Impostor Prince

One week later The door to the pawnbroker's stood slightly ajar, beckoning the wary. A swinging wooden sign read: Money Advanced On Jewels, Wearing Apparel And Every Description Of Property. The large display window held but a meager sampling of the wares offered within. Today's teasers included a distinguished-looking portrait of someone's grandfather with a pipe dangling from his lips, a few prayer books, a mismatched set of spoons displayed fan-style and a multitude of brooches. Claire Wentworth stood outside the little shop, clutching the heavy wooden box that contained her grandmother's fine silverware. Hesitating before going inside, she stared into the display window, examining an old brooch. The brooch, too, had belonged to her grandmother, along with one of the prayer books stacked atop a pyramid-style display. Claire hadn't been able to redeem them, and now the items sat awaiting a new owner. It couldn't be helped. Her brother was all she had left in this world. No amount of money or possessions could compensate for his death. The silverware could be replaced, she decided. Whatever memories they inspired were hers to keep, despite their loss. But there was only one Ben. Resolved, she took a deep breath and pushed open the whitewashed door, stepping into the now all-too-familiar shop. As the sign promised, inside were all manner of wares: furnishings, tapestries, snuffboxes, jewelry, blankets, an assortment of dusty hats, clothing and just about anything else one might imagine, including a heavy old sword that must have been wielded by some-body's noble ancestor in some ancient battle. Its hilt was worn to the wood and the blade bore the scars of many blows--someone's history sold for the price of a week's rent. The thought of it sickened Claire, but such was life and there was no use bemoaning her circumstances. No prayer or rueful wish could change the facts: Their father's death had left them in debt. Ben had intended to honor those debts, but he'd chosen to do so by gambling away the remainder of the estate and he'd ended up in far worse trouble than debtor's prison. Now, it was up to Claire to rectify the situation. Making her way toward the privacy closets, she passed through the common shop, choosing the compartment second to the end. (The last one was, apparently, occupied because the door was closed.) Once inside, she bolted the door, feeling safer even though she knew that was an illusion. With a sigh, she heaved the silverware box onto the counter to await the clerk. At least four gas lamps lit the dust-filled shop, but none of their dusky light reached the privacy closets, which were open only to the counter. The goods offered here were cast in shadow, along with the faces of their owners. Either the occupants were ashamed of their circumstances or they were thieves peddling ill-gotten wares. The clerk was occupied with someone in the last stall. That door had been closed, or Claire would have chosen it instead. The occupant of the darkest little closet was weeping softly. Fortunately, the clerk on duty seemed the most compassionate of the three--Claire recognized his voice--and he spoke to the girl gently. "What name shall I write?" The girl paused. Claire imagined she swallowed before answering. The first time Claire had ventured in here, she'd been unable to find her voice. "Sarah...Sarah Jones." Claire didn't recognize the name. But then, she hadn't used her true name, either. Once released into the shop's inventory, Claire's possessions would be lost forever. Even if she could manage to raise the funds, she wouldn't raise them in time to redeem her belongings, of that much she was quite certain. "Your own property?" the clerk interrogated. It was an obligatory question, but Claire doubted it was a true concern for the shop owner. She'd noted the shady sorts who frequented the shop, and not once had a clerkCrosby, Tanya Anne is the author of 'Impostor Prince ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373294183 and ISBN 0373294182.