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Chapter One

I repair precious, broken things. Never had I imagined a precious, damaged thing would make me feel whole.

Five conservation labs with glass viewing walls lined the third-floor mezzanine of the Lunder Conservation Center of the Smithsonian. Visitors could walk the the corridor as they might wander past aquariums. I was one of the fish. As a conservator specializing in paintings and objects, I rotated among the Painting and Object Labs depending on my assignment. Today, I was in the Objects Lab, at one of the large workbenches, starting work on a Byzantine reliquary from the 12th century.

Despite working in a fishbowl, I loved my job. Bright overhead lighting bounced off the pale wood cabinets, white floor, and white walls to create enough light to make my artist soul smile. The vents kept the air fresh, and we kept the floor-to-ceiling cabinets stocked with supplies. It was a calming sanctuary of conservation—my happy place,

As I brushed away the debris of centuries from the reliquary, a blur of frantic movement caught my eye outside the glass wall. A woman in a camel trench coat sprinted down the corridor, one hand clamped over her mouth as her muffled sobs came through the glass.

I was still staring after her when the lab door against the back wall banged open.

Sabrina, our newest hire, stumbled inside, cheeks flushed, clutching her phone against her ear. Mascara made black streaks down her face. “…no, I don’t need space, Derek! After six years, you should have proposed! If you don't want to get married, you need to leave.” She paused, and then her voice broke on a ragged gasp. “Pack your bags. I want you gone by the time I get home. We’re done.” She ended the call, dropping the phone onto her workbench with a loud clatter. Her shoulders hitched as she dissolved into tears.

Stepping around my worktable, I went to her and wrapped an arm around her trembling frame. “Breathe, Brina. Here, sit down.” I guided her to her stool near the solvent sink and pulled a handful of lint-free wipes from the dispenser.

“I just couldn't take it anymore,” Sabrina choked out, dabbing at her smeared makeup. “How long am I supposed to wait? I don't want to waste time on a man who's never going to marry me.”

“If you want different things, I think ending it is for the best. But that's hard to do, especially after a long relationship. I'm impressed.” I rubbed her back.

I understood her frustration. DC had worn down my romantic heart. Dates here felt like corporate negotiations ending in bedrooms. I loved physical passion, but casual encounters left me hollow. I needed to trust someone before I got intimate with them. And even after you find someone you think you can trust, they could string you along like Derek had Sabrina.

My parents had been in love and devoted to each other for over forty years. They called it a blessed union. With them as my example, the standard had been set, and I refused to settle for anything less. The thought of living with someone who I didn't love with every ounce of my being made me cringe. I'd be cursing myself to a life of what-ifs, always wondering if I could have found someone better suited to me. I'd rather be alone. I applauded Sabrina for accepting the truth of her relationship and refusing to settle for it.

“Go grab a coffee and something with a lot of carbs.” I squeezed her hand. “Walk around in the sun for a bit. You know you've done the right thing. Let it sink in.”

Sabrina sniffled. “Thanks, Destiny.”

Once the latch clicked shut behind her, stillness reclaimed the studio, and I returned to the reliquary with a sigh. About the size of a book, it had a silver base—an uncommon luxury for a piece this size. Hammered gold foil coated the silver, creating the foundation for astonishingly intricate cloisonné work. The technique involves creating the outline of a image with thin gold wire, filling the recesses with glass paste, and then hardening the glass. To make details like facial features or a pattern in a robe is incredibly difficult due to the small scale. In short, the piece was extraordinary.

But what made it even rarer was its design. Most Byzantine reliquaries focused on religious themes, with saints or angels. This reliquary, however, depicted scenes of men and women reaching for each other, their tiny faces masterfully rendered to show grief. No winged angels watched over them. No holy martyrs stood in beside them. If it hadn't originally been found in a monastery, it may not have been labeled as a reliquary.

At the center of the front panel, looming over the main couple, was the reason I'd been assigned this piece. The figure was much larger than the others, suggesting he was the saint whose relic was kept in the reliquary. Long ago, his face had been damaged and repaired poorly. Now, the repair was falling out.

After wrapping some extra-fine cotton onto a bamboo skewer, I dipped it into some reagent-grade isopropyl alcohol. Dabbing my swab on a sponge first, I began cleaning the front panel in tiny circular strokes. Millimeter by millimeter, centuries of dirt and oil lifted from the gold and glass.

As I lifted my brush, my chest constricted.

Grief flooded my lungs, forcing a wounded cry from me. The pain wasn't my own. Someone nearby was in emotional turmoil. It had to be Sabrina. This was what happened when I let myself get involved in another person's pain. My father called me sensitive, but Mom said I was an empath. She told me I was born with a gentle heart, and hearts like mine instinctively draw pain from people. I go with the empath title since I don't have a better name for it.

Usually, I had to touch someone before I could feel their pain. There had only been one other time when I'd felt someone's pain without even seeing their face. My Aunt Keiko had called my father with news of Grandma's passing. She'd died in her sleep, no illness or decline to warn us. Dad was in the living room, full of grief over losing his mother and regret for not having a chance to say goodbye. In true Japanese fashion, he'd held it in, quietly absorbing his pain. I'd been in my bedroom with the door closed, but I'd felt his pain like a storm in my chest and ran out to hug him. It surprised him enough to break his control, and he'd held me as he wept. It was the only time I'd seen him cry.

I set the swab down and gripped the edge of my worktable, and went through the procedure I'd learned to guard myself—I held a vision of a shimmering dome around me, imagining emotions as arrows, hitting the dome and disintegrating. After ten long seconds, the ache receded to nothing. How strange for it to happen with Sabrina. I'd assumed the powerful love between a father and daughter had formed a connection between us that day, but Sabrina and I weren't that close. Maybe touching her pain earlier had been enough to establish a temporary connection.

Lifting my magnifier, I resumed clearing the grime from the central panel. A few minutes later, I revealed a miniature figure, kneeling in the background behind the central figure with its broken face. No taller than a fingernail, the man wore a simple monk's robe, hands clasped tightly before his chest as if in prayer. Unlike traditional holy figures, he possessed no halo, and his face held an expression of profound sorrow, not conviction. Using the lab's camera, I documented the discovery, capturing macro frames of the sad monk.

When I looked up from the camera viewfinder, I saw a man standing in the corridor beyond the glass. He stood about four feet away from me, hands loosely clasped behind his back. Golden hair fell over the collar of his tailored, charcoal wool coat and framed features with the symmetrical grace of classical marble statuary. Some people just seem larger than they are. Call it what you want—charisma, gravitas, or an awesome aura—but this guy had it.

Yet he raised the fine hairs on the back of my neck.

He stood like a deer caught in headlights, but also like a lion in the grass, watching prey. His eyes were wide, his gaze fixed on the reliquary, and yet his chest rose and fell slowly. At his sides, his hands were clenched into fists, but they trembled. Despite all of this, his posture was perfect, as if he'd been trained to keep his back rigid no matter what he felt.

My grandmother’s voice surfaced in my thoughts: There are men in this world who are not entirely men, Destiny-kochan. As a girl, I had adored her tales of spirits and shape-shifters in the countryside of Japan. I had dreamed of magical beings with many tails, bowls set into their heads, or long red noses, but I had never believed in them. Looking at this stranger through the glass, her warning lost its whimsy.

He was not examining the reliquary with the passing interest of an afternoon museum visitor. He stared at it with recognition, his lips tense in either disapproval or hatred.

My pulse kicked against my ribs. Cold crawled down my spine. My body screamed at me to stay away. Danger. Run. Hide, But instead, I stood up and took a step toward the glass.

The motion caught his attention. Clear aquamarine eyes flicked up and locked on mine, freezing me mid-stride. The look lasted two seconds, but within those seconds, his lips went slack and his gaze softened. Turning on his heel, he strode away. I wanted to go after him, but I knew by the time I went down the back corridor and out the employee door, he'd be long gone. So, I deflated onto my seat, feeling as if I'd just lost the chance of a lifetime.