I found the pawnbroker’s shop with relief, and hurried into a dim wilderness of dusty treasures. Jewelry and blown glass glittered on the shelves; furniture cluttered the floor, and paintings leaned against the walls. The proprietor bent over a conch shell wrapped with copper wire, a frown further creasing his already lined face. A few wisps of white over his ears were the last legacy of his hair.

I approached, glancing at the shell. “It’s broken.”

He scowled. “Is it? I should have known. He asked too little for a working one.”

“Half the beads are missing.” I pointed to a few orbs of colored glass still threaded on the wire. “You’d need an artificer to fix it if you wanted it to play music again.”

The pawnbroker looked up at me, and his eyes widened. “Lady Amalia Cornaro.” He bowed as best he could in the cramped shop.

I glanced around, but we were alone. “Please, no need for formality.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you in, ah, such attire.” He peered dubiously at my breeches. “Though I suppose that’s the fashion for young ladies these days.”

Breeches weren’t remotely in fashion for young ladies, but I didn’t bother correcting him. I was just grateful they were acceptable enough in my generation that I didn’t have to worry about causing a scandal or being mistaken for a courtesan.

“Do you have the book?” I reminded him. “Muscati’s Principles of Artifice, your note said.”

“Of course. I’d heard you were looking for it.” A certain gleam entered his eye with which I was all too familiar: Cornaro gold reflected back at me. “Wait a moment, and I’ll get it.”

He shuffled through a doorway to the rear of the shop.

I examined the shell. I knew enough from my studies of artifice to trace the patterns of wire and understand the spell that had captured the sound of a musical performance inside the shell’s rune-carved whorls. I could have fixed a broken wire, perhaps, but without the inborn talent of an artificer to infuse new beads with magical energy, the shell would stay silent.

The pawnbroker returned with a large leather-bound book. He laid it on the table beside the conch shell. “There you are, my lady.”

I flipped through the pages until I came to a diagram. Muscati’s combination of finicky precision in the wirework schematics and thick, blunt strokes for the runes was unmistakable. I let out a trembling breath. This was the real thing.

The pawnbroker’s long, delicate fingers covered the page. “Is all in order, then?”

“Yes, quite. Thank you.” I laid a gold ducat on the table. It vanished so quickly I almost doubted I’d put it there.

“Always a pleasure,” he murmured.