Hot Ice

fortune to a collector or a museum. The centuries made gold out of brass.
    “Don’t break the lock,” Whitney told him when Doug started to pry it.
    Though impatient, he took the extra minute to open it as smoothly as if he’d held the key. When he drew back the lid, neither of them could do anything but stare.
    She couldn’t have said what she’d been expecting. Half of the time, she’d looked on the entire venture as a whim. Even when she’d caught Doug’s enthusiasm, pieces of his dream, she’d never believed they’d find anything like this.
    She saw the flash of diamonds, the glint of gold. Breathless, she dipped her hand into them.
    The diamond necklace that dripped from her hand was as bright and cold and exquisite as moonlight in winter.
    Could it have been the one? Whitney wondered. Was there any chance at all that what she held in her hand had been the necklace used in treachery against Marie Antoinette in the last days before the Revolution? Had she worn it, even once, in defiance, watching how the stones turned ice and fire against her skin? Had greed and power taken over the young woman who loved pretty things, or had she simply been oblivious to the suffering going on outside her palace walls?
    Those were questions for historians, Whitney thought, though she could be certain that Marie had inspired loyalty. Gerald had indeed guarded the jewels for his queen and his country.
    Doug held emeralds in his hands, five tiers of them in a necklace so heavy it might have strained the neck. He’d seen it in the book. The name—a woman’s. Maria, Louise, he wasn’t sure. But as Whitney had once thought, jewels meant more in three dimensions. What glinted in his hand hadn’t seen light for two centuries.
    There was more. Enough for greed, for passion and lust. The little chest all but spilled over with gems. And history. Gingerly, Whitney reached down and picked up the small miniature.
    She’d seen portraits of the queen consort many times. But she’d never held a masterpiece of art in her hand before. Marie Antoinette, frivolous, imprudent, and extravagant smiled back at her as though she were still in full reign. The miniature was no more than six inches, oval-shaped, and framed in gold. She couldn’t see the artist’s name, and the portrait was badly in need of treatment, but she knew its value. And the moral.
    “Doug—”
    “Holy Christ.” No matter how high he’d allowed his dreams to swing, he’d never believed there’d be such sweetness at the end. He had fortune at his fingertips, the ultimate success. He held a perfect teardrop diamond in one hand and a bracelet winking with rubies in the other. He’d just won the game. Hardly realizing he did so, he slipped the diamond into his pocket.
    “Look at it. Whitney, we’ve got the whole world right here. The whole goddamn world. God bless the queen.” Laughing, he dropped a string of diamonds and emeralds over her head.
    “Doug, look at this.”
    “Yeah, what?” He was more interested in the glitters tumbling out of the box than a small dulled painting. “Frame’s worth a few bucks,” he said idly as he dug out a heavy, ornate necklace fashioned with sapphires as big as quarters.
    “It’s a portrait of Marie.”
    “It’s valuable.”
    “It’s priceless.”
    “Oh yeah?” Interested, he gave the portrait his attention.
    “Doug, this miniature’s two hundred years old. No one alive’s seen it before. No one even knows it exists.”
    “So, it’ll bring a good price.”
    “Don’t you understand?” Impatient, she took it back from him. “It belongs in a museum. This isn’t something you take to a fence. It’s art. Doug—” She held up the diamond necklace. “Look at this. It’s not just a bunch of pretty stones that have a high market value. Look at the craftsmanship, the style. It’s art, it’s history. If it’s the necklace of the Diamond Affair, it could throw a whole new light on accepted theories.”
    “It’s my way out,” he corrected and set the necklace back in the case.
    “Doug, these jewels belonged to a woman who lived two centuries ago. Two hundred years. You can’t take her necklace, her bracelet to a pawnshop and have them cut it up. It’s immoral.”
    “Let’s talk about morals later.”
    “Doug—”
    Annoyed, he closed the lid on the box and stood. “Look, you want to give the painting to a museum, maybe a couple of the glitters, okay. We’ll talk about it. I risked my life for