THE valide’s jewels sparkled in the yellow light. In that greasy chamber they were the only objects that could catch the eye.
There was magic in them. The magic that conferred power. No one could look away from these jewels, any more than a rabbit could take its eyes off a snake.
The smooth fingers stole forward and stroked them.
Ferenghi magic, maybe. What difference could that make? The fingers stiffened. There might be words that needed to be said. Invocations. Incantations. That was an unforeseen possibility. This zigzagged figure that appeared on each of the jewels could be a word, perhaps, or a sound.
No. Possession was what mattered most. Whoever held the jewels enjoyed the power they conferred. Napoleon, to scatter even the armies of the faithful—everyone knew that he had luck beyond the ordinary share. Fool! He had parted with the jewels and his luck had changed. And the valide, too: she’d done well for herself ever since the jewels arrived. Clawed her way to the top, across a battleground far more dangerous than any the French emperor had ever faced, where whispers were lances, and knowledge battalions, and beauty marched in the ranks.
We knew all about that, didn’t we? Knew how hard it was to emerge standing from that melee, not to be kicked back, pulled down, to wither in obscurity. And then to reach one’s goal, to stand at the apex, to have complete power over creatures who groveled and cringed at a single word!
Nothing could destroy that. No one could take that away.
Not with these in one’s possession.
And a pair of lips puckered and came forward to kiss the jewels.