Page 61 of Wished

“Right. The rose cut was for catching the candlelight.”

Max gives me a quick look, a frown at the edges of his mouth. “I’ve forgotten,” he says. “What was the copper-zinc alloy often used ...?”

“Pinchbeck,” I say, lost in the glitter of the necklace.

“And how were diamonds cut in the 1700s?”

I know this one. “In thin slivers, more for surface area and sparkle than symmetry. Not at all like today.”

“And what do you prefer—the girandole or the pendeloque earring?”

“The girandole.”

“And your favorite jewelry house? Cartier, Boucheron, Chanel, Van Cleef & Arpels, Mellerio, Lorenz Baümer?—”

“Barone,” I say without thinking. And then at the taut, heated silence, I look away from the necklace nestled next to its family.

When I look at Max, his shoulders are tight, his jaw is tight, and there’s a coiled energy compressed and ready to spring.

“You like me,” he says, his voice low and tight.

My skin tingles at the energy crackling off him. “Yes?”

I bite my lip, realizing too late what I’ve given away.

“You learned about jewelry because you like me.”

I start to deny it, but he squeezes my hand.

“Admit it. You learned it because you like me.”

He’s wrong. I didn’t learn about jewelry because I like him. I learned about it because I love him.

“Yes,” I say. “I researched all about jewelry because I liked you.”

He catches the past tense. “Like,” he corrects.

I smile. “Like.”

He nods and his shoulders relax. “Make your wish. With the parure together for the first time in centuries, it will come true.” Then, eyes narrowing, he says, “To be sure, I’ll make a wish too.”

I nod and clasp his hand tightly.

Then I lean into the swirl of the gemstones and the pull of their sparkling allure and whisper, “I wish everything was back to the way it was. I wish Max and I weren’t married.”

Because I’m holding his hand, I feel Max’s stillness when I make my wish. The way his breath is held and the way his muscles tighten. And then, when I stop speaking, I feel his inhale.

Finally, he says, “I wish ...” He turns back to me and glances at my mouth, then back to my eyes. There’s conflict in the hard line of his mouth and the tilt of his jaw. Then he shakes his head and says, “I wish everything was put to rights.”

His words drop between us and the sapphires and diamonds seem to lose their luster. Before the light shining on the facets set a sort of song in the air; now the room is cold and silent.

Outside the door a loud group passes, talking animatedly. They say hello to Edith and she responds, right outside the door. I’m aware that any moment she’ll open the door and take the parure away.

Max lifts the necklace and sets it back in its box, sliding it into his interior pocket.

Suddenly I’m cold and tired, as limp and droopy as the freesias resting on the chair next to me.

“What do you think will happen?” I ask, glancing around the small confines of the room. “Will we wake up back in Geneva, everything as it was? Do you think we’ll even remember this? Will you remember me?” A panicked twinge sets up in my chest and I clutch his hand. “Do you think you’ll forget this and think I’m a thief and a liar again? That if I come to you, you’ll call the police like you threat?—?”

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