The antique store owner surveyed today's damage; several grandfather clocks, most of which he could plug for as much as he wanted; (they weren't quite antique, having been made by inferior artisans, but no-one would notice the difference) a rare Jacobean style table, made by one of the original carpenters, complete with provenance; and a large mirror. It was gorgeous, the frame the true reason he bought it; it was a seventeenth century French picture frame, and he had found a makers mark on the edge. He had to check, but he was fairly sure he had a real find here. And it had been the cheapest object, as well.
He had been lucky to get it, as well. Another bidder had turned up just after he had purchased the mirror, and she was irate to say the least about missing out. She had given him her card, saying that she would be willing to pay whatever price to get her hands on the mirror, which made him more than a tad worried. What if he had found something that was truly classic, a masterpiece?
He got a piece of paper, and tried to copy the maker's mark. B. Hallward. And there was another engraving, one that he had missed on the first look. For Mr D. Grey, my friend.
Hallward. Why did that ring a bell? He jotted that down as well; no harm in it.
"Da, why are you still here? It's getting dark, and you said that you would make tea tonight!"
Damn, he thought. I forgot. Sybil was his eldest daughter, and she more or less taken over her mother's role in the house since she had died. She was nineteen, and had stopped developing at sixteen. She had her mother's hair; long, straight, chestnut. Her eyes were a deep grey; it felt almost as though you were looking into a storm when she stared at you, and the old man frequently felt her gaze. Usually she wasn't happy with him; the warehouse was over their flat, because they had all moved into the offices after his wife had passed. Too many memories in the old house.
She walked over to him, making sure she didn't bump anything. The warehouse was almost packed to overflowing, and she wasn't a rake. She looked slightly overdeveloped, but no-one who looked complained.
She couldn't see what her father was looking at, either. She knew he had been to the auction house, and had made another killing, but she wasn't entirely convinced that he had found anything of true value. She was usually the one who went over the provenances, and she did the research for an object of dubious origin.
When the mirror caught her eye, she gasped. It was exquisite, the gold trimming along the edges of the frame expert. She had an eye for art, and this was beyond anything her father had brought before them in the past.
"Where did you get that?" her tone was appreciative, as well as slightly awestruck.
"Found it at the auction house. Got it for $120, but a woman gave me her card afterwards. Said she wanted it, but had missed the auction, and was prepared to pay whatever it took to make it hers." He handed over to her the maker's mark and inscription. "Can you make any sense of that?"
She stared. "Father, do you know who this was?"
"Who? Hallward, or Grey?"
"Both. Basil Hallward was an artist of extraordinary talent. He made a portrait of a man called Dorian Grey, and Oscar Wilde wrote a horror story about them. There are some accounts that actually suggest that Wilde didn't make up the story, and that Dorian Grey actually existed." She gestured at the mirror.
"What we may have here is proof of such a theory. If that is indeed the case..."
"Then there is no end to how much this could be worth to some people!" her father said, rubbing his hands together.
She shook her head. For a second, she had heard a voice, calling out to her on the wind. It sounded like it was coming from a long way away, yet it wasn't from outside.
"You go inside Da. There's the beginning of tea on the stove. I'm going to see if I can find any other marks or inscriptions on the frame.
