Gemotions

The antique music box gleamed under the overhead light, its inlaid mother-of-pearl catching the rays. Uncle George was rambling on, explaining the provenance of the piece, the details of its mechanism. I steepled my fingers, listening patiently, the slight twitch in my lip the only indication of my contentment. He wanted to sell it – to fund his new… venture. Good riddance, I thought, to that trinket.

“So, what do you think, Amelia?” Uncle George finished, beaming. He expected a protest, a plea.

I unfolded my hands and smiled. “It's… lovely, Uncle. And yes, absolutely. You should do what you need to do.” His face fell, he opened his mouth, but I kept my tone breezy. “Here,” I said, pointing at the bill of sale already prepared and on the coffee table. “I’ll fill out the relevant spaces. Just your signature.”