Darcy
The charcoal pencil feels like an extension of my soul. It whispers across the paper, leaving behind lines that are not memories, but certainties. The design flows from my fingertips, a complex, breathtaking thing I’d spent years perfecting in my other life. A life where it was stolen.
My grandfather leans over my shoulder, his breathing shallow and raspy. He points a trembling, gnarled finger at the sketch.
“This setting,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper. “The prongs are hidden. The gem… it looks like it’s floating. How?”
“It’s a tension setting, but reinforced from beneath. Micro-channels cut by laser,” I explain without looking up. The pencil keeps moving. A matching earring takes shape.
My father stands across the workbench, arms crossed. He looks from my face to the sketch, his brow furrowed with a pragmatist’s worry. “Laser? Darcy, we use hand files and polish. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the future, Father,” I say, finally setting the pencil down. I look at the design. The ‘Dawn’s Embrace’ suite. The first collection Isabella passed off as her own.
“It’s brilliant,” my grandfather breathes, his eyes shining with a craftsman’s admiration. “But it’s… impossible. No one is doing work like this.”
“Not yet,” I say. My voice is steady. “But they will be, in about five years. We’re going to be first.”
My mother wrings her hands, her face a portrait of anxiety. “Darling, this is wonderful, truly. But who would buy such a thing? Who would fund it? Your father is right. We don’t have the resources.”
“She’s right, Darcy,” my father adds, his tone gentle but firm. “These are designs for an empire, not a failing workshop with a month left before the bank takes the door.”
The weight of his words settles in the dusty air. He’s not being cruel. He’s being realistic. But his reality is based on a past I’ve already lived and learned from.
“That’s why we don’t ask for funding,” I say, turning from the workbench. I walk over to a stack of old trade magazines piled on a stool, the ones my grandfather reads for inspiration. I flip through them until I find the latest issue of ‘Modern Jeweler.’
I open it to the centerfold. A glossy, two-page advertisement. I lay it on the workbench for them all to see.
“The Lumina Prize for Jewelry Design,” my father reads aloud. His voice is flat. “The most prestigious award in the world. The entry fee alone…”
“Is ten thousand dollars,” I finish for him. “And the grand prize is a two-million-dollar investment grant and a direct contract to produce a collection under your own name.”
A heavy silence fills the room. Two million dollars. It’s an absurd, impossible number. A lifeline from a fairy tale.
My mother shakes her head slowly. “Darcy, no. The people who enter this… they are the best in the world. Established masters. Prodigies from the finest schools in Antwerp and Milan.”
“I’m better,” I state. It isn’t arrogance. It’s a fact. I have seen the winning designs for the next seven years. I know what the judges are looking for.
My grandfather squints at the page, reading the fine print. His face pales slightly. “It’s sponsored by the Duvall Group. The head judge is Shane Duvall.”
My father lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Of course. Well, that settles it. It’s impossible.”
“Who is Shane Duvall?” my mother asks.
“He’s a shark who swims in a tank of other sharks,” my father says, gesturing vaguely towards the financial district. “He built a luxury empire from scratch in a decade. He’s the Vance family’s greatest rival. They say he’s ruthless. A perfectionist. He once publicly dismantled a Patek Philippe watch at a Swiss auction because he spotted a microscopic flaw in the gearing. The man is a legend. And a monster.”
“Then he will appreciate perfection,” I say, my gaze fixed on the small, black-and-white headshot of the man on the advertisement page. Shane Duvall. Even in the grainy photo, his presence is arresting. Sharp, dark eyes that seem to see right through the camera. A severe, impossibly handsome face that gives nothing away. He’s exactly as I remember from the articles in my past life. An enigma. A kingmaker.
“He will crush you, Darcy,” my father insists. “He has no time for unknowns. They say he despises family businesses, calls them sentimental relics.”
“Let him,” I say, a cold fire igniting in my chest. “Julian thinks we are a sentimental relic. The world thinks we’re finished. I’m tired of being underestimated.”
My grandfather looks from the magazine, to my sketches, and then to me. He sees the resolve in my eyes, the ghost of a life of pain that has forged me into something new.
“The entry fee,” he says, his voice quiet but clear. “I have something put away. For a rainy day.”
“Arthur, no,” my mother gasps. “That’s all you have left.”
“What good is it if our legacy dies?” he counters, his gaze locked with mine. “I have watched this girl draw since she could hold a crayon. I have never seen this. This… certainty. This is not a whim. This is destiny.”
He shuffles over to an old, cast-iron safe in the corner of the room, the one I haven’t seen him open in years. He works the combination with his slow, deliberate fingers. The heavy door groans open.
He pulls out a small, canvas bank bag and places it on the workbench. The sound is a heavy, final thud.
“This is our last shot, little star,” he says, his hand covering mine. His skin is like paper, but his grip is surprisingly strong. “Don’t miss.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. This is it. All of it. The faith of my family, our final hope, all resting on a design that doesn’t exist yet.
I turn back to the empty page next to my first sketches. The ‘Dawn’s Embrace’ is good, but it’s not the one. It’s not the piece that will make Shane Duvall stop and look. For the Lumina, I need a masterpiece.
I pick up the pencil again. My mind goes back, sifting through the years of designs, the knowledge I paid for with my life. And then I find it. The one. The design that came to me in a dream a week before I died. The one I never even had the chance to sketch.
My hand moves, channeling the vision. It’s a necklace. A cascade of impossible geometry, centered around a single, flawless gemstone. It blends the ancient art of filigree with a futuristic structure that seems to defy gravity. It’s a paradox. A declaration.
My family watches in silence as the piece comes to life on the paper. I don’t need to explain it. The design speaks for itself.
When I am finished, I write the name of the piece at the bottom of the page.
‘The Star of Elysia.’
My father picks up the sketch, holding it as if it were a sacred text. He looks at me, his skepticism finally melting away, replaced by pure, unadulterated awe.
“My God, Darcy,” he whispers. “Where did this come from?”
I meet his gaze, the memory of a cold hospital room flashing in my mind. “From a place you would never believe.”
