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“Sleep well, my darling.”
Hanging up the phone, I nestle into the covers. The alcohol in my system acts as a sedative. My racing thoughts steady before sleep takes me finally.
27
Sitting in my car in the parking lot of the firm, I take in my ever-dwindling mug of coffee. I woke up without a hangover, so that’s a blessing. Steeling my nerves and mentally preparing myself to plaster a faux smile on my face, I can’t help but look at Ethan’s good morning text. Punctuated with a kissy face emoji. I smile at the thought of him thinking of me first thing in the day.
When I step up to the receptionist’s desk, they escort me back to the chemist’s office. The door opens just as I’m making myself comfortable in the chair opposite the desk. Rising to my feet, I turn to greet Dr. Harrington. A woman of impeccable taste, and one of my favorite people in this city. Especially because she’s familiar with my background in antiquities authentication and allows me to skate back into the lab on occasion.
My hopes fall when a tall, willowy man meets my eyes. Judging by his lab coat, I’d say he’s a new scientist in the firm. I’ve been here multiple times over the last few years, and I can’t recall ever seeing this man. I usually like to do research into the chemist I’m working with. It just brings me ease to know that I’m working with a professional and not someone who was previously a taxidermist and doesn’t understand the practicality of clean tools. Burn me once, never again.
The man extends his arm in greeting. “Dr. Howard. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of working together.”
Taking his hand, I give it a firm shake and turn to lower down in the chair. “I was just thinking the same thing. Nice to meet you.”
“I’ve been told by Dr. Harrington that you don’t really prefer new people and that you have a bit of professional curtesy extended to you.”
I smile and nod feigning politeness.
“I’m sorry Dr. Harrington isn’t here today. She’s out on maternity leave. Why don’t we just get down to brass tacks.”
He sits in the seat across the table from me and opens a drawer to pull out the report. I take it when he extends it to me and begin thumbing through the findings.
The results are exactly what I expected. Two of the vases are indeed fake, one is genuine. It’s not the first time I’ve seen something like this, but the detailing for replicas is probably the best I’ve ever seen. Reading further, I notice comments on the analysis of the maker’s mark. However, I distinctly remember there being no maker’s marks of any kind.
“It says in the report there are markings? I don’t remember seeing markings during the initial analysis.”
He nods and leans back, bouncing in his chair. The incessant sound of the spring in the chair grates on my nerves and disrupts my thoughts. I fucking hate working with new people.
“They wouldn’t have been visible to you during your assessment. They’re located on the interior side of the right wall.”
Knitting my brows together, I rack my brain trying to remember if I examined the interior correctly. I hate missing things; it rubs me wrong that I might’ve missed something critical.
“I can show you if you’d like?”
Our quick walk down the hallway is spent in thankful silence.
Pushing open the swinging doors, we step into the lab. My eye catches one of the vases already set up at the machine, ready for me to inspect. I turn to Dr. Howard, and he pulls a stool over to the microscope.
“Dr. Harrington stated unequivocally, and forcefully, I might add, that you would insist on seeing the markings for yourself. I took the liberty of preparing the vase for you. Saves time this way.” He leans forward and begins adjusting the dials.
“Thank you, I appreciate the accommodation.”
Once the monitor is set up, he lowers the borescope into the vase. The image blurs on the monitor as he continues turning the direction of the sight and adjusting the dials. A series of fine lines indented into the vase appear across the screen. Not a signature I’ve seen before.
Maybe rudimentary serial system? I’m not sure. Opening the folder, I see the lab was unable to find a similar mark in their system. The closest seems to match something in Eastern Europe, but no direct match.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen these marks before.” I jot some notes of my own.
“Yes, I haven’t seen any marking like this before either. At least not in the US. I saw a few in Europe. I made a note of that in the report.” He continues to manipulate the borescope. “What I paid special attention to was this.” He stops the borescope on an angle. “See how the markings are uniform, except right here?” He says tapping the screen. “The stamp dug into the clay slightly deeper and at an angle.” He uses his finger to point out that part of the mark, where grooves rise, creating a higher ridge along the edge.
“It looks like a manual stamp.”
“My thoughts too. Perhaps they used a hooked stamp to make the mark on the inside.” He leans back in his chair away from the table and begins to remove the borescope.
“A hook stamp…definitely not from this era. But given the findings, the vase would’ve been made in the last century or so, correct?”
“Yes. That’s why I said old Eastern Bloc. Without reliable electricity, they came up with various ways of manually marking trade goods.” He starts to put the equipment away.
