Precious Things by Kelly Doust Page A

immediately . . . Itwas like a thunderbolt, seeing it there on the television like that, and I just had to find you to ask, what do you know about it? Where did it come from?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, I . . .’ Maggie was taken aback by the questions and searching intensity in the woman’s eyes. She knew the coronet was handmade, and although it was in a style Maggie recognised, she knew it was original, a real one-of-a-kind.
    Francesca saw the confusion on Maggie’s face. ‘Sorry, let me explain,’ she said, taking another breath. ‘I grew up in Italy but my parents were Russian – adoptive parents, that is. They were always quite open about the fact that I’d been adopted. They told me my parents were friends of theirs who died when I was little. My mother has been becoming increasingly disconnected lately but she said something odd to me. I don’t have a proper birth certificate, you see – I think back then it was fairly informal – and I always believed them when they told me my parents died long ago. But Mama said something about my father – my real father – a couple of months back, and I got the sense he had still been alive when I was a teenager, and even in my twenties . . . I couldn’t quite work out why they had lied to me.’
    Maggie had no idea where this was leading, but she could tell the woman was distressed – it was written all over her face.
    â€˜My parents looked after me very well – they were successful businesspeople and owned properties all over Europe. The art world was just one of their interests . . . I run the businesses now.’
    Francesca seemed to be trying to clarify something. Maggie wasn’t sure why she was being given this information but she waited patiently.
    â€˜Anyway, I’m sure you’re not interested in all that . . . It’s just . . . This has never happened to me before, but it was like a past life or something hit me when I saw that . . . that thing . . . What did you call it?’
    â€˜A coronet,’ said Maggie.
    â€˜Yes, the coronet.’ The woman nodded emphatically. ‘I feel, actually, I just know now, that it has something to do with where I’m from . . . originally, I mean.’
    Maggie took a sharp involuntary breath and felt a chill go down her spine. She’d had a couple of moments like this herself. It was strange and inexplicable, but every now and again, when she held an object, it was as though she could feel its history (and sometimes even its power, the very weight of that past) running through her fingers. She’d even looked it up once on Google and had been fascinated to find there were various articles on the subject. People referred to it as a strange ‘charge’: the idea that owners actually imparted something of themselves, or the extreme emotions they were feeling at a certain time, to an object. It had all sounded a bit woo-woo and so she’d stopped reading about it and told herself not to be so silly, but occasionally the feeling just came back to her like déjà vu.
    â€˜Please, I’m not sure if it will make any difference, but where did you find it?’ Francesca asked.
    â€˜It was in a job lot I bought from here – rubbish, really. I’m not sure where it came from,’ Maggie said truthfully. Francesca turned away, the slump of her shoulders showing her disappointment.
    â€˜But I . . .’ said Maggie, hesitating.
    Francesca turned back hopefully, and as Maggie looked into her dark, pleading eyes, she knew immediately that she would help her. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, but she felt somehow compelled to. Surely she could find out something more, or at least try to give the woman some of the answers she deserved.
    And there was something else, too. Imagine what it must be like for Francesca, being brought up by people other than her own parents. And how would Maggie feel, if she missed