Sea mist hanging under a small violet sun.
The drops are what decided everything. Two kite-shaped Peruvian opals, pale seafoam green shading toward blue, translucent in places and cloudy in others, with faint darker mottling drifting through them like weather over shallow water. Peruvian opal never flashes the way Australian opal does — it just glows softly and keeps its mystery, which I prefer.
They are not a matched pair and I didn't want them to be. One carries more of the darker mottling than the other, and when they hang together the asymmetry is the first thing you notice and the last thing you'd change. I don't hide what nature left in a stone; more often than not it turns out to be the reason the piece works.
Above each one I set a round amethyst cabochon in deep, unhesitating violet — the composed stone in this trio, and the only one with real saturation. Beside it sits a tiny bright teal chrysoprase, no bigger than a seed. That little green dot is my favorite thing here: it's fresh and optimistic and completely unnecessary, and without it the whole design reads colder. I shaped every curve of the kite bezels by hand to follow those four straight edges, and finished each drop with a single silver ball at the lowest point — a full stop, nothing more. Granulated balls flank the amethysts, worked one at a time.
On the ear they move constantly and catch light from underneath, so the opals keep shifting between green and blue. They feel elegant but easy — the sort of earrings you can wear with a shirt on a Tuesday and not feel overdressed.
Hanging from sterling fish-hook wires. Three stones, hand-matched from what I had in front of me, in a pairing I can't assemble again.
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Ready to give as a gift.
