Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira. Eileen Wilks

The flame died.

      ‘‘I needed pancetta for the carbonara sauce, and some olives. Pietra offered to go. I think she has her eye on the youngest Christofides boy.’’

      ‘‘Pietra has her eye on both Christofides boys, along with any other male who crosses her path. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Nothing serious, at least.’’

      ‘‘I’m not sure the young men realize that. She said Natala Baldovino had already made the rounds.’’

      Rose studied the way silver swirled over gold in a stylized, intricate yin-yang design on the arm cuff and nodded, satisfied. ‘‘I suppose Signora Baldovino is allowed to buy olives.’’

      ‘‘If that had been her purpose, I’d have no objections,’’ her aunt observed in a fair-minded way. ‘‘But you know it isn’t. You know what she’s saying.’’

      Rose had a pretty good idea. She also cherished some hope of finishing the cuff—and avoiding the lecture Gemma had been trying to deliver ever since the police released her yesterday. She loosened the vise, turned the cuff and tightened it again. ‘‘I’m thinking of using mother-of-pearl here, for the moon.’’

      ‘‘Very pretty, dear. It reminds me of that new ring.’’

      ‘‘What new ring?’’

      ‘‘Didn’t I tell you? A rather flashy young woman brought it in yesterday morning. An American.’’

      ‘‘You bought a ring for the shop.’’ Rose inhaled a slow breath for patience as anxiety bit. The shop did well normally, but this summer hadn’t been normal. The possibility of war with Tamir had discouraged tourists, sales were half what they’d been last year at this time, and her bank balance hadn’t been this low since she’d first opened the shop.

      Now it might be in the red. ‘‘You didn’t check with me. You know you have to check with me before you buy anything.’’

      ‘‘How could I? You were in jail.’’

      Defeated, Rose swiveled on her stool.

      Her aunt stood in front of the desk Rose used when she couldn’t avoid paperwork any longer. Gemma Giaberti was a small woman, plump and firm as a pear, with black hair coiled high on her round head. She had cow’s eyes—big, brown and placid, with extravagant eyelashes. Her skirt was long and full, the color of moss. Her blouse was white and embroidered. Today she wore only two necklaces, a baroque locket of about the same age as her house, and an intricately worked chain her niece had made for her two years ago.

      ‘‘I wasn’t in jail,’’ Rose said, studying those placid eyes with suspicion. ‘‘I spent hours at the police station because Mylonas is an idiot, but they didn’t put me behind bars. How could they? They have no evidence of any wrongdoing.’’

      ‘‘Of course not, but that isn’t stopping Natala Baldovino from passing around her version of events.’’

      ‘‘Maybe the gossip will bring people into the shop.’’ When her aunt just blinked at her in polite skepticism, Rose grimaced. ‘‘I know, I know. They’re more likely to put a rock through the window.’’

      ‘‘Oh, surely not. No one’s done that in years, have they? Except for the Peterson boy, and really, I don’t think he counts. He threw rocks through everyone’s windows until he went into the army.’’ Gemma clucked her tongue. ‘‘Rose, your head is hurting. You forgot to eat lunch again, didn’t you?’’

      ‘‘I had a big breakfast. Do you by any chance remember how much you paid for this ring?’’

      ‘‘I’m sure I wrote it down. I know you like everything to be accounted for…the receipt book?’’ Her forehead, smoother than a woman her age had any right to have, puckered now as she considered the matter. ‘‘Yes, that’s it. I asked her to give me a receipt for the money, and she did. She signed it and—’’ Gemma finished with triumph ‘‘—I had her put her address below her signature.’’

      ‘‘That will help—if it’s her real name and address.’’

      That brought a moment’s silence. ‘‘I suppose I should have asked to see identification. A passport or something.’’

      ‘‘It might have been a good idea.’’ Rose stood and stretched, unkinking stiff muscles. How long had she been bent over her newest design? A glance at the clock informed her that Gemma was right. She had forgotten lunch. ‘‘Just think how happy it would make Captain Mylonas if we bought stolen goods and he found out.’’

      ‘‘Bah. He’s a worm.’’

      ‘‘A worm with a badge.’’ Gemma had been right about something else, too. She had a headache. Nothing vicious, more like a tired child whining for attention. Rose reached up to loosen her hair and rub her temples. ‘‘I’ll need to give the police a description of the ring so they can check their list of stolen property, just in case. Is it in the stockroom?’’

      ‘‘I put it with the receipt book, I think. In the cash drawer.’’

      ‘‘The cash drawer? No, don’t tell me. I’m sure it made perfect sense at the time.’’ She untied her apron as she walked briskly to the door. ‘‘What does the ring look like?’’

      ‘‘Not terribly old, but unusual. A ruby and a pearl set in a thick band. I’m sure you’ll like it. After all, the pattern is the same as the one you’re making now, so that proves it, doesn’t it?’’

      Her apron went on a hook on the back of the door. Her hands went to her hair, finger-combing it quickly. Fruit, she thought. Or maybe some nuts. A little food would cure the ache in her head. She pushed open the door to the shop.

      Her spirits lifted. The shining counters, the shelves and display cases full of the beautiful, the fanciful, the unique—this was hers. Her aunt helped, certainly. So had the bank. But persuading a banker to take a chance on a young, unmarried woman—one who lacked the convenience of a father —had been as much of an accomplishment as finding the stock, teaching herself bookkeeping and building a clientele and a reputation.

      A different reputation, that is. The one she’d been born with had its drawbacks.

      She turned the key in the cash drawer. First the receipt book… The figure she saw entered in Gemma’s rounded handwriting made her mutter something in German. Rose considered German the best language for cursing, partly because of all those clacking consonants. Partly, too, because her aunt didn’t understand it.

      ‘‘Where’s the ring?’’ she demanded. ‘‘Is this it?’’ She held up a small glass box, her eyebrows raised. ‘‘Glass, Zia?’’

      Gemma smiled vaguely. ‘‘It seemed best.’’

      Wonderful. She was going to have to use almost all of her savings to cover a check written because her aunt refused to stop meddling. Rose scowled and snatched off the lid. ‘‘This had better be…’’

      ‘‘Yes,’’ Gemma said softly from Rose’s shoulder. ‘‘I thought it was the same, and it is.’’

      Executed in miniature on the band of the ring was her own yin-yang design—a design that had come to her in a dream. She gave one quick, irritated shake of her head. ‘‘Damn. I’d better see why it showed up, then.’’ She reached for the ring.

      ‘‘Rose, wait until—’’

      Too late. She’d closed her hand around the ring.

      Seconds later her knees went soft. She swayed.

      A plump arm closed around her shoulders, steadying her. The ring left her hand, breaking the connection. Her eyelids lifted. ‘‘My God.’’

      ‘‘Are you all right?’’

      She blinked. Gemma had put the ring back in its glass box, shielded once