Chapter 5

The city's cultural relics authentication center sat in a plain old building, but the moment you stepped inside, the atmosphere had nothing to do with the antique street outside.

No noisy haggling here. Just hush.

The staff all wore white coats, moving briskly, their faces set and serious.

The air carried the old, dry smell of paper and wood, and it made you soften your steps without meaning to, until even breathing felt like something you had to do carefully.

I took a number and sat down on a cold plastic chair to wait.

A few people sat around me. Some were in tailored suits, clearly people with money; others, like me, were dressed plainly, but every one of them held something wrapped in cloth or a box close to their chest, faces full of unease and hope.

My heart was pounding, my palms slick with sweat.

I held the tin box against my chest, and it felt as heavy as iron.

"Number A37, Ms. Regina Fox, please come to Appraisal Room 3."

The number came over the speaker.

I drew a deep breath, stood, and walked through the door with the "Ceramics Appraisal Department" sign hanging on it.

Inside sat an elderly expert with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses, refined-looking. The tag on his chest read: Hubert Lambert.

"Hello, sir."

I greeted him nervously.

He gave a gentle nod and gestured to the chair across from him.

"Have a seat. Take it out and let me have a look."

I set the tin box on the table, which was covered with a thick layer of felt cloth. My hands trembled from nerves, and it took me several tries to work the rusted clasp open.

When the black bowl came into view, Mr. Lambert's eyes didn't fill with the contempt those shop owners had shown.

He simply looked at it calmly, then pulled on a pair of white gloves.

He didn't pick it up right away. First he took a soft-bristled little brush and, gently, bit by bit, swept away the dust and the traces of rust clinging to the bowl.

His movements were slow, light, as if he were handling a rare treasure.

And with every motion, my heart climbed higher into my throat.

Then he took out a high-powered magnifier, bent close to the rim, and examined it inch by inch.

He studied the base first, then the body, and last the few tiny chips along the mouth.

The minutes crawled by. The room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.

Mr. Lambert's brow slowly drew together.

He set the magnifier down, picked the bowl back up, and tapped its body lightly with a knuckle, tilting his head to listen to the sound. It was dull, not crisp.

He put the bowl down, took off his glasses, wiped them with the felt cloth, and put them back on.

He didn't look at me. He stared hard at that bowl, his eyes full of shock, confusion, and a light I couldn't read, something close to fervor.

He murmured to himself.

"Impossible... this clay body, this glaze... could it really be..."

Suddenly he lifted his head, his gaze burning as he looked at me, his voice shaking a little from excitement.

"Ma'am, this bowl of yours... where did you get it?"

His intensity startled me, and I stammered.

"It was... a friend gave it to me, many years ago."

"A friend?" he pressed.

"What kind of friend?"

"Just a... a friend I lost touch with a long time ago."

I didn't dare tell the truth.

Mr. Lambert seemed to see my discomfort, and he didn't push any further.

He only lowered his head, picked up the magnifier again, and stared over and over at one utterly unremarkable spot on the bottom of the bowl.

His breathing grew faster and faster.

Then all at once he jerked his head up, yanked off his glasses, his eyes flung wide from sheer shock.

He looked at me, then at the bowl, then back at me, his expression more complicated than anything I'd ever seen.

"Ma'am..."

His voice came out hoarse and dry.

"Are you... planning to sell this?"

I nodded hard, and asked nervously,

"Mr. Lambert, is it... is it worth something?"

He didn't answer me directly.

He only drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if trying to steady the storm churning inside him.

He adjusted his glasses and looked at me with a gaze that was gravely serious, even touched with a trace of pity, and said, one word at a time:

"Ma'am, you have to promise me you won't get too excited!"

In that instant my heart seemed to stop.

Then, in a voice only the two of us could hear, he said one sentence.

I looked at his face, serious to the very limit, and felt all the blood in my body rush to my head. My ears filled with a ringing hum, the room spun, my legs went weak, and I nearly crumpled to the floor.