“Perhaps you just imagined it. Ah, well. It’s a blessing, in a way. You didn’t damage anything of real value. This wasn’t a Ming or a Satsuma, or even a Mueller or Hoyt.” Turning over the base of the vase, which is visible through the cracked cross section to be rather unevenly thrown, thicker on one side. Etched into the soft clay before firing are what appear to be initials, “D.L.”
“A keepsake, you see. Of no monetary value.” A shrug that causes her silken hair to ripple over her shoulders. “Now, if it was the piece in the front hall, ah. That one you’d need to work your hands down to the bone - or pebbles, as it may be - to repay, if you even could.” A soft pat on a shoulder, reassuring.