Sunlight from a large, north-facing window illuminated a long table covered in instruments: powerful magnifying glasses, brass scales, small vials of chemicals, and delicate tweezers. Prescott stood with his arms folded, watching the man work. He had been here for over an hour, an observer to a meticulous examination.
The authenticator, a small, balding man named Mr. Finch, had the intense, focused eyes of a jeweler. He pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose and finally straightened up from his work, a low sigh escaping his lips. He looked at Prescott, his expression a mixture of certainty and genuine fascination.
