Per 
The Covent Garden Antiquarian Society
Est. 1604 - A Gentlemen's Establishment
for Collectors of Items Both Macabre and Sublime
The Thief
The enigma box was full to overflowing. Nobody called it that - nobody except Myron. Here, they tossed the extras and the came-withs. Items to be looked at someday - but which no one ever took the time for.
This was Myron's private trove of marvels. Where he came to dream. His beloved treasures, spread out across the floor around him. As beautiful to him as any of their more desirable trinkets. As-yet-unknowns - beguiling in their possibility. Underrated. Each one of them bright with such prospective mystery and wonder…
Today… A gaudy gold-plate ring, no doubt confiscated from some mustacioed dandy. Myron tried it on, then placed it gently - almost lovingly - onto the pile.
A locket with a musty loop of hair inside. The clasp was loosened, almost broken. The hair - perhaps it had been auburn. Hard to tell.
The box was buried underneath. A silver snuff container with no tag to give it context. On the lid, the ridges coiled and rolled like waves.
Adrift in a sea of anonymity. Myron twisted his lips into a smile.
Empty - although an aromatic hint of rose-scented tobacco still clung to it. He inhaled, vicariously partaking in the pleasures of its past. Myron closed his eyes - as the box warmed in his hands, the fragrance seemed to bloom. Reluctantly, he closed the lid. Paused. Tucked it in his pocket. Better that he took it with him. Nobody would miss it. No one ever did.
Myron's maybes. All of them were almost nothing - at least to anyone else. Most would have found their way into the basement - the repository at best. None had made it past the enigma box.
"Any luck, man?" A broad hand clapped down on Myron's shoulder. He stumbled slightly and the taller man gripped him, holding him steady.
"No, Sir. I - "
"Always good to check, though. Never know what we could be missing, eh?" The pressure on his shoulder seemed to slowly build. He felt his knees begin to buckle. "Good man. Good stuff young… Morton, is it?"
"Myron, Sir."
Professor Tilcott nodded. "Of course. Good stuff."
The snuff box tapped insistently against his leg. As the Professor turned to leave, Myron reached into his jacket pocket, cradling it between his fingers and his palm.
It had started on the Friday morning. It hadn't surprised Myron that nobody else had noticed. Sometimes, it amazed him that they managed to recall their names or the way to thread their laces. He had taken notes: A stain missing from his favourite suit. Two pens where he had left out three. At lunch, his tea had tasted better – perhaps a little sweeter than he usually had it.
It was mid to late afternoon when he remembered the box. He'd slipped his jacket on to run some errand or other, reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and found it there. Had he forgotten to put it with the others?
No matter. Myron checked to be sure he was alone, then lifted the lid. Inhaled the now-familiar sweetness, then tucked it back inside his jacket. The box was finer than a junior all-rounder could afford. Somebody might ask questions.
Back in the office, Nora Dawson had been waiting for him.
“The Professor has be asking after you. He sent down a file for your attention.” Her tone was tinged with casual curiosity. Nora knew everything of interest which happened within the Society offices. Myron wondered doubted whether, before today, she'd known his name.
“Thank you, Ms Dawson.” He tried to make the words sound genuine. Instead, they seemed dismissive, almost rude. Nora hesitated for a moment, then turned away. Her heels echoed her annoyance on the hardwood flooring.
The file itself was nothing out of the ordinary – a routine fix-and-file submitted by some operative, too keen to head back out to cross his 't's or use appropriate punctuation. The item was interesting enough, although the words did it no justice – a legendary sword found in some dried-up lake. The conservators were working to restore the guard and pommel. He would visit it once they put it on display – inevitable given the number of myths he was able to append to its file.
“Ah, Morton! Found us any treasures this morning?”
Myron jumped. His shoulders tensed in preparation for another good-natured mauling. Instead, a hand reached past him to the file he'd added to the communal 'out' pile just a moment before.
“No, Sir!”
“Well, there's time – and plenty of it.” Professor Tilcott raised his voice. “Old Morton here has a knack for it!” A nearby runner met Myron's eye. He couldn't tell whether the look was envious or sympathetic – maybe both.
“Hm. Yes.” As he had flipped from one page to the next, the Professor nodded. Occasionally, he smiled or frowned. Myron found himself trying to anticipate the reason for each overblown expression.
Then -
“Damn good read, lad. Eh? A man of many talents by the look of it!” Myron fought the urge to dodge the pat which landed in the centre of his back, knocking him fully two steps forwards. “Well – don't let me keep you. Carry on, man. As you were.”
As the Professor left, Myron exhaled slowly. His ribs felt bruised through to his sternum and his hands were shaking. He thrust them into his pockets to hide them. Ran his thumb across the textured silver 'til he felt his heartbeat start to settle.
After that, there had been more files sent for Myron Gregory by name. He had barely wondered how the Professor learned his name – too busy, almost, for any wonders. Almost any.
It had to be the box.
His list of changes grew to fill a notebook. Doors held open for him. Passing greetings in the corridors – never quite friendly, but polite. Three pens where once there had been two. At night, he thanked the box. Slept with it underneath his pillow. By day, it nestled in his pocket. He tried to touch it less – afraid he'd smooth the silver with his fingers – but he couldn't help it. More and more, Myron found himself reaching for its subtle reassurance. The familiar repetition of the swirls and knots. The only thing which didn't change - excepting Myron himself, of course.
At night, the scent escaped to permeate his bedsheets. A rose-drenched room. His dreams became feverish and he would wake to darkness, filled with anxieties and wild theories. In those dreams, he shifted sideways through realities which grew ever-more-removed and strange to him. Each time, he took the place of another Myron Gregory – and when he moved on, just an empty place where the other Myron should have been. He had to stop. He couldn't. How could anybody take the risk of going from eraser to erased? Besides -
By dawn, the anxieties would fade away. The changes, for the most part, had been for the better. The box was his. It loved and served him. He only had to trust that it would not betray him. To let it take him ever further beyond his natural reach. Who could blame him for simply allowing it to happen?
Within a year, he had an office. The Professor – Howard – had picked it for him. Without the box, though, Myron knew it never would have happened. The world of strangeness seemed to open up to him - beautiful relics found their way onto his desk for his inspection. Reports were sent for his approval and attention - tantalising details of the treasures he could visit when the fancy took him.
He owed the snuff box everything he had. When his door was locked, he placed it on his desk and took time to admire the craftsmanship. The triumph of British silverworking.
When the changes stopped, Myron had thought his world was ending.
He had long since stopped recording the changes. Instead, he simply remembered what to thank the box for. Lists of details which became a handful, then a rarity. Then – three days with nothing.
Have I become so disastrously complacent? For the next week, he had searched for them. Counted his pens and checked his papers. Run his finger all around his jacket stitching, even. Something had to be different. Something.
The box was still there. Still polished and undamaged. Unless - He wondered, this time had it changed itself? Or was this box a copy? The real one out there in the hands of some unscrupulous character or other. Or else – worst of all - in the hands of another nightmarish Myron Gregory, waiting to come and take everything from him?
He had to know. He had to.
The initial report was already written, locked away in the top drawer of his desk. Myron had added the date and sent it for immediate consideration. When his shaking hands reached into his jacket for their habitual comfort, there was nothing there to comfort them. His fingers twisted at the lining until it tore. Worried at the threads. He hadn't dared to label it as urgent in case it attracted too much attention. Instead, he hoped his name would be enough to move it up the queue.
The Covent Garden Repository
Containment Strategy: Recommend a locked repository container - the item is to be stored herein.
Description: The item in question is a silver snuff box dated by style to the mid-18th century. The item demonstrates an anomalous property as follows:
When opened, the box produces a pleasant and enduring scent with mildly addictive properties. This scent endures despite thorough cleaning.
No further properties have manifested to date. No further testing is recommended or required.
Discovery: Upon investigation of Uncategorised Items Store 2.
They returned the box to him with their 'report'.
A nice little thing. Somebody had noted in pencil on the accompanying label. Myron had put in a request to keep it - approved, though he was warned to open it infrequently. He had displayed it on his desk at first, then removed it when the constant reminder became too much. As if he could forget his painful inadequacies - without it's assistance, he was nothing.
For a while, his pleasure trips to the repository had turned to desperation. He had searched the shelves and records for protection - or else something else to make him more. There, he had cradled relics in his arms and felt echoes of the comfort that the box had given him - and which it stubbornly withheld now that it had become too ordinary.
Myron Gregory did not belong here. It had been so long he had almost to hope that it no longer mattered. Now… Dillard would be coming for him - or else he already was. Impossible to know how long he had. Impossible to breathe.
His office seemed too small. The air too stale and bitter. Myron left his jacket behind, making his way almost without thinking along familiar corridors. The stair rail was familiar but uncomforting. He gripped it tightly, feeling as if at any moment he might fall.
The repository was the Purgatory of relics. Here, the society stored those items to ornate or precious for the basement, but not quite worthy of being on display. Myron made his way between identical rows cabinets - ornately made, but dull with dust except where Myron's handkerchief had wiped them.
Nothing new today. His hand paused for a moment at one handle, then moved one drawer to the left. Instinctively, he reached out for that once-familiar comfort.
When he pulled the drawer out, it was already empty.
Myron howled - and the repository echoed back its sympathies.
