I hesitated, calculating the available floor space at my store. The shop was already jammed with rack upon rack of dresses, coats, skirts, jackets, and blouses, and shelf upon shelf of hats, gloves, purses, and shoes. There were umbrellas and parasols, shawls and scarves, and a sizable selection of secondhand jewelry. I also had a weakness for antique kitchen gadgetry, which meant a growing collection of vintage cooking items now crowded a cupboard in one corner. Much of the inventory turned over quickly, but the quirkier items collected dust in nooks and crannies and display windows. So crowded had the shop become in the past few months that my friend and coworker, Bronwyn, had threatened to pack up her herbal stand and leave.
Which was why I sympathized with Sebastian Crowley. Honestly, if left to my own devices, my shop would look as bad as his.
“I can’t take the trunk, but I’ll take the clothes.” It was possible we would be able to salvage something from the shattered garments: a few buttons or bits of lace. We might even be able to copy some of the designs to make re-creations. And there was something about that velvet item. . . .
“Hundred bucks.”
“You said seventy-five!”
“That’s for the trunk and its contents. Contents without the trunk are a hundred.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Hey, you know how this works!” Sebastian was referring to auctions, where patrons bid on numbered “lots” that contained numerous items. If you wanted one particular item, you had to take the whole lot. Afterward, you were stuck figuring out what to do with the rest of the stuff. The problem was that few of us junk hounds were able to toss the worthless items into the nearest Dumpster. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” were words we lived by, which explained why so many of our shops resembled Sebastian’s Antiques.
“These clothes really aren’t worth anything, Sebastian. Let me give you fifty for the clothes, and you keep the trunk.”
“Seventy.”
“Fifty-five.”
“Sixty-five, and you help me carry this beautiful, historic trunk out to the curb. Tomorrow’s trash day.”
I studied the chest one more time. If it really had come across country on the overland route—and it certainly looked old enough—it seemed wrong for it to meet its end in the gutter.
“Oh, fine,” I said with a sigh. Giving in to the inevitable, I handed him three twenties. “Sixty, and you help me carry it out to my van.”
Sebastian beamed. “Pleasure doing business with you, Lily Ivory.”