Georgina was a marvel of controlled chaos. Her silver hair was piled into an elaborate beehive, from which a single peacock feather sprouted. She wore a kaftan the color of a bruised plum, and on her left wrist, a jade bangle Klara knew was worth a small flat in Kensington. But Klara’s eyes were fixed on the bag: a tiny, beaded, Art Deco number that looked too delicate to hold a lipstick, let alone the object of her search—the Star of Myrrha, a flawed but historically priceless ruby.
Descending the attic stairs, Klara melted into the party. She accepted a flute of bubbles, laughed at a boring baron’s joke, and let the summer breeze guide her toward the weeping beech. klara devine & georgina gee
Klara laughed—a real, startled laugh. She tucked the pouch into her own pocket, gave a small bow of her head, and turned to walk away. After three steps, she paused. “Mrs. Gee?” Georgina was a marvel of controlled chaos
Klara closed her fingers around the pouch. She could feel the hard, warm weight of the ruby through the velvet. “You could have sold it. Hidden it better. Why give it back?” But Klara’s eyes were fixed on the bag:
The air in the attic was thick with the scent of lavender and old paper. Klara Devine ran a gloved finger along the spine of a leather-bound journal, her breath catching as a fine plume of dust motes swirled in the slanted afternoon light. She wasn't a thief, not in the crude sense of the word. She was a recovery specialist. And the item she needed to recover was currently tucked into the beaded handbag of Georgina Gee.