Two weeks of daily scrubbings alternating with vinegar soaks had finally removed the centuries of grime, but she was far from satisfied. Wrapping her hand around the ridged handle, she stared. What the devil was it? A rod protruded from each end, terminating in a flattened finger. Both rods and fingers were oddly bent. Were they supposed to be that shape, or had something deformed them? She turned her fist, scrutinizing the piece from every angle. The handle fit too comfortably to be meant for anything but gripping. The silver inlays spoke of wealth. If it was a tool, its owner must have been high-ranking. But what could a tool like this do? The fingers were too blunt for piercing, too sharp for crushing, and too flat to use as spoons. Besides, why would anyone attach two, at opposite ends of the handle? Surely that would be awkward to use. Perhaps it was a door pull – yet she could detect no way to attach it. “Damn all men to perdition,” she muttered, pacing her workroom. Identifying this was impossible.
