Treasure Appraisal: I Can Hear the Carnival of Antiques

“Don’t touch me! That clumsy idiot is about to rub the pattern off my base!”

In the damp, shadowy corner of the pawnshop counter, a blackened pure-silver spoon was shrieking in complaint.

“Creak… my mainspring… that cheap lubricant is going to ruin me…” A Victorian pocket watch deep inside a glass cabinet let out a pained moan.

I pressed hard against my temple, trying to force the voices out of my head.

This was my inborn “gift.”

Or rather, the curse that had tormented me for twenty years.

In this rundown pawnshop in London’s East End, I had to endure the constant chatter of dead things every day. They had no life, but they were more vicious than the cruelest people.

“Look, that’s the son of the master thief.” A filthy pearl necklace whispered mockingly, its voice echoing in my mind. “Twenty years ago, his father was the most brilliant goldsmith in the Royal Jewelry Guild. Shame he stole the guild’s supreme treasure—the Golden Seal Ring—and ended up ruined and dying in disgrace.”

That bitter little comment dragged me straight back to that freezing rainy night. My father’s bloodshot eyes before death. The endless slurs and humiliation we could never wash away. They came back like poisoned blades and sank into my heart all over again.

The rage crushed inside me made me snatch up the pearl necklace and lock it into the soundproof safe at the very bottom.

I took several hard breaths, put on my cheap, ill-fitting suit, and followed my mentor closely through the door into another world.

The heavy brass doors shut behind me, cutting off the mildew of the East End pawnshop in an instant.

In its place came the rich smell of Cuban cigars mixed with Dom Pérignon champagne.

This was Mayfair.

London’s highest-end Estate Antique Blind Auction.

The enormous crystal chandelier scattered a dizzying cold brilliance over the hall. Among the perfumes, tuxedos, and jewels, every magnate and aristocrat drifting past with a glass in hand seemed to exhale arrogance and money.

Standing among them, I felt like a drop of dirty water spilled on velvet.

“Stop staring around. Hands behind your back.” My mentor lowered his voice, obvious tension in his tone. “Everyone here today controls part of London’s lifeblood. Damage even a piece of carpet and you couldn’t repay it in a lifetime.”

The second he finished, the lively orchestral music at the front of the hall abruptly stilled.

The guests split to both sides like the sea before Moses. Every one of them bowed their head slightly. Their proud faces instantly filled with eager, polished smiles.

That perfectly synchronized humility was reserved for one man.

Following everyone’s gaze, I saw an old man walking forward in a custom tailcoat, a pure silver cane in his hand. His silver hair was combed flawlessly. On his chest gleamed a violet-gold medal of the highest royal honor. Every tap of his cane against the marble floor seemed to strike the hearts of everyone in the room.

Master Sterling.

The absolute titan of the European jewelry world.

A blue-blood old-money aristocrat whose influence reached everywhere.

And the chief appraiser who had personally branded my father a thief.

My breathing stopped.

Inside my sleeves, my fists locked so tightly my nails almost cut my palms.

Twenty years.

The man who had climbed onto the altar by stepping on my father’s corpse still basked in worship from the world.

Sterling swept his gaze across the room with practiced arrogance, enjoying every second of being the center of all attention.

Then his eyes drifted to the edge of the hall—

and stopped.

He saw me.

I didn’t look away.

I stared straight into those cold blue eyes.

For one instant, the air itself seemed to freeze.

Sterling halted. His brow twitched slightly, as if he had noticed some revolting rat.

He pulled a pristine white silk handkerchief from his chest pocket and, slowly—deliberately—covered his nose.

“Has the security system malfunctioned tonight?” Sterling asked in an aristocratic English drawl, his voice not loud, yet clear enough for everyone to hear. “Why else would this kind of garbage, stinking of slums, be allowed into my auction?”

Every eye in the room hit me like a spotlight.

Those eyes were full of disgust, ridicule, and naked contempt.

My mentor started shaking. He bowed repeatedly.

“I’m terribly sorry, Master Sterling… he’s only my apprentice from the lower floor… just here to carry appraisal tools…”

“Apprentice?” Sterling gave a cold little laugh and tapped the tip of his cane half an inch from my shoe. “I know that face. Thieves’ blood breeds true. Twenty years ago, that vile criminal dirtied the Royal Guild’s carpets. And today his son comes to dirty my auction?”

The words landed like a bomb.

A wave of gasps and open laughter spread through the crowd.

“So that’s the thief’s son.”

“What bad luck—being stuck in the same room as blood like that.”

Their venom washed over me in a wave.

I felt the blood hammering upward through my whole body. My muscles trembled from the effort of holding back.

I wanted to rush him.

To seize the front of that perfect tailored suit and force the truth out of his mouth.

But I couldn’t.

All around me were armed security guards.

Before me sat a god who controlled life and death in the entire European jewelry trade.

Against this kind of absolute class wall and power, my fury didn’t even qualify for a direct glance.

“Remember your place, gutter-born.” Sterling tossed the handkerchief he had used over his nose at my feet and looked down at me with a glacial gaze. “Control those filthy thief’s hands of yours. Do not touch anything here. If you do, I’ll make sure you can’t even live as a sewer rat in this country.”

Then, without sparing me another look, he turned and walked toward the central VIP seats in a storm of fawning followers.

I stared at that white handkerchief at my feet so hard my throat filled with the metallic taste of blood.

I forced it down.

I forced down the shame.

The hatred.

I rammed everything to the deepest point I could.