The Prize
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The Prize
Previous post: n/a
This post is dedicated to the public domain.
The footsteps neared the top of the stairs. Sybil slipped the drawer closed as quietly as she could and nonchalantly resumed her seat on the desk.
A moment later, Victor and Mr. Crouchfeld entered the study. Victor was smiling furiously, bearing aloft a plain rectangular box made of thick grey cardboard; the sort photographic paper is kept in. It was evidently heavy. Mr. Crouchfeld hovered behind him, visibly nervous.
“See, my dear,” Victor’s smile flashed wider as he deftly slid the box onto the desk beside her with a soft thump, “it wasn’t really hard a’tall.” He planted one hand atop it, posessively.
“You still haven’t told me what you intend to do with it!” Mr. Crouchfeld protested hoarsely, sweat creeping down his double chin.
Victor’s smile vanished. “That’s not your concern.”
The fat man’s lips twitched, but he said nothing.
“Victor,” Sybil interjected, running a hand down his shoulder, “may I see it?”
Victor looked at her and his well-oiled smile returned. “Yes… yes, I don’t see why not.” Still smiling, he turned back to Mr. Crouchfeld. “She may see it, mayn’t she?” he asked, mockingly.
Without waiting for an answer, Victor switched on the desk lamp and angled it over the box. Next to him, Sybil slid off the desk onto her feet to get a better look.
“I wouldn’t… it gets dangerously cold under light…” Mr. Crouchfeld finally managed.
“We’re not going to touch it,” Victor snapped dismissively. In the next moment, he had gingerly lifted the lid of the box and set it to one side on the desk. Inside lay a dim black mass packed around the edges with stained yellow paper.
It was a large fragment of waxy black stone, flaked like obsidian, but darker, without the lustre. Sybil found it unexpectedly difficult to look away. The floor creaked as even Mr. Crouchfeld sidled closer to see.
Victor clutched the edge of the desk and slid down into a crouching position until his eyes were almost level with the rim of the box. There were already tiny drops of condensate forming on the face of the stone.
“Pure Chthonium,” he said in a small voice, lost somewhere between glee and reverence.
Continued:
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