The Jewel Thief by Jeannie Mobley

Author:Jeannie Mobley [Mobley, Jeannie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2020-05-26T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty

It was closer to dawn than to midnight by the time I limped home, and the workshop was locked up tight, so I waited on the stoop until dawn, huddled against the icy February drizzle in my torn dress, my knees bleeding. André found me in the morning, before Valin arrived in the workshop.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, his eyes full of censure as he looked me up and down.

My teeth were chattering so hard I could not answer. He sat me beside the forge, and got me a blanket to warm myself.

“I’ve finally got some information of use,” I said when I could at last speak. My voice shook, betraying the horrors of the night. An eager light came into André’s eyes, and he leaned in to hear more, but before I could continue, we heard a tread on the stairs, and the voice of Master Valin berating Papa in the harshest of terms.

“Go, before the master sees you in this state,” André said, pushing me toward the apprentice quarters. “I will tell Master Pitau you are home.”

I was happy enough to comply. I didn’t want either Papa or Master Valin to question my virtue or my whereabouts. In my tiny room, I stripped off my wet gown and stockings, my corset and petticoats. I pulled on my warmest nightgown and slipped under the blankets on my bed. Soon I was asleep, and did not wake until Papa roused me at lunchtime. Valin had retreated upstairs for his midday repast with his wife, and Papa and André brought a meal back to my room, away from the two new apprentices Valin had brought to the workshop.

“Where were you, Juliette? I was worried sick when you did not come home!” Papa demanded.

I lowered my eyes and mumbled an apology before blurting out my news. “I’ve learned something of the Mazarin master at last, Papa! I have a name.”

Papa’s lips parted in an expression of disbelief, though a tiny hope flickered in his eyes.

“He’s in Paris, Papa. Or at least he was ten years ago.”

Just like that, the hope snuffed out. “Impossible. I know every guildsman in the city.” He began to raise the wine jug to his lips, but I put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“He is from Portugal,” I said. “That is why he was not known to the guild.”

“Portugal?” Papa said, considering. “I should have thought to look there. Their diamond trade is dwindling, but twenty years ago, thirty years ago . . .”

“His name is Benzacar. Perhaps we can still find him.”

Papa frowned at the name, guessing its origin. “There are no Portuguese gem-cutters in Paris, Juliette. Their kind is not welcome here,” Papa said.

“His kind?” André said. “Is he Moorish, then?”

“He’s Portuguese,” I repeated, not wanting to confirm what Papa had already guessed: that he was a Jew.

“Which means he’s probably long dead,” Papa said with a sigh. “The Inquisition has burned many a gem-cutter in Lisbon, curse them. That explains why he cannot be found.

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