Thirty-twoCyrus dropped his hands from his wife’s shoulders. He drew in a rasping, startled breath, and stared at the relic, seemingly insensible to anything but the accusing cream curve of the ancient tooth.
Then the first flickering of a luminous rage brightened his cheeks before suffusing his whole face. Pure molten rage. Aristide tapped Lani on the shoulder with his good hand and mouthed to her: “Don’t move.”
Then he was across the room to the fireplace, grabbing the brass poker that hung from fire irons on the hearth, wrenching it free. In two big strides he was at Cyrus’s back. Cyrus was a good three or four inches taller than his willowy wife, and weighed twice what she did.
He was standing in front of her, clenching and unclenching his fists, staring. Then a rumbling started dee
