To my dismay, I couldn't stop thinking about JJ's declaration for the rest of the day and night. Good thing that afterwards I had more business to do that could distract me from thinking about everything that was wrong with JJ, and with me if I still found him attractive.
With JJ manning the shop this morning and Panda taking the place over in the evening, I was free to search nearest flea markets for new antiquities to sell.
Places like these almost never held items of immense value, but I couldn't only sell artifacts worth dozens of thousands in my store. Most of my buyers were middle-class intelligentsia, which meant that I needed something they could afford, too.
I started with more faraway places, ones that weren't close to any antiquities stores or pawn shops, to where most people would bring their wares first. This wasn't the first time I sifted through old utensils, china figurines, clothes and other stuff brought from granny's attics.
When I was a child, my dad would take me with him to his scouting excursions. For me it was akin to travelling to a fair. There were so many interesting items to see. My dad would often buy them for me even if they were worthless, just so they could look nice on the store's shelves.
Later, when I was in high school, I would walk through the flea markets on my own, looking for curiosities to bring to my dad's store. These were my small gifts for him, and few things warmed my heart more than his smile when he thanked me for them.
Now I was walking alone, buying things only for myself. A sharp pang of grief hit my heart, and tears threatened to break free, but I held them in. It was bittersweet to let myself revel in the nostalgia of flea markets, but it took me a while to concentrate more on the sweet than on the bitter.
I gathered a solid yield by the time my feet brought me to the flea market nearest to my store. It was only a few blocks away, and I always walked through it the last.
My backpack was filled with carefully packed boxes and bags, and my steps were slow to not jostle the contents too much. I looked on the wares lying on the sheets, spread on the hot asphalt, and old wooden produce boxes.
A set of charcoal sketches on the old, yellow from age paper attracted my attention. I walked up to the seller, who immediately perked up at the sight of my interest.
He was a middle-aged man with remarkably unremarkable features. Like most of other people around, he was dressed in simple clothes, a t-shirt and greyish-beige pants in his case. His short hair hid almost completely, besides for a few fair strands, under his baseball cap.
He smiled at me with utmost friendliness. "You have a sharp eye, lady! These aren't just any sketches, they were made by my grandfather, who left them to my father, who left them to me. You sure heard his surname. Vasnetsov."
I couldn't contain my gasp of disbelief and incredulousness. Vasnetsovs, most of their family, were famous artists, especially Viktor Mikhaylovich Vasnetsov—but he died early twentieth century, way too early to be this man's grandfather.
But even if this con artist meant one of the Victor Vasnetsov's descendants, I still wouldn't believe him. They all were accounted for, and the last direct one died in late 90-x.
The con artist must've read it all in my face, because he raised his hands in assuring gesture. "Trust me! It's an embarrassing story that no one in my family will tell, but before he died, my father, Fyodor Vasnetsov, had an affair on the side… No one even knew I was his until he mentioned me in his will."
I raised a single right brow at that, but the con artist wasn't deterred.
"I see you are still sceptical, lady. That's alright! I understand my story is hard to believe. Just look at my wares. I'm estranged right now, or else I wouldn't have ever thought to sell them… They are the only thing I have from my father, after all."
A look of profound sorrow fell on his face, but I've seen the act a dozen of times. 'This is the last thing left from my dead relative, but I really need money, so I sell it now. Please buy it!' Stopped working on me a while ago.
It was my dad who always fell for pitiful displays, even when he knew for sure the seller offered him fakes. Oh, Dad…
I shook my head, banishing my own sorrow, and crouched next to the paintings. "Well then, can I inspect them closer?"
"Of course, of course! Just please, be careful."
I pulled out a magnifying glass out of my pocket. With a corner of my eyes, I found how the con artist's smile tensed. Amateur! He should've realised I was a pro much sooner. It was too late for that now.
I carefully picked up a sketch, a picture of a man sprawled on a couch, tracing its edges with a feather-light touch of my fingers.
"Well, for starters, the paper was clearly aged artificially… and not even very well. The paper bended and curved, which could've only happened with exposure to moisture, but the charcoal didn't smear. Not to mention that the colour of paper suggests that it's decade older than it should be."
I put that sketch away and picked up my next victim. It stood out from others. Instead of simple figures of people just being there, this one pictured a girl in clear agony. It didn't fit with Vasnetsov's style. I reached towards it, but as soon as my fingers touched it, I jerked them away from the searing heat that came from the paper with a gasp.
On reflex, I glanced at my fingers to see if they were alright—but the skin wasn't even pink from the heat that should've left mild burns. And of course, the sketch was still a sketch, not a burning fire or a boiling water. To say that I was mystified was to say nothing.
Something had blocked the sun, distracting me from my thoughts. Alarmed, I lifted my head and turned to look at its source, only to almost fall on my butt from shock. There, clad in all cyan from head to toe, stood no one else but Avarice.
The hot day felt suddenly much chiller, and I couldn't even tell if it was my imagination or not. I couldn't see her expression through the thick veil on her face, but I was ready to swear she wasn't happy to see me.