short of sliding the chain. No, I would no longer hide behind any forged protection. I would see her. At the slightest sound, I would throw it open to reveal her in whatever form she took.
Days passed then weeks. The bills in my wallet dwindled. By my calculations, I had enough cash on hand to maintain my residence through the end of February, with rations. Toast and coffee in the mornings, dinner or supper each day, preferably at the invitation of another. I took inventory of my jewelry, recording it in two lines of value: those pieces that would bring in the most money and those pieces that would bring the most pain in parting. Most valuable by far, the ring my late husband gave me to ensure our engagement. Emerald, surrounded by diamonds. Dainty and elegant but substantial. It might fetch the highest price, but at what cost? He gave it to me one night at supper, taking his knee in front of his sons, proclaiming a love that would last to the end of our lives. This ring branded me as a woman of quality. It gave me worth and respectability. Everything else—the pearls, the lapis, the gold, the amethysts—they were baubles in comparison. Rocks set in paste. Valuable rocks, nonetheless, set in a paste that would fetch a price.
One afternoon, in what had become a ritual of civil exchange, I asked Mr. Sylvan if he could recommend a reputable broker to whom I might sell a piece or two.
“I hardly live the life that calls for such adornment,” I said. “Life really is simpler here in the West.”
“Maybe California would be more exciting?”
I smiled, refusing to take his bait. “But that really is just farther west, isn’t it? Not necessarily more exciting.”
By the end of our conversation, he recommended a shop on Houston Street. It was a fine winter day for walking. Temperate, as they say, and I congratulated myself for not wasting precious trunk space with furs. My wool coat would more than suffice, and on a day like this one, with the afternoon sun streaming down, it proved to be too warm. At least that was the reason I gave for the trickle of sweat at the nape of my neck and the glistening of my brow when I walked into Paragon Treasures.
Despite Mr. Sylvan’s reassurance that the store was not a typical pawn shop, it had all the vestiges of being exactly that. Small, with an attempt at elegance in its etched glass door and clean carpet runner, it was full of items that were obviously given over for cash. A line of silver teapots on one shelf, clocks of every shape and size imaginable produced a solid, soothing wall of sound. Books stuffed indiscriminately in a case were for sale—according to a faded card—at the tempting price of three for a quarter. A certain novel caught my eye, Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens, and something called Tempest and Sunshine, which looked like a story of pure escape. I wasted no time finding a third. I should have taken my books, left my quarter on the counter, and returned to pursue a quiet life of reading. Such had always been my escape, even during long evenings in luxury, reading aloud to my ailing husband in his final, quiet nights. But secondhand literature was not the nature of my errand.
The proprietor had offered a friendly enough greeting upon my arrival and was only mildly interested that I seemed poised to leave with twenty-five cents’ worth of books. His white hair tufted around a bald pate, and he gave out an old man’s groan as he rose from his comfortable stool to serve me.
“No other treasures I can interest you in?” His accent indicated that San Antonio was not his native home. “Nothing is better with a good book than a nice cup of tea. Mostly so on a cold winter night. And I have some lovely sets here.”
“No, thank you.” I wondered if he would have attempted to sell me a tarnished teapot if I had been wearing my emerald ring, which I’d left at home lest I be tempted to sell it. “I would like to purchase these, but I also—” Words caught curiously in my throat. Curious, I say, because I had pawned things before. Shoes, dishes, silver spoons, and golden snuff boxes, all without a second thought as to how they came into my possession. A glance at the assembly of trinkets