Pressed thin, it probably didn’t weigh more than six ounces, but, damn, it was beautiful. Sister Geneviève held it reverently, even seemed to be holding her breath, then she extended her hands, balancing the ingot on her fingertips. There was all sorts of delicate designs on the top, including a square stamp on the left end, with a small o above a large capital M. Next, you could see what appeared to be a crown, a fancy V and some pretty and peculiar designs. The ends was curved. Demyan Blanco’s eyes glazed over. The farmer’s lips parted. I kept waiting for him to drool. “Is that . . . ?” The horse trader couldn’t finish. I started to touch it, but the Sister handed it to the farmer, who gripped it in them sweaty hams he called hands, and he staggered back against the corral post. “It is a gold ingot, most likely assayed and minted during the reign of Philip IV.” “How much is it worth?” Blanco asked. Sister Geneviève pointed at the V with her index finger. Demyan Blanco moved closer.
