Emerald

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Stephen Douglas and Jessica who thrasher through pages of words to find some semblance of order.

Nancy for rescuing me at every computer glitch

“Freddy Rocker” for a vision of the joy and mystery in beautiful stones

Central Valley Writers for patience in listening to the reading of rough chapters

Michael Caskey for cover art that really pops

And:

Especially to “Amazing” Grace for her constant love and support through it all.

A cold September rain slanted down on King Street in St. James and sharpened the noise from the steady stream of honking cars, taxis, and red double-decker buses as they made their halting way towards Clarence House.

Shaking the silver rain droplets from his umbrella Bixby Reynolds entered the vestibule of Christie’s London Auction House with great anticipation. The last two weeks, the sun had hardly broken through the damp London fog long enough to assure anyone it was still in the sky. Today was no exception. It seemed that the continuous rain had imprisoned them for days. Stamping the water off his black rubbers and shaking his black brolly he shoved it into the umbrella stand near the front door. Walking quickly down the green-carpeted corridor, he nodded slightly to several of his employees, careful to keep a casual distance appropriate to his stature as Managing Director. Auction day always started promptly at ten each Monday morning, but that was only one of several things on his mind. Was the catalogue ready? Was the gallery spotless? Would there be a good crowd in spite of the rain? Soon, he hoped, the gallery would begin filling up with the on-lookers, the rich, their agents and other hopefuls.

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