of black morocco. She sniffs the leather. Under the smell of the hide is a subtle musk,
which grows stronger as she holds the case in her warm hand. "Fascination. Now, how do we get in?"
There is no obvious fastening.
The boy takes it, and presses the two front corners. The top lifts slowly as he hands it back.
"Thank you,"
and all expectant we lift the lid to find, and what she sees is entirely unexpected.
It is a rosary of semi-precious stones. A Christian rosary presumably, because the beads tell decades, lots of
them, each decade separated from the next by large beads carved from turquoise. The decades are
alternatively of coral, the red Italian kind, and amber, and each begins and ends with a bloodstone.
There is no crucifix. The beads trail off from a small gold plaque, and the chain that joins them ends in a
solitary link. There is a ring on the rosary. The chain of beads has been broken and rejoined through it.
She looks at it closely. A signet ring made of very soft gold. 22 carat. There is a curious coat of arms
engraved on the ring. A long-necked bird like a heron, with wings outstretched, is nesting in flames.
"A phoenix, bejabbers."
The bird was engraved over a saltire. There is fine lettering round it, but incredibly, it looks as though
someone has filed that down so it can't be read.
"This is magnificent," holding it up. "Is it yours?"
He shakes his head, pointing at her.
"Mine? Do you mean as a gift? Like hell!"
The boy takes out his pencil and pad.
YOURS
"My dear child, you do mean it as a gift for me?" He nods. "But you -- or Joe -- can't give me something like this. It's beautiful, but also valuable."
She loops the decades round her hand: the beads are cool and smooth. "Superb," she whispers to herself.
"Flame and water, earth and air... amber and coral, turquoise and bloodstone."
She hands it, almost reluctantly, back to Simon.
"It's like, o like something you are offered but which really belongs to a family. Do you know about Te Rangi
Hiroa and the cloaks? No? I'll tell you sometime, but for the meantime, I have touched your gift, appreciated
its richness and your intention, and that is enough for me."
The rosary hangs in her outstretched hand, swaying.
IT IS MINE I GIVED IT TO YOU.
"Gave," she says, her head bent. "You can't, boy. I know it's yours to give, all right," but she's remembering the ring last night, and wondering where this might have come from, "but it is too rich a thing to give to a
chance met friend. I thank you for your thought, truly, but it remains your rosary."
Rosary. He mouths the word, closing his lips on it as though tasting the sound.
"Rosary... you didn't know the name of it? Do you know what it is?"
His face is troubled.
IT'S MINE, thumb jabbed back at himself several times.
"Yeah," she says gently, "it's yours. It's also something you use when you pray. Joe hasn't told you?"
No.
She draws the loops through her fingers, counting off the decades. "Unusual. There's the full fifteen here.
Most rosaries today are really chaplets, and have enough decades for only one set of mysteries." Ah, look at
him Holmes, you're spouting garbage and gobbledygook
as far as he can make out-- "Generally, only those used by religious
have fifteen decades. I've got one myself, a pleasant ebony and steel-linked one, complete with brass
medallion and silver Corpus, obtained long ago from a Cistercian."
This one, gold and gems, seems too worldly for a religious to handle. Her fingers arrive at the plaque again.
Squinting, she can make out a monogram, much worn as though someone has fingered it for years. The
letters flow into one another, but look like gothic M.C.de V.
She can't think of a Latin tag that fits the letters. Mater Compassionem de Virgo? Not only bastard Latin, but
it doesn't sound orthodox.
She turns the plaque over. There's a surprisingly clear intaglio of the icon, Our Lady of Perpetual Succour.
"Well, well."
She adds after a minute, "The
which grows stronger as she holds the case in her warm hand. "Fascination. Now, how do we get in?"
There is no obvious fastening.
The boy takes it, and presses the two front corners. The top lifts slowly as he hands it back.
"Thank you,"
and all expectant we lift the lid to find, and what she sees is entirely unexpected.
It is a rosary of semi-precious stones. A Christian rosary presumably, because the beads tell decades, lots of
them, each decade separated from the next by large beads carved from turquoise. The decades are
alternatively of coral, the red Italian kind, and amber, and each begins and ends with a bloodstone.
There is no crucifix. The beads trail off from a small gold plaque, and the chain that joins them ends in a
solitary link. There is a ring on the rosary. The chain of beads has been broken and rejoined through it.
She looks at it closely. A signet ring made of very soft gold. 22 carat. There is a curious coat of arms
engraved on the ring. A long-necked bird like a heron, with wings outstretched, is nesting in flames.
"A phoenix, bejabbers."
The bird was engraved over a saltire. There is fine lettering round it, but incredibly, it looks as though
someone has filed that down so it can't be read.
"This is magnificent," holding it up. "Is it yours?"
He shakes his head, pointing at her.
"Mine? Do you mean as a gift? Like hell!"
The boy takes out his pencil and pad.
YOURS
"My dear child, you do mean it as a gift for me?" He nods. "But you -- or Joe -- can't give me something like this. It's beautiful, but also valuable."
She loops the decades round her hand: the beads are cool and smooth. "Superb," she whispers to herself.
"Flame and water, earth and air... amber and coral, turquoise and bloodstone."
She hands it, almost reluctantly, back to Simon.
"It's like, o like something you are offered but which really belongs to a family. Do you know about Te Rangi
Hiroa and the cloaks? No? I'll tell you sometime, but for the meantime, I have touched your gift, appreciated
its richness and your intention, and that is enough for me."
The rosary hangs in her outstretched hand, swaying.
IT IS MINE I GIVED IT TO YOU.
"Gave," she says, her head bent. "You can't, boy. I know it's yours to give, all right," but she's remembering the ring last night, and wondering where this might have come from, "but it is too rich a thing to give to a
chance met friend. I thank you for your thought, truly, but it remains your rosary."
Rosary. He mouths the word, closing his lips on it as though tasting the sound.
"Rosary... you didn't know the name of it? Do you know what it is?"
His face is troubled.
IT'S MINE, thumb jabbed back at himself several times.
"Yeah," she says gently, "it's yours. It's also something you use when you pray. Joe hasn't told you?"
No.
She draws the loops through her fingers, counting off the decades. "Unusual. There's the full fifteen here.
Most rosaries today are really chaplets, and have enough decades for only one set of mysteries." Ah, look at
him Holmes, you're spouting garbage and gobbledygook
as far as he can make out-- "Generally, only those used by religious
have fifteen decades. I've got one myself, a pleasant ebony and steel-linked one, complete with brass
medallion and silver Corpus, obtained long ago from a Cistercian."
This one, gold and gems, seems too worldly for a religious to handle. Her fingers arrive at the plaque again.
Squinting, she can make out a monogram, much worn as though someone has fingered it for years. The
letters flow into one another, but look like gothic M.C.de V.
She can't think of a Latin tag that fits the letters. Mater Compassionem de Virgo? Not only bastard Latin, but
it doesn't sound orthodox.
She turns the plaque over. There's a surprisingly clear intaglio of the icon, Our Lady of Perpetual Succour.
"Well, well."
She adds after a minute, "The
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