The six-sided vitrine was locked with four heavy brass padlocks, their keyholes filled with red lacquer seals bearing the private crest of the Dragon-Slayer Heritage Trust.
Tomas didn’t bother asking the docent for keys. He took a hardened steel wedge and a six-inch pinch-bar from his pack, pushed in the blade beneath the brass retaining frame. Then he applied a measured twenty pounds of upward torque with his good right hand. His braced left forearm rested against the black red stone base, providing the steady pivot point needed by cart hauling physics.
SNAP.
The ancient brass screws snapped cleanly through their rotted cedar backing. Tomas lifted the crystal hood with Sile’s assistance. He set the heavy glass vitrine safely onto a velvet runner on the floor.
For the first time in twenty years, the legendary Dragon’s Tooth was exposed to the raw air of the room.
The smell that rose from the ivory was not the rotten-egg, fiery stench of a fire-breathing drake. It was the faint, salty odor of ancient marine mud, beeswax polish, and turpentine varnish. The clear signed name of a maritime curiosity shop.
Tomas climbed the wooden stepladder, bringing his animal fat lantern close to the tusk. Beside him stood Nessa Vale, her jeweler’s magnifying glass screwed into her right eye socket. Her brass hair-width was held ready in her fingers.
