would have to get closer to pinpoint which weapon had been carried by which man. The boy held up a thin-bladed sword with rubies and citrines set into the hilt. “This is awesome.”
Bridget joined him and concentrated on the piece. “Curious.” The fingers of her left hand grazed the hilt and for an instant the air smelled of an overly sweet perfume. This was the one piece in the collection not owned by a French nobleman.
“This was actually a woman’s, Otter.” After a moment’s focus she gained a name. “Diane de Poitiers, mistress to King Henri II.” Bridget placed its value, for its history and gems, at $89,800. She hoped her son would select something else, as she knew a sword collector in Manhattan who would buy it.
“A woman’s sword, huh?” Otter laid it down, apparently no longer interested. “Hey, look at this over here! This is kinda cool.” He hefted a silver chalice. A mix of dark and faint blue stones were set in a fleur-de-lis pattern. “French, I take it. King Henri’s? Or one of his mistresses?”
“Eventually Henri’s.” Bridget concentrated and sorted through the images that came at her. “Henri’s grandfather owned that first, then his brother, then eventually Henri.”
“I could set this on my desk at home. Too pretty to drink out of. But I could put pens and pencils in it.”
Bridget smiled. The faint colored stones were blue-white diamonds, their size and clarity making the piece exceptional. It was, perhaps, the single most valuable piece on this table, perhaps of everything in the warehouse: $151,000 would have been her asking price. Maybe Otter had inherited some of Bridget’s skills after all.
“I like it, Mom. I’ll take this cup-thing,” Otter said, the grin wide on his face. “Okay? Of course I know not to show it to anyone, ’cept Dad. I won’t even show it to Lacy. None of this stuff … well … someone’s probably looking for it, right?”
The majority of the items on the tables were stolen from the basements of museums and collections from estates, certainly none gained through any proper channels, else they would not be here, Bridget knew.
“Someone could be looking, yes,” Bridget agreed. “But they’ll forget about it after a while.” If they even remembered owning the pieces in the first place. She knew that some of those estates and museums had so much inventory, they might never notice what was missing.
“Years,” Otter supplied. “A lot of years, I’d bet, they’d be looking. Well, they won’t think to look in Dad’s condo. Thanks for the cup, Mom.”
Bridget walked to the next table.
There were more belongings of the Russian family: a chalice, two swords, a bejeweled glove with the leather rotted, a mug with crudely cut emerald inlays, a gold anklet that once belonging to Rurik’s raven-haired mistress, a wood horse the size of a pumpkin; Bridget felt the hands of Rurik’s young son carving it.
All interesting and all able to be sold above and below the counter in her Fort Greene antiques shop, but nothing truly outstanding. Perhaps the goods on one of the other tables could yield more.
“See anything here you’d like for your birthday, Otter?”
“Anything? I can have anything?”
“Of course.” Bridget hoped the boy would not realize the value of some of the oldest pieces and would make a selection based solely on appearance. Still, tonight she was prepared to give away whatever caught her son’s fancy.
“What about this?” Otter was several feet away, looking at a table filled with ornamental swords and daggers. Bridget sensed that they had once belonged to French nobles. She would have to get closer to pinpoint which weapon had been carried by which man. The boy held up a thin-bladed sword with rubies and citrines set into the hilt. “This is awesome.”
Bridget joined him and concentrated on the piece. “Curious.” The fingers of her left hand grazed the hilt and for an instant the air smelled of an overly sweet perfume. This was the one piece in the collection not owned by a French nobleman.
“This was actually a woman’s, Otter.” After a moment’s focus she gained a name. “Diane de Poitiers, mistress to King Henri II.” Bridget placed its value, for its history and gems, at $89,800. She hoped her son would select something else, as she knew a sword collector in Manhattan who would buy it.
“A woman’s sword, huh?” Otter laid it down, apparently no longer interested. “Hey, look at this over here! This is kinda cool.” He hefted a silver chalice. A mix of dark and faint blue stones were set in a fleur-de-lis pattern. “French, I take it. King Henri’s? Or one of his mistresses?”
“Eventually Henri’s.” Bridget concentrated and sorted through the images that came at her. “Henri’s grandfather owned that first, then his brother, then eventually Henri.”
“I could set this on my desk at home. Too pretty to drink out of. But I could put pens and pencils in it.”
Bridget smiled. The faint colored stones were blue-white diamonds, their size and clarity making the piece exceptional. It was, perhaps, the single most valuable piece on this table, perhaps of everything in the warehouse: $151,000 would have been her asking price. Maybe Otter had inherited some of Bridget’s skills after all.
“I like it, Mom. I’ll take this cup-thing,” Otter said, the grin wide on his face. “Okay? Of course I know not to show it to anyone, ’cept Dad. I won’t even show it to Lacy. None of this stuff … well … someone’s probably looking for it, right?”
The majority of the items on the tables were stolen from the basements of museums and collections from estates, certainly none gained through any proper channels, else they would not be here, Bridget knew.
“Someone could be looking, yes,” Bridget agreed. “But they’ll forget about it after a while.” If they even remembered owning the pieces in the first place. She knew that some of those estates and museums had so much inventory, they might never notice what was missing.
“Years,” Otter supplied. “A lot of years, I’d bet, they’d be looking. Well, they won’t think to look in Dad’s condo. Thanks for the cup, Mom.”
Bridget walked to the next table.
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