Free A Crossworder's Gift by Nero Blanc Page A

up in a perfect replica of austere and wounded age. “Madame , we at La Vieille Banque de Montréal pride ourselves on our discretion. The gentleman in whose name the contract was held paid a considerable sum for a quarter of a century’s worth of service and security. In fact, it is the responsibility of said heirs to inform La Vieille Banque de Montréal of a lessee’s demise.” He all but glowered at their naiveté and fecklessness.
    â€œAnd after the contract expires?” Helene persisted.
    â€œThe contents are auctioned. No names are supplied—again, for discretion’s sake; but objects such as jewelry and so forth are listed in the newspaper.” He studied the card that contained Maxime Verbeux’s particulars. “At the close of this calendar year, we would have drilled out the lock, and emptied the vault. We abide by strict protocol here at La Vieille Banque. ”
    â€œWe’re lucky we found this when we did, then,” Pamela offered, but the “boy” merely gave her a glance that further established his superiority. “Lucky” was not a term employed in old and respected financial institutions.
    Pamela said no more; neither did Helene, but they held each other’s hands in anxious anticipation as the key turned in the lock. A bronze and steel door swung open to reveal a box twelve inches square and two feet in length. Normally, banking patrons would be given the courtesy of examining the contents in a private room, but the boy clearly considered the cousins too irresponsible to be left alone. He opened the box’s lid in front of them.
    Inside was a typed list cataloging the contents. Below were ancient books wrapped in translucent tissue. From the edges of the vellum pages shimmered gold leaf and cobalt blue, ruby red and a green as pure as fresh-mown grass: Maxime Verbeux’s renowned collection of medieval manuscripts. Infirm and shaky handwriting scrawled across the top of the list. Pour les deux soeurs .
    Letters from the past.

A Crossworder’s Gift

O H yeah, you can bet your very last wooden nickel on that, pardner, there is no place, I mean no place, in the world like Vegas for the holidays.” The bellhop, dressed in a movie-set version of a Native American Indian—war paint, feathered headdress, and all—pulled Belle and Rosco’s bags from the trunk of their bright green rental car, then tossed them onto a gold-trimmed luggage cart that vaguely resembled a high-end stagecoach— sans horses. As he wheeled the cart into the hotel lobby, he added, “Just look at that, will you … Where else do you get that on Turkey Day? Where?” He was pointing to a statuesque redhead manning the concierge desk of Cactus Cal’s Hotel and Casino. Since it was just the Friday following Thanksgiving, she had not yet changed from her abbreviated “Puritan” outfit into something more “Christmasy.” The “Puritan” number consisted of a low-cut black dress whose full skirt was a micromini, and a bibbed apron that was even shorter at the hem and deeper at the neckline. A starched white hat that was a combination of wimple and bonnet seemed to contain more fabric than either skirt or bodice.
    â€œWho knew those early settlers were so well … put together,” Rosco said, “Is that scarlet ‘A’ on her, er, whatever, chest … is it a real tattoo?”
    Belle narrowed her eyes into a squint that failed to cover any potential jealous streak. “We just flew in from Massachusetts,” she said, addressing the bellhop with a small smile, “and the temperature at Plymouth Rock was only twenty-eight degrees this morning … I think your concierge would stand a good chance of freezing to death in that getup.”
    The bellhop chuckled. “Oh that’s nothing. In a day or two Angie, that’s what the ‘A’ stands for, will be changing into her