The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
My relationship with my father was hanging by a thread before the funeral. But his final act of cowardliness was a sharp razor blade, severing any fiber of love I had left for him.
The last time I spoke more than three words to him was on the steps of the church, a fresh snowstorm building up momentum around us.
“How could you?” I’d screamed, my frustration snatched away by the wind. “I’m your daughter. How could you let that monster claim me?”
His weary eyes had looked through me. There was no sparkle in his emeralds, and I couldn’t remember a time when there was. What stood in front of me was a defeated man controlled by something much bigger than him.
“Lorcan Quinn,” he had muttered back, as if those two words were explanation enough.
When I shoved him with all of my force, wanting to elicit something—anything—that showed he cared, he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Pops. What the Quinns want, the Quinns get.”
It was also the last time I called him “Dad.” He’s Marcus Murphy to me now.
On my seventeenth birthday, the reality of my future hits me like a ton of bricks. I have one year to figure out a plan and change the fate the Devil bestowed on me. I have to escape the crumbling walk-up I share with the man formerly known as my father. I also have to get as far away as possible, out of Boston and anywhere the Quinn’s power might reach.
But moving means money, something I’ve never had. I have to turn something out of nothing, and then that something into something more.
I’m clambering through the cobbled streets of Beacon Hill one day after school when I see that nothing. It glitters in the low winter sun, forcing me to look at it.
A mirror. Beautiful and broken. The gold, oval frame twists into intricate knots, and the glass is cracked and streaky. It rests against the railings of a townhouse, a damp post-it note stuck to it, flapping in the breeze.
Free. Help urself. :)
I peer up at the towering house, with its polished stone steps, red brickwork, and shiny black door. How rich must you be to discard something so precious?
The next morning, I head into school early, the broken mirror tucked under my arm, and make my way to Mrs. Harjo’s office.
She responds to my shy knock by peering around the door, her caramel eyes widening in surprise. “Hello,” she says politely, “how can I help you?”
I’m not surprised she’s surprised. I’ve never stepped foot inside her woodworking class. But she’s the only person I can think of that might want to help me.
And I was right. Her eyes light up when I show her the mirror, and she ushers me down to her workshop at the bottom of the small grounds. It smells like coffee and sawdust and hope.
She shows me how to sand down the frame, how to cut a new sheet of oval glass with a diamond-tipped scribe. She guides me through her personal collection of paints, oils, and stains, giving me the rundown on what could be used on each material.
Within a few stolen hours before and after school, we restore the mirror.
“It’s French, early nineteenth century, I’d guess,” Mrs. Harjo says, holding up our finished work to admire it. She looks back at herself in the polished glass, at her beautiful olive skin and cascading black hair. “And now, thanks to you, it has a new lease of life.” She places it carefully on the workbench and reaches for some tissue paper to wrap it up in. “This is exactly why I love restoration. Even the most broken things can be beautiful. They just need a little love.”
I nod, something unfamiliar swelling in my chest. Pride. “Thank you, Mrs. Harjo, I’ve learned so much.”
Her face stretches into a warm, easy smile. “What are you going to do with it? I’m sure your parents would love it.”
I skirt around the awkward topic of my family dynamic like I always do. “Actually, I want to sell it. Do you know how I can go about doing that?”
Mrs. Harjo’s eyes meet mine, that smile melting into concern. She pauses for a moment, drinking me in, as if looking at me for the first time. Those kind eyes slide over my so-worn-its-shiny sweater, my sneakers that are busted around the toe because they are two sizes too small. The ratty shoestring holding my thick red hair away from my face.
“I’ll buy it,” she announces. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it.” A pause. “Actually, make it one-fifty.”
Red hot shame burns at my ears. “Oh, no, I wasn’t suggesting—”
She slaps the dust from her overalls in a way that ends the conversation. “One-fifty it is. Come back with me to my office so I can get my wallet.”
When she puts three crisp fifties in my palm, I could cry. It’s my first step towards getting out of here. Getting as far away from Lorcan Quinn as possible.
“Come back to me with another gem soon, all right?”
I do. I head back to the wealthy Beacon Hill area and scour the streets like a hungry stray. Poking holes in the garbage bags that sit against the wrought iron fences, slipping into the back of luxury condos. My next gem is a mantel clock, clad in chipped ebony and sporting broken hands, which me and Mrs. Harjo painstakingly restore to its original eighteenth-century glamour. Then there’s the stained glass lamp— (Venetian, much to Mrs. Harjo’s delight—), and a hand-painted set of Babushka dolls.
“You have a talent for finding beauty in the most unexpected places,” Mrs. Harjo tells me with a smile as she touches up the floral paintwork with a delicate brush.
I may have a passion for finding the piece and learning about its history, but I also find a passion for the business side. Mrs. Harjo couldn’t buy all of my pieces (not on a teacher’s salary, that’s for sure), so she helps me set up an eBay account.
I find the beauty in numbers. The lamp sells first, and watching the bidding war whiz onward and upwards into triple digits sends me dizzy. With the pile of cash growing under my lumpy mattress, scouring the rich parts of town for promising-looking trash turns into browsing flea markets and thrift shops. When I’m not buffing, oiling, or painting in Mrs. Harjo’s workshop, I’m in the library, poring over Basic Business Economics and Starting a Business for Dummies. Return-on-investment, profit-and-loss, price-to-earnings. I fill my brain with the knowledge and vocabulary they don’t teach you in high school, and not just to learn to make money, but to fulfill the second part of my plan too.
Eventually, a thick letter lands in the mailbox.
My acceptance letter to Stanford Business School.
I could collapse under the weight of relief. Three weeks before my eighteenth birthday, I’ll be on the other side of the country, far, far, away from my cowardly father and cockroach-ridden condo.
But most importantly, far, far away from the Quinn territory.
Tears of relief slosh onto the golden ticket in my hands, smearing the ‘C’ in congratulations.
I belong to nobody.
Especially not the Devil.