Her Mother’s necklace…
There had always been a kind of mystique about it. All through her growing up no matter how much she begged or how good a girl she was she had never been allowed to touch it. Now it was hers, one of the few valuable possessions her mother had left to her. In the taxi, all the way home, she rode with the satchel on her lap, she could sense the necklace, almost as a presence burning a hole into her legs. She didn’t dare to touch it yet, least it trigger more thoughts of those past, difficult years. Now at last she was alone in her apartment and could unwrap the velvet bundle and the leather case within. As she sat in her tiny, spartan kitchen, all that she could afford on an intern’s meager income, she reached for bundle, so heavy with memories. She was aware of her hands, slightly trembling…. “Workers hands” her mother had called them. Now they slowly opened the wrap to reveal the precious item inside. As she unfolded the ancient crackling leather that encased the jewels, an old musty smell accompanied the card that slipped out and fell to the floor. She picked up the yellowed paper and turning it over saw something written on it in a faded, old-fashioned hand. It took a bit to make out the spidery markings, but she tilted it towards the light streaming through the high tenement window and was able to just make out the words,
Nothing more, no signature or salutation, just the strange message. Was this meant for her, or her mother? Who wrote it? It looked ancient, like it could have been written in another century. After a moment of contemplation, she set the mysterious missive aside, and reached for the precious amber and ruby jewels she remembered so well. As she picked up the warm beads, feeling them slip through her open fingers, the room suddenly tilted. As a wave of nausea came over her, she quickly reached for the kitchen table to steady herself. As she looked down, she saw not the pale workers hands she was cursed with, but long tapered fingers with skin of a deep honeyed bronze. The table they were gripping was not a table at all but an ornate writing desk with gold detailing. Everything around her was dark and smoky with a flickering warm light from a fireplace she didn’t have.
