Wild Fiction

‘What about the map?’ he asked putting the pieces into his own pocket. She pulled it out. It was undamaged. ‘Let’s get out of here and find the others. I think we can safely say that we’ve found the cache.’
‘Wait, I want to look around,’ Genevieve said and pulled at the top of a tea chest. She fell back as the lid came loose and James caught her. She tugged out handfuls of bird’s nesting material until the box revealed four jewelled eggs set symmetrically in the square. Elaborate gold braiding encircled each egg and coloured gems and diamonds sparkled in the weak light.
‘They’re Fabergé Eggs,’ James whispered.
‘They’re beautiful,’ Genevieve said picking up a green one and turning it slowly in front of her face. The lime green light reflected across her nose and partly open mouth and stained her teeth a ghostly green. ‘Where are they from?’ she asked.
‘They’re Russian. The one you’re holding is the Azova Egg. Michael Perchin made it in 1891 in the Fabergé workshop. The Czar in Russia at that time was Alexander III and he commissioned it as an Easter gift for his wife, Czarina Maria. There’re fifty six Imperial eggs of which forty-four have been located today and another two that are known to have been photographed.’
‘What’s it made of? Is it solid?’
‘No, each one has a surprise in it. This one has a miniature tall ship. Open it.’
‘How?’ Genevieve asked struggling with the egg.
James took it from her and clicked it open. Inside was a tiny ship with golden masts and silver trimmings.’
‘Ah,’ Genevieve said letting out her breath. ‘Let me hold it.’ She took it from James with two hands and cradled it as if it was a delicate baby bird. Genevieve clicked the egg closed and put it back.
‘What are they worth?’ she asked.
‘Priceless,’ James replied.
After examining each one in detail Genevieve put them back as they had found them and pushed the lid firmly closed. She followed James to the door.
‘Look,’ she said to James pointing to a picture propped up against the wall. The painting was barely visible through the bubble wrap that protected it.
‘My God,’ James said. ‘That’s Dali’s Metamorphosis of Narcissus. Somebody stole that from the Tate Gallery years ago. It’s worth a fortune.’
‘I want to see it properly,’ Genevieve said. ‘Let’s unwrap it.’