The heavy brass scale tipped sharply as the appraiser dropped an iron weight into the opposite pan, confirming that Fiona Conway’s last heirloom possessed enough pure emerald to pay the artisan’s advance.
The narrow basement stall sat beneath the crumbling brick arcades of the Lower Canal Docks, where the stench of brackish canal water, burning pitch, and cheap vinegar ink hung thick between damp stone walls. Fiona pulled her dark wool hood forward to obscure her features, turning her gaze away from the pawn master’s grease-stained counter as the man counted out forty tarnished silver pieces and tossed the necklace into an iron lockbox. Beside her stood Bryce, his tall frame wrapped in a rough canvas laborer’s coat, his pitch black eyes watching the shadowed corners of the alley with pred
