Emma Frost

Returning inside as the night settled, I found a black velvet jeweler's pouch resting beside an open brass ledger lock. Spilling from its mouth was a tiny cache of faceted cubic zirconia stones—an unorganized indulgence simply begging for purpose. Rather than sweep them away, I sat on the polished brass lock case and began sorting each miniature gem by clarity and cut, sliding the sharpest five into a pristine diagonal line across the dark velvet nap. Consider it my private tally of the day's triumphs, darling.