Jewel: Science Fiction

The jeweler--if you could call one who abused his profession so religiously a jeweler (he insisted that he was simply returning to the historical roots of his profession)--pushed away the velvet tray cradling the jewel and flipped his loupe up. "It's fake," he said flatly. "No," she said numbly, "no, that's not possible. He loved me and this, keeping and getting this, this was the reward for--I can't tell you, but I almost died. Those dear tome did. It was the last thing he did, passing this into my hands. It can't possibly be fake. He said he would find me, he's following on the next ship out. He'll be here in six months. I tell you, it's not possible that it's fake. I need this to live off of until then." The jeweler sighed and looked at her with sad old eyes that looked like they'd seen an awful lot of the world before deciding to stick with inanimate stones. "I can give you 10o credits for it, and I might be able to sell it as costume jewelry." She reached out and grabbed it without thinking, wrapping her hands around it. Maybe he was just trying to rip her off, to get her valuables for nothing. She bolted from the shop without responding, and the soft sound of the door shushing closed behind her sounded like a sigh.


Inspiration: The little fake jewel on my desk.
Story potential: Low.
Notes: It's not a jewel, it is valuable, she won't find that out until she's gone through a lot of hell.