Page 87 of Guardian
In the corner stood a clock whose insistent ticks felt like a mocking reminder. What I would’ve done to silence it, but of course that was impossible. And as I settled to work, the sound vanished.
I began on the first of the jewels. It was delicate work, for the prongs were thicker than the ones I’d practiced on, sturdy talons around the gems, one at each of the four corners. But they bent like any other, and by undoing three of the four prongs, I could ease the gem out and replace it with the fake. I’d brought over twenty stones, and I found matches to slip in without difficulty. The third stone, however, had some sort of adhesive holding it in. Shoddy work by a jeweler. I bent the prongs back into place and moved on to the next stone.
The hours of practice told, for my hands managed the tools almost without my conscious direction.
“Kit.” Art’s whisper, barely more than a breath, came as I finished the fourth substitution.
I looked up. He had one finger raised. Pointing upward.
I held my breath to listen, and I heard it. Footsteps. Heavy ones, crossing the floor upstairs.
My heart skipped.
I prayed it was just someone using the privy.
“That’s the last, innit?” he asked.
“Almost done,” I whispered back.
Four wasn’t enough. Imustget the fifth stone. Sarah and I needed it to start a life somewhere else. I wasn’t leaving without it. My hands were my faithful partners, and the fifth stone slipped in even quicker than the first four.
The footsteps above continued. Then came a cough, phlegmy.
“Done,” I whispered.
It felt like hours, but the clock told me thirty-seven minutes.
I allowed myself to sit back and draw a breath, letting it out in a ragged exhale, before I picked up the necklace and placed it on the velvet.
One of the three pins was missing.
My heart skipped again.
The footsteps were more distant—were they heading toward the stairs?
We’d been almost perfectly silent. He couldn’t have heard anything. Or would some instinct bring him down here?
I turned to Art, panic growing inside my chest. “I’m missing a pin,” I whispered shakily. The necklace wouldn’t remain in place without all three. The moment it was picked up, it would slide noisily around the box.
Together we scoured the top of the desk and the rug below. The hinges of the box, the edges, the velvet folds. Growing frantic, I began to consider looking around the workshop for another pin when Art whispered, “Your sleeve.”
I bent my elbow to look. There it was.
I sucked in my breath and released it, plucked the pin, and fastened all three in place, matching them to the previously made holes in the velvet. I closed the box, replaced the seal, and handed the box to Art.
He placed it on the proper shelf, closed the safe door, spun the knob twice, then carefully set it. “I’ was on three,” he murmured.
I hadn’t thought to check it when we arrived, for I hadn’t considered that might be a sign of an intrusion, like a thread with bells.
One last painstaking survey of the room: chair returned to its position, drawer ajar, nothing left on the table, no footprints. I handed my tools to Art, and he put them in his sack. He took up his coat and we slipped out the door as silently as we’d come, replacing our boots outside the secret entrance.
My hands were shaking, and I let them, for a moment.
As we reached the trapdoor, Art opened it and went down first. Before I climbed down, I placed my hands on my pocket, feeling the small drawstring pouch with the stones.
Three diamonds for Maggie.
One to plant.
