“The shop is called The Crooked Reliquary, though no one agrees whether the name refers to the leaning front door, the warped display cases, or the proprietor's habit of tilting his head when appraising an object. It occupies a narrow, soot-darkened building with dusty windows and a bell that rings several seconds after the door opens. The ground floor is packed with chipped statuary, old weapons, cracked mirrors, porcelain animals, brass instruments, and furniture draped in yellowing cloth. A single green-shaded lantern hangs over the counter, leaving the corners in shadow. A steep wooden staircase descends to the basement, where the air smells of damp stone, coal dust, cedar oil, and old paper. The basement contains an appraisal table, locked cabinets, stacked crates, and a disused coal chute partly concealed by shelving. The shopkeeper, Marcellus Rusk, is a cautious human antiques dealer with the statistics of a commoner and the practical instincts of a retired fence. He is thin, silver-haired, impeccably dressed in a patched burgundy waistcoat, and wears spectacles on a chain. Marcellus speaks softly, notices small changes in the placement of objects, and remembers every customer who has tried to haggle dishonestly. His old mastiff, Brindle, sleeps near the basement stairs but wakes at unfamiliar footsteps. Marcellus gladly buys relics, estate goods, old maps, obscure books, and objects with a story, but he refuses obviously cursed artifacts unless the seller explains the danger. He offers a 60 percent purchase price for ordinary goods, 80 percent for items with verifiable provenance, and may trade information instead of coin when an object has political or criminal significance.”