The Last Two Originals Came Home Under Numbered Seals

Blue Window still had its little door-shaped notch.

I enlarged the picture until the edges blurred. Then I set my phone down and called Ada.

"That's it," I said. "Both of them."

She had already asked the consignment office to hold them. Its manager sent intake pictures, a signed contract, a transfer receipt, and the date Esteban had delivered the pair.

He had brought them in three days before the funeral.

The consignment office had advanced him $7,500 against a future sale. His contract said he owned both minerals and had full power to sell them. It gave their register numbers and described Blue Window's unusual base.

"He knew which piece it was," I said.

"Yes," Ada said. "And now we have his description."

His lawyer received the same documents that morning. By afternoon, he had corrected his account again.

There was no missing gift. No forgotten teaching tray. He had removed eleven originals, stored nine, and taken two to Tucson. His signed statement finally said so.

Ada sent the admission to the court.

The consignment manager agreed to return the two pieces after reviewing the ownership ruling with her lawyer. Her claim for the advance would be against Esteban. She put that agreement in writing before we drove up.

Ruth met us there. I had asked Della to come, too.

"I already put on my traveling shoes," she said. "They'd be offended if I stayed."

At the office, the manager brought out two padded boxes. I waited while Ruth checked seal numbers, weights, and every visible edge against the old photographs.

She turned Blue Window under a cool light.

Its blue faces changed with the angle. The stone was dark in one place, bright in another, full of small planes that caught and lost the light.

The glass copy had only been blue.

"Confirmed," Ruth said.

Della leaned forward.

"There's my notch."

The manager apologized for accepting the consignment.

"His papers looked complete," she said.

Ada asked her to preserve those papers, including the messages that came with them. She agreed.

I didn't need her to feel bad for me. I needed the record to stay whole.

We carried the boxes to the car. On my lunch bag, I drew the same blue vein I had drawn on funeral day. This time, I traced it all the way to the surface.

Back in Bisbee, Ruth signed the final inventory. Two hundred fourteen originals accounted for. Eleven substitutes kept apart as evidence. No original had been sold onward. The recovered pieces had no new damage that she could find.

I read the total slowly.

214.

For weeks, I had been counting what was missing. It took practice to count what was there.

The collection stayed in secure storage while I arranged its next home. My employer couldn't take on that many pieces, but my supervisor helped me contact a local learning center with a vacant geology room.

The move out of the assay office had been supervised, with every crate checked against its list. I had walked down those stone steps one last time and found only bare shelves.

Esteban could still decide what happened to the oak cabinet. Its sale price had nothing left to do with me.

We discussed lights, locks, insurance, and weight limits. I drew a floor plan. Their director asked whether school groups could visit.

"That was what my aunt wanted," I said.

We worked out a written loan. I would keep ownership. The center would hold the minerals for display, pay for insurance, and follow the care plan. Sales and further loans required my written consent.

I read every line.

Meanwhile, Esteban withdrew his request to serve as the estate's personal representative. A neutral professional was appointed through the probate case. The collection was listed as property belonging to me, with the ownership ruling attached.

The old will remained in place for Celia's actual estate. I had never needed to tear it up.

Morgan asked about his deposit. The consignment office asked about its advance. Ada sent both claims to Esteban's lawyer and prepared a full account of my expenses.

Esteban put the assay office up for sale. He told a cousin that I had cost him a fortune by refusing to be reasonable.

The cousin called to repeat it.

"Did he mention what he was trying to sell?" I asked.

There was a pause.

"Not really."

"Then ask him for the inventory."

Two days before the cost hearing, Ada called me at work. I was fitting a mount around a small piece of calcite, leaving space so the metal wouldn't press on its edges.

"His lawyer sent one more claim," she said.

I put down my pliers.

"For what?"

"Eighteen thousand nine hundred dollars. He says you owe him storage rent for the years your collection sat in his wife's building."