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From the outside, the jeweller’s shop looks perfectly ordinary. A tasteful display of jewellery graces the window and a gilded wooden sign hangs over the street, bearing the legend: ‘Master Goldsmith, jewellery bought and sold’.
The goldsmith’s apprentice, a sandy-haired youth with an abundant crop of pimples, is waiting outside when Divarra arrives, because customers cannot simply walk into this establishment on a whim. Appointments have to be made, approval given. And that approval, Divarra senses, is not always a foregone conclusion.
The lad opens the door for her, letting out a rush of warm, but decidedly fragrant air. Petrichor. The scent as unmistakable as it is incongruous in the winter city. Divarra pauses, momentarily taken aback, until the goldsmith’s apprentice squeezes in behind her and closes the door, shutting out the watery sun. Divarra steps forward, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
The shop occupies a single room. Dark wood panelling covers lower part of the walls, carved in a pattern of twisting branches and leaves. Above it, the plaster is painted a soft mossy green. The effect is soothing, like being in a forest glade.
There is little to distract the eye. No display cases adorn the walls, and the dark wood counter is completely clear.
Behind the counter, to her left, is a workbench containing stacks of ingots and a pile of raw gemstones. Tools are arranged on a narrow shelf above it, or hanging from the row of hooks below.
To the rear of the shop, a wide cabinet stretches the entire width of the back wall, reaching almost to the ceiling and containing a multitude of tiny drawers.
The goldsmith is seated behind the counter; a thin man of middling years. He gives the impression of being diminutive, until he stands up to greet her. His brown hair is without a trace of grey, but there are deep laugh lines etched into his olive skin. His dress is modest: a white linen shirt, dark moleskin breeches and a simple tunic that has the subtle sheen of a raven’s wing. There is something almost fey about him, though Divarra cannot exactly pinpoint what: the shape of his ears perhaps, the unnatural brightness of his eyes, or the subtle glints of red gold in his hair.
Divarra places Lady Ancunín’s jewellery box on the counter and unlocks it with a tiny gold key. She lifts the lid. The goldsmith looks inside, nodding to himself as he unfolds a length of black velvet.
Behind her, the apprentice coughs and clears his throat.
The sound is met with a sharp admonishment, ‘Something wrong, Bartholemew?’
The boy looks at his master in mild surprise. ‘No, Saer.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ The goldsmith looks past her, fixing his apprentice with a bright blue eye. ‘A little less distraction, if you please.’
His tone is pleasant, but there’s a harshness to his voice, a grating quality, reminiscent of stones tumbled in water.
The apprentice is still standing by the door. A stray beam of sunlight sneaks around the blind to stroke his cheek, illuminating his pimples and turning them an almost luminous red. The boy, as oblivious to its cruelty as he was to his master’s displeasure, closes his eyes and leans deeper into its warm caress.
The goldsmith lights the lamps above the counter and starts laying out the jewellery. He takes his time, arranging everything with meticulous care. When he is finished, she catches her breath. Against the velvet, these pieces seem even more beautiful. But today, their pulchritude means nothing.
The goldsmith affixes a magnifier over one eye and examines each piece in turn, the stones coruscating under the lights and sending tiny motes of brightness dancing around the shop. His eye swims behind the glass, focusing on each item with predatory intent.
Watching him carry out his assessment, Divarra feels an ache – a sense of loss that isn’t hers to feel. This jewellery belonged to Astarion’s mother, but to Astarion it means no more than any set of petty trinkets pilfered from a noble’s pocket.
That feels wrong.
If Divarra had anything belonging to her own mother, she knows she would treasure it always, regardless of who her mother turned out to be, regardless of whether she had wanted to abandon her child.
Astarion’s right. She berates herself. You’re too sentimental...
That’s why you get hurt...
The feeling of wrongness persists – an emptiness behind her ribs.
Although Astarion doesn’t admit it, Divarra is sure losing almost all memory of his family has left a wound.
She never knew her own family, and she carries that absence like an ache, a constant reminder of something lacking.
Astarion had a family once, now he too, has nothing.
‘Interesting choice of stone.’
The goldsmith’s words bring Divarra out of her reverie. He holds up a brooch, a large aquamarine surrounded by tiny diamonds. ‘Unusual to see a semi-precious stone in such an expensive setting.’ He holds the piece out to her, ‘Designed for a gentleman, if I’m not mistaken. The ring, too.’
Divarra had given neither the ring nor the brooch much attention when Elsarae first showed the jewellery to her. Aquamarine is commonplace; sailors often carry amulets made from the stone as protection from Umberlee’s wrath. Though Divarra doubts the goddess would be placated so easily.
‘Are the stones real?’ These particular ones are slightly greener than usual, the diamonds surrounding them a little duller, which causes her to think they might be fake.
‘Oh yes, they’re genuine.’ The smith looks at her, his head slightly to one side, his blue eyes sharp.
Divarra takes the brooch from him, and the stone’s hue shifts, from green to turquoise and back again, like sea washing over sand.
Her mind goes back to the portraits in Astarion’s mother’s locket, to the man they think might be Astarion’s father. She is certain this jewellery was bought for him.
She turns the brooch in the light, watching the colours change. A memory pricks her. Astarion asking what colour his eyes were before he was turned. Elsarae saying they were greenish blue.
Divarra bites her lip. They need the money. Astarion told her to sell everything, and yet...
‘I can’t give you much for them,’ The goldsmith continues, ‘even though these stones are are a good size and nicely cut. Looks like a betrothal set, though they’re out of fashion these days. I can’t remember when I was last asked to make one.’ A gnarled finger reaches out and points to the diamonds. ‘And these aren’t cut the way we do today. Even if I broke it up, I couldn’t use them. The best I can do, is twenty five gold apiece, and that’s doing you a favour.’
Hardly worth selling them for that...
A treacherous little voice whispers temptation at the back of her mind.
Astarion needn’t know they’re worth anything at all. You could tell him the goldsmith wouldn’t take them...
The truth. She will tell him the truth.
A shiver runs down her spine.
She promised to sell everything...
He’ll be angry...
‘We’ll put them to one side,’ the goldsmith suggests. ‘I don’t think you...’
‘No need,’ she says quickly.
He puts them aside anyway. Divarra frowns. It’s almost as though he is reading her thoughts.
The rest of the appraisal goes better than she could have hoped. Whoever bought Lady Ancunín’s jewellery had a good eye. Most of the pieces are of elven make, timeless in their elegance. The gold is pure and skilfully wrought, the stones all of the highest quality. Lady Ancunín clearly had a penchant for emeralds, which, Divarra is surprised to learn, are worth more than the diamonds.
The goldsmith puts the last piece down and leans back in his chair.
‘Nary a flaw between them,’ he says. ‘It’s a fine collection. I’ll give you two thousand gold.’
‘That doesn’t include the aquamarines?’
He shakes his head, an amused twinkle in his eyes. ‘No, we already agreed a price for those, remember?’ He winks. ‘On condition you don’t tell anyone I let a pretty face talk me into such an atrocious deal.’
Fifty gold. Compared to the rest, it’s nothing.
‘I don’t think I’ll sell them...’
He gives her a knowing smile. ‘Aye, I thought that’s what you’d say.’
Divarra points to another brooch, a large square sapphire, surrounded by diamonds. It’s not as flashy as some of the other pieces, but she remembers it caught Astarion’s eye. The stone is dark, almost black, but a clear blue flame burns at its heart.
‘I’d keep this one,’ Astarion had said, putting it with the others to sell. ‘If my debts weren’t so great, or if it turns out to be glass.’
Divarra has had enough experience with self-denial to recognise the impulse; the bittersweet ache that comes from refusing what the heart desires, the regret that lingers afterwards, even when there was no choice.
He wanted this. If it’s not worth very much...
She raises her eyes to meet the smith’s. But she knows the answer before she asks.
‘This one’s valuable, isn’t it?’
His face crinkles. He picks it up and holds it to the light, making the blue flame at the heart of the stone leap and dance.
‘Oh yes. I haven’t seen a stone like this in years.’
Divarra forces a smile. She always had a habit of picking out the most expensive thing in the shop.
‘Tell you what lass. Leave me two hundred as surety and I’ll set it by for a month.’
Two hundred. It’s too much. Divarra shakes her head.
It doesn’t matter. It’s just a bunch of pretty stones held together by some metal. It’s nothing.
She should let it go. Astarion has made his decision, and he’s right, they can’t afford to be sentimental.
The goldsmith sweeps the jewellery into a bag, then folds the velvet cloth and puts it away beneath the counter. He rests his hand on the bag.
‘Two thousand. Are we agreed?’ he asks.
Divarra had been warned not to haggle. Though, in this case, she does not feel inclined to; the price seems fair. She nods.
He starts to count out the coins, stopping when he reaches one thousand eight hundred in gold. The aquamarine ring and brooch are carefully wrapped in dark green satin and put back into Lady Ancunín’s jewellery box. He places it besides the coins and holds out his hand.
The sapphire brooch nestles in his palm. Strange, Divarra had not seen him remove it from the pouch.
‘One month lass. Come and see me anytime before. But if things don’t work out and you still need your money, come back in forty days and I’ll give you the gold.’ He smiles. ‘But you won’t be doing that. I’d lay a wager on it.’
Divarra shakes her head again. ‘I don’t think my fortunes are likely to change, Saer.’
The smith puts his head on one side and looks at her.
‘Well, one of us is right. It’s just a question of waiting to see who.’ He gives a dry chuckle as he turns away, depositing the brooch in one of the tiny drawers. ‘But I know who my money’s on. I’ll give you a hint. It’s not you.’
He holds out his hand and Divarra takes it. His grip is firm, his palm dry and hard against hers.
‘I’ll see you when your fortunes change. I don’t think it’ll be long. You’re about to make your own luck, I reckon.’ He releases her hand and looks her over, his head on one side. ‘Gold’s not your colour, is it? But I work in silver and mithril too.’ He nods. ‘Moonstones. Aye – those are the stones for you. Come back and I’ll make you something so beautiful Selûne herself will weep.’
Divarra divides the money between two leather bags, tucking the heavier one into her pack. She puts the jewellery box on top, secures the straps, and hoists it onto her back, letting her breath out in a huff as she takes the weight. At times like these, she really misses Karlach.
The goldsmith takes out another pack and puts the second coin bag into that.
‘I didn’t catch your name, Saer.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ His eyes twinkle with amusement. ‘But you know where I am. The door’s always open.’ He looks over to his apprentice. ‘Bartholemew!’
The lad has been dozing against the door. At the sound of his name, he jumps to attention.
‘Whaa..?’
The smith shakes his head. ‘He’s handier than he looks,’ he says. He raises an eyebrow, adding dryly, ‘Which he’d need to be.’
The apprentice blushes beet red.
The smith holds the second pack out to him. ‘See the lady home, or to the counting house, whichever she prefers.’
Divarra leaves the shop, Bartholemew following on her heels. He nearly bumps into her when she stops suddenly and turns around as they reach the end of the street, , overtaken by the impulse to check that the shop is still there. The wooden sign swings gently in the breeze. Reassured, she continues walking towards the lower city gate.
She was supposed to sell everything. She promised she would. But here she is, coming home with two pieces unsold and short of two hundred gold.
You just can’t stop yourself, can you? Someone makes a decision, but you always think you know best.
Divarra is not sure Astarion will approve, and even less sure that he’ll understand. He has already said he has no intention of finding his family. Perhaps he’ll find some comfort in having a link to them though, tenuous as it is. She would, if their positions were reversed, but Astarion is not her.
She wants to do the right thing, but she is aware that all she is offering him is what she’d want...
It would be easier to justify keeping the aquamarines if she had definite proof they had been bought for his father, but she has no way of confirming her suspicions. Only Lady Ancunín could tell her who these pieces were intended for. Only she knew the colour of his eyes.