He Will be My Ruin

“Not a seal written in kaishu!”

“Hans . . .” Sometimes I wonder if he truly forgets that normal people don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, or if he just likes being questioned so he can share his vast, impractical wealth of knowledge in that condescending tone he gets when he’s talking about antiques.

He heaves an exasperated sigh. “It’s handwritten, which means it’s that much harder to copy. It’ll match the seal on the twin vase.”

Ruby and I watch Hans dismantle a day’s worth of packing work, handling each vase as if it might shatter under the weight of his fingertips.

As hard as it is to believe that his hunch could actually pan out, I have to remind myself that this entire investigation of Doug’s is based on a hunch, too. My belief that Celine didn’t kill herself.

I kneel down beside Hans and begin helping him unwrap. “So, you said this could be worth millions?”

“Chinese collectors are paying record-setting money for imperial work to preserve their history. Another Qing Dynasty vase went up for auction six years ago. They appraised it at over a million pounds at a UK house. And do you know how much it went for when the auction actually opened?” I wait for him to answer as he pauses to glare at me. “Equivalent to eighty-five million dollars!”

Ruby lets out a low whistle.

“And that was an ordinary vase, by comparison. Of course there are nonpayment issues because of a fee disagreement between the buyer and the auctioneer. Some people are accusing the Chinese government of sabotaging the sale because they believe the vase was stolen and therefore still rightfully theirs, but—”

“Okay, calm down, Hans. You’re not even breathing.” He’s talking a mile a minute.

“Don’t you see? Everyone assumed the male twin vase had been destroyed and was lost forever. Can you imagine what this would mean?” He stops to stare at me, his eyes full of wonder. “An artifact with actual emperor DNA in it! Celine would have made a monumental discovery. And she had a keen eye. She wouldn’t have mistaken a fraud easily. I really think she might have had something here.”

It’s time for a reality check. “And what are the chances that Celine found this missing twin vase for”—I check the journal record that sits beside me—“fifteen dollars at a garage sale in Queens?”

“The guy who bought that vase six years ago paid twenty for his,” he shoots back. “If I can just find it and check the markings, then I’ll know if it’s worth taking to my director. We’ll need multiple appraisals, of course, and testing, and—”

“What about the pictures I sent you? Didn’t she take all the angles?” From what I saw, if there were any signatures, Celine had made sure to capture them.

“That’s the thing! There weren’t any pictures of this vase on that jump drive, period. It’s a complete fluke that I even saw that page in her notebook, to be honest. I was flipping through, looking for something else. It’s her last purchase, from the looks of it.”

“That doesn’t make sense. She was always so meticulous. Why include it in this book but not in her other cataloguing?” I frown, eying the now empty desk, where her desktop used to sit. Could someone have erased the pictures of this vase? Her passwords were sitting right there.

I stop asking questions and help Hans unwrap Celine’s entire collection from the box, until a row of fragile vases sits before us.

Not one of them matches the twin dragon vase in Celine’s journal.

A sinking suspicion fills my gut. I peer up, first at Hans, then at Ruby. “You know what this means, right?”

CHAPTER 20

Celine

November 11, 2015

The romantic and complex notes of Piano Concerto no. 25 fill my apartment and my heart. Mozart has always been my medicine after a long, miserable day. And I’ve had a bunch of them. The entire last month has been miserable.

A year ago, when I decided I wanted to write my thesis on Chinese art—the market is booming, the history is rich, and Hans said that Hollingsworth salivates over North American appraisers with this type of expertise—I realized that I would need to start educating myself long before I even began my master’s. For as well versed as I am in European and British art, the farther east I go, the more ignorant I become.

So I began reading everything I could in my spare time, studying the politics of China and its surrounding countries, the customs. Even traditional Chinese calligraphy. That alone—the origins of the characters, the very specific pen strokes required, where markings must begin and end—could be the bulk of my thesis.

I’ve only just started acquainting myself with the actual art history aspect, so I’m still unfamiliar.

Downing the rest of my vodka—it’s become a nightly habit as of late, to help me drift off after I’ve cried myself empty—I pick up the appraisal certificate and scan it again with a hopeful smile. I swung by the local antiques shop a few blocks away in Chinatown earlier this week and asked the dealer, Ling, to give me an appraisal. She’s very knowledgeable and has become a friend over the last year. I needed proof, before I offered this bowl up on a silver platter.

I was right. It is a Ming Dynasty lotus bowl from the Xuande period—the cobalt-blue lines crisp from the addition of manganese. It’s likely worth anywhere between four and seven thousand dollars. I paid thirty-five for it, plus the appraisal fees, which I can’t really afford, but it was necessary this time.

It’ll make a nice gift for her. And hopefully it’ll be a suitable peace offering.

My gaze shifts to the vase and my heart rate jumps. Finding the bowl was one thing, but this vase . . .

I still won’t let myself believe it. I’m still in shock.

I wasn’t supposed to be buying for myself when I strolled into the driveway of a lovely elderly German couple in Queens, who were selling off their things to move into a retirement home together. I found the vase sharing a box with an archaic two-slice metal toaster and manufactured china dinnerware. I at first wrote it off as just another beautiful mass-produced knockoff. When I picked it up, though, and wiped off the thick coat of dust to study the artwork lines that show wear from age, I began to wonder.

And then I turned it over and saw the markings.

And I had to buy it.

Using my iPhone—which has made cataloguing all of my finds so much easier—I carefully turn the vase over now and take a picture of the seal. The strikes are light and flowing, instead of heavy and thick. Judging by the slight curve in one of the letters, I’m pretty sure it’s handwritten, and not a computer-generated font meant to look handwritten. The blue paint matches the rich blue hues used in the detailed floral artwork. And I’m also quite sure that the blue-tinged glaze that coats the seal is uniform to the glaze that coats the rest of the beautiful and meticulous design.