A sad smile creased her face. Between this reaction and how she’d talked about the woman yesterday at her café, it was clear her grandmother had been someone special to her.
“I used to play dress-up with her when I was little, so they gave it all to me, in case I wanted to keep anything.” She handed me the bag. “That was inside, under a pile of fake gold and foiled glass.”
It was heavier than I’d expected. I untied the bag and upended it, letting a blue-enameled egg slide onto my palm. A bit larger than a plum, it had an obvious seam around its middle that glinted gold, with a tiny clear stone next to it. A familiar tingle of recognition traveled up my spine. I’d seen objects like this before, during my time with Task Force Legacy. Artifacts with histories. Artifacts worth killing for.
Grace raised to her knees and pointed at the stone. “Press there.”
When I did, the eggshell popped open, revealing it was hollow and lined in gold. Inside sat a perfectly round golden ball, like a yolk.
“Now take that out.” She pointed to an indentation in the seam around the yolk. “Press in there and it’ll pop open, too.”
I did as she said, and the yolk opened with a soft click. The glitter it revealed made me suck in a breath through my teeth. “Holy fuck.”
Inside the yolk, a golden hen sat in a nest of gold, with easily a hundred tiny clear stones beneath. It grasped a blue stone in its beak, and dozens more of the clear stones decorated its body. The execution was impeccable—the kind of detail built by masters of another era.
“That’s pretty much what I said when I saw it the first time.” Grace shook her head slowly. “It’s like a Russian nesting doll. I think the hen opens, but I couldn’t figure out how.”
I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, which caught on the tiny stones, their rough facets winking with the fire unique to diamonds. Between them, the seam across thehen’s breast was evident, but if she couldn’t open it, I wouldn’t force it.
Working with the archaeological teams had taught me precision and care. I’d handled artifacts thousands of years older than this, including jewels, crumbling tablets, and ancient coins. This was different. It wasn’t ancient, but it was immensely valuable.
I angled the light, studying the way it hit the metal. “It’s obviously real gold, but?—”
“How can you tell?”
“Gold doesn’t tarnish, but over time, it develops a particular patina. There are also certain imperfections, like—” I caught myself before my lecture continued. “I’ve worked with archaeologists who specialized in ancient gold artifacts.”
“Tristan told me a few things about his work protecting dig sites in Afghanistan. Did you serve with him there? Or were you in the Navy or SEALs with him?”
“I met him in Afghanistan, after we’d both left the Teams,” I said, twisting the hen in the light, focused on the blue stone in its beak. “I can see through this stone, so there’s no foil lining it. The cut is rougher than modern work, but it’s got enough inclusions to rule out glass. Hand-cut, but not with modern techniques.”
“I took it to a jeweler, who said the same thing.”
I turned off my flashlight. “If you already talked to a jeweler, why do you need to take it to London?”
“I have an appointment with an authenticator who handles Russian antiquities. Izzy and Tristan introduced me to a local woman who put me in touch with the guy. The woman said it might be...” She waved her hands, as though searching for the right words, or maybe thinking the right words were wrong. After a minute of fluster, she picked up the blue eggshell andsnapped it shut. “She said it might be one of the lost Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs.”
My gaze climbed to meet hers.Double fuck. A Fabergé egg? Those eggs had originally been crafted for the Russian Imperial family, and many of them had vanished after the Revolution. Objects like that didn’t reappear without consequences. If it was genuine, it was worth a shitton of money, a lot of prestige, and too many people had killed for a lot less.
And it explained why the men who showed up at her café yesterday did so, if they somehow knew about it. An image flashed through my mind: Grace alone with this egg in London, walking into a meeting with people who might do anything to get their hands on it.
“The Russian at the café was asking about your grandmother?”
She nodded and sat, pulling her knees up. She pretended none of it bothered her, but it clearly did.
“And the other man said what?” I set the hen on the table. “That he wanted this?”
“He was specific. He said his employer wanted the egg.”
“That wasn’t a coincidence.”
“I know.” Her voice was small, uncertain, and the flush that had colored her cheeks when she pulled the box from her closet was nowhere to be seen. “But what does it mean?”
“Tristan knows about it, right?” I stood as I pulled my phone from my pocket.
“Not entirely. I told them I’d found an antique I thought might be valuable and left it at that. I’m not sure it’s really Fabergé, and I… I felt ridiculous saying it.” From her spot on the floor, she stared up at me, those green eyes wide with worry and doubt.
For a moment, I was back in my childhood bedroom, watching my mother try to hide her fear as she packed my thingsand told me everything would be fine. I’d been too young to understand at the time. Too young to protect her.
