Here’s the list:
1. A tiara she got from a Russian Grand Duke, in the 1880s. Lots of flashy diamonds.
2. A set of ruby earrings she won from Josef, in a chess game, in New York during the Civil War.
3. A suite of sapphires--matching necklace, earrings, ring, and bracelets, that she smuggled out of France during the Revolution.
4. A single, black, baroque pearl. The gentleman who gave it to her said it was a fair representation of her heart--hard, twisted, and dark. They parted, not long afterwards.
5. A large square-cut emerald in a gold ring mounting. It was a gift from her sire, after she was acknowledged by the family.
6. Tucked away in a corner, wrapped in tissue, a tiny, cheap diamond that was the best ring her fiance, Mick St. John, could afford in 1952. From time to time, she pulls it out and slides it on her finger for a few minutes.
I got so bemused by the concept, that I thought it should be expanded a little. So—here’s a series of seven drabbles. One for each of the six pieces of jewelry, and one to introduce them. Enjoy! And thanks to Allegrita, for sparking the idea! And to the “unfinished business” challenge, for giving me the impetus to finish this up.
The Jewel Box
I.
Red velvet to cushion my baubles. Hundreds of years, thousands of pieces of jewelry. Only the finest, the best, travel with me. But tonight is a special occasion, and it’s time to look through my favorites. Every piece has a story, every piece has a meaning, if only for me. Precious metals are cool and smooth against my skin, and I cannot warm them. Some ad man came up with “Diamonds are forever,” but he was right. When love is dead, when men have turned to ash, my jewels will still be with me. Like my memories, they are forever.
II.
I remember the chandeliers blazing, the crystal pendants splintering the light, and Vasily Gregorovitch twirling me around the floor, the waltz so sensuous, yet so precise. His eyes flashed like the diamonds he’d gifted me with, and the high collar of his gold-frogged uniform hid the marks of my fangs. I ran my tongue over my lips, and he pulled me closer, so my ballgown could hide his reaction. He wanted me for a mistress, not a Grand Duchess, but the tiara I kept. I’ll always remember that ball, when our love was new, and the light splintered around us.
III.
I thought I was the red queen, controlling the dance of pieces on the board. I’ve always wondered, though. Josef lost the chess game that night, and true to his word, sent these ruby earrings the following night, red and gold to sparkle against my dark hair. He was so angry at losing, I still laugh to think of it. Even now, the sight of them irritates him. I wear them more often than I should, to tease him. I won that game, by gaslight, surprising him. Still, I’ve never been quite sure if I was the pawn, after all.
IV.
I can never look at these sapphires, without remembering the bloodshed of the Terror. And the tricolor of those damned revolutionaries, so bent on destroying my kind. Three of my brothers died, and they’d have caught me, too, if I hadn’t dirtied my face, and traded my pretty slippers for a pair of wooden sabots. I remember flirting with a drunken lout of a soldier, dodging his clumsy grabs at my breasts, for fear he’d feel the sapphires hidden in my bodice. When I finally escaped, I should have felt like rejoicing, but whatever I saved, my losses were greater.
V.
“This will suit you, daughter,” was his only comment. The rare emerald flashes red in its verdant depth, the large square-cut stone more suited to powdered wigs and wide, panniered skirts, than it is to designer suits and Prada. My sire gave precious jewels, pouring like water from his pale hands. The first of his gifts to me, and far from the last, I’ve always thought it too heavy for my hand, but styles were different then. Life was brighter, more exciting. Or perhaps I was only young, and unschooled in the wide world. Times change, but the emerald remains.
VI.
I can’t count times I’ve thought of discarding this pearl. Selling it for a fraction of its value. Friedrich was mocking me, he told me as much. Black and twisted as my heart, indeed. And yet, the darkness of its lustre, the odd irregularity of it, mesmerize me. I’ve always thought round, white pearls were boring. I paid him back, though. Gave him a night of passion he could never hope to repeat with anyone else, and left him undone an hour before sunrise, begging me to reconsider. I’ll wager he never saw another black pearl, without aching for me.
VII.
“Will you marry me?” he said, as he slid a ring on my finger. “I know it’s not worthy of you, but for now, it’s the best I can do.” He was right. The diamond is tiny, flawed, and the setting gold-plated. But he was so earnest, I couldn’t sneer. Or refuse. It would’ve been better, I suppose, if I had. Even though part of things not working out was his attempt to incinerate me, I kept the ring. The stupid, tawdry ring. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I put it on my finger, and think of what might have been.