“Okay. Wow,” Ezra says slowly. “Mordechai’s ring”
“It’s like the weight of history is sitting in your hand,” Ezra says, glancing over at Gabe’s palm.
Gabe turns the ring over, examining the thick flat top of the signet and the ornate patterns of the ring. He’s had this artifact memorized since he was a kid, knows every last millimeter of it. There had been that time when he’d theorized that it was hiding in plain sight, in another museum display.
It had been hiding in plain sight, on the not-Cohen Shabbos table every week.
“The strongest proof that this isn’t a copy is that it hasn’t corroded after all these years. No one’s been taking care of it or cleaning it. It’s pure gold.” He leans back against the passenger seat. “But Stefan will confirm it. He’s one of the best in the business.”
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