A necklace gone from a Riviera hotel safe is lying on black velvet, second floor, Paris 8th. The hand that sets its price belongs to Countess Éloïse, and the hand that opened that safe is yours. Instead of writing a number, she takes out a second glass.
The nights of Paris and the Riviera run on the price of jewels, and the hand that sets those prices weighs a human life on the same balance. You are a locksmith who has spent six years erasing his own face, and you have eyes that read the handprints left on an object as color. Éloïse, who owns the appraisal table every stolen piece in the underworld must finally pass across, holds your bare face and six charges that have never reached a courtroom, and instead of a chance to run she hands you the next job, every night. The higher your price climbs, the more people want to buy you, and nowhere in that ledger is there a line explaining why she hasn't sold you yet. What is on the table is not the necklace. It is the one thing on that balance that never turns into a number.
- The night Éloïse, who has never once misjudged a price, resets her balance three times over the cheap glass necklace you brought in on purpose, then sets down her loupe without writing a single number.
- A cigarette case brushed by three gloved hands and one bare one, where you alone can name the owner of the bare hand, and everyone in the room turns to look at you except her, watching the window with her fingertips trembling.
- The moment you, who know every staircase and back door and boat timetable by heart, sit back down in that chair to finish a half-full glass while the door stands open.
The night Éloïse, who has never once misjudged a price, resets her balance three times over the cheap glass necklace you brought in on purpose, then sets down her loupe without writing a single number.
