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Japanese-occupied Hong Kong

She was simply called the Jeweler. No one knew her name, her age, how long she had been incarcerated on the island, or why she had only nine fingers.

A reed of a figure, she sat on a bench, hunching over a wooden block covered with an array of hand tools, metal plates, and precious gemstones.

Her head bald, her fingers calloused and cracked, she worked—measuring, cutting, soldering—oblivious to the ripples of voices coming from outside her cell, the prismatic lights straggling onto the ceiling, and the cloud of stifling heat pooling in the room.

After she finished crafting—an Art Deco ring, an Edwardian necklace, or an en tremblant brooch—she carved on each piece a minuscule image of a double-headed eagle and four cryptic letters: IMAM.

Rumors about the inscription swirled. Some prisoners whispered they indicated her name, for it was said that the Jeweler was once a world-renowned master designer, her jewelry had been desired and gifted to warlords, tycoons, and royal families around the world, and she was later appointed as the personal jeweler for a wicked princess.

But some prisoners believed the letters were linked to the names of the Jeweler’s lovers. And it was said that she had two lovers: one who had tried to kill her and the other who was murdered by her.

Still, others on the island said that the gossip was all wrong and the engraving was, in fact, a clue to a hidden cache of Romanov treasures and a legendary diamond, which the Jeweler had stolen and secreted away before the war.

Whoever deciphered the carving would be able to pinpoint the location and unearth the priceless hoard.

The Jeweler said nothing; her lips were sealed, her shell-shaped face as mysterious as dawn.

She was silent when the black-uniformed officer who paid her a monthly visit warned and wheedled.

She was mute when the sadistic guard stomped and shouted, the butt of his rifle crashing down onto her back.

She stood still when her food was conveniently slipped into other people’s mouths—a rice ball wrapped in a thin sheet of seaweed, a desiccated fish with withered guts, or occasionally, a hard-boiled egg that would have energized any starving prisoner.

Then, one day, as the flaming sun sank into the vast water and the misty island descended into the night’s deep, despotic shadows, down the muddy lane lined with bones and stones, behind the female prisoners heading toward the rugged valley that would be their grave, the Jeweler heard the familiar echoes in the moaning wind, the whip of snowstorms, and the quiet promise of eternity.

She remembered.