Klara Devine & Georgina Gee May 2026

Klara adjusted the earpiece hidden beneath her auburn waves. “Georgie, be reasonable,” she whispered to herself, rehearsing the plan. The plan was simple: charm, distract, lift. She was very good at simple.

“I’m listening.”

Georgina chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “Oh, I know. Horrible man. Chews with his mouth open and has the emotional intelligence of a potted fern. But he gave it to my goddaughter, and she gave it to me for safekeeping. She’s young. She made a foolish choice in lovers, not in loot. I won’t see her charged with theft.” klara devine & georgina gee

From her perch by the dormer window, Klara had a perfect view of the garden party below. The cream of London’s antiquities scene milled about on the manicured lawn, sipping champagne and pretending not to hate each other. And there, holding court under a weeping beech tree, was Georgina Gee. Klara adjusted the earpiece hidden beneath her auburn waves

Georgina was a marvel of controlled chaos. Her silver hair was piled into an elaborate beehive, from which a single peacock feather sprouted. She wore a kaftan the color of a bruised plum, and on her left wrist, a jade bangle Klara knew was worth a small flat in Kensington. But Klara’s eyes were fixed on the bag: a tiny, beaded, Art Deco number that looked too delicate to hold a lipstick, let alone the object of her search—the Star of Myrrha, a flawed but historically priceless ruby. She was very good at simple

Klara smiled and walked across the grass, the ruby warm against her hip. She had come for a prize and left with a mirror. And she knew, with absolute certainty, that she would return to Georgina Gee’s house again. Not to steal, but to listen.

Descending the attic stairs, Klara melted into the party. She accepted a flute of bubbles, laughed at a boring baron’s joke, and let the summer breeze guide her toward the weeping beech.