Chapter 69
Serena
I pulled the wireless presentation remote from my jacket pocket—a sleek black device that felt like a weapon in my palm. The small act of preparation, of having anticipated this moment enough to bring the remote, seemed to shift something in the room's energy.
"Let's start with something straightforward," I said, clicking to the next image. "Lot 152. Tang Dynasty sancai-glazed horse. Circa 700-750 CE."
The screen filled with the image of a ceramic horse, its tri-color glaze still vibrant after thirteen centuries—amber, green, and cream flowing together in that characteristic Tang aesthetic.
"The craftsmanship indicates imperial workshop production," I began, my voice steady as I fell into the familiar rhythm of analysis. "Note the musculature definition in the legs, the delicate modeling of the facial features. This isn't merchant-grade pottery—this is aristocratic burial ware."
I clicked the remote, zooming in on specific details. "The glaze composition shows lead content consistent with high-status Tang pieces. There's minor restoration on the left rear hoof, professionally done, which actually increases rather than decreases value because it shows proper conservation."
I paused, meeting Dr. Reeves's eyes. "Comparable sales: Christie's Hong Kong sold a similar piece in 2019 for $2.8 million. Sotheby's had one go for $3.1 million in 2021. Given this specimen's superior condition and documented provenance through the Ellsworth collection—" I named the specific collector, watching recognition flicker across the consultants' faces, "—I'd estimate current market value at $3.5 million. Conservative range: $3.2 to $3.9 million depending on auction dynamics."
Dr. Reeves's eyebrows rose. She glanced at her colleagues, then back at me. "That's... remarkably specific."
"I can be more specific if you'd like the breakdown of how I weighted the condition factors versus provenance strength." I kept my tone light, professional. "Or we can move on?"
"Move on," Dr. Reeves said, something new entering her voice. Respect, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
I clicked to the next piece. And the next. And the next.
A Monet water lilies study—"Late period, 1920-1922 based on the brushwork looseness and the particular shade of violet he favored after his cataract surgery progressed. The stretcher bars are original, which is rare for pieces from this period. Market value: $8.2 million, comparable to the study that sold at Phillips London last year."
A Ming Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar—"Xuande mark and period, which is crucial because there are thousands of later pieces with false Xuande marks. But this one's authentic—the cobalt blue is that specific imported Persian variety they used before 1435, and the dragon has five claws, indicating imperial commission. The hairline crack on the shoulder is stable and actually documented in the 1960s Sotheby's catalog when it was first sold internationally. Value: $6.7 million."
A Rothko color field painting—"From his classic period, 1954. The orange and yellow composition, not the darker palette he moved to later. Canvas authentication through the Rothko estate, which adds significant value. Minor fading on the upper right quadrant, consistent with light exposure, but stable under UV analysis. Current market range: $12 to $15 million, I'm estimating $13.8 million as the likely hammer price at auction."
With each piece, I felt my confidence building. This was what I'd been trained for. What I loved. The consultants were leaning forward now, their skepticism transforming into something else entirely.
Dr. Reeves was actually taking notes.
The board members had gone quiet, their earlier dismissiveness replaced by what looked almost like shock. Morrison's frown had disappeared. Ms. Chen was nodding along with my explanations.
Even Lance—when I dared glance at him—was watching with an expression I couldn't quite read. Pride? Satisfaction? Something more?
But Felix and Wesley looked like they were watching their execution being scheduled. Wesley's face had gone from smug to increasingly pale. Felix's smile had frozen into something brittle.
I clicked to the next piece, riding the wave of momentum.
"Lot 287," I began, then stopped.
A maritime chart filled the screen—yellowed parchment, creased and stained, the ink faded but still legible. Coastal outlines, depth soundings, navigational notations in what looked like 18th-century script.
"This is an 18th-century nautical chart of the Chesapeake Bay region," I said, studying the image with the same careful attention I'd given every other piece. "Original hand-drawn map, dated 1781 based on the cartographic style and the specific notations. The paper is period-correct laid paper with the right watermark for British colonial production."
I zoomed in on various features. "You can see the depth soundings here, marked in fathoms. The coastal landmarks that match historical records. And there's significant damage—" I indicated the dark stains along one edge, the worn creases, the overall fragile condition. "—which obviously affects value. But given its historical significance as a primary source document from the Revolutionary War period, and the rarity of surviving maritime charts from this specific campaign—"
I paused, calculating. "Estimated value: $5 million."
The silence that followed felt different. Heavier.
Dr. Reeves stood up slowly, moving closer to the screen. Her expression had shifted from impressed to... skeptical? No. Critical.
"Miss Vance." Her voice carried a new edge. "You've been remarkably accurate so far. Truly impressive. Your knowledge of the pieces, your understanding of market dynamics—" She paused. "But I have to call you out on this one."
My stomach dropped.
"This chart?" She gestured at the screen. "Look at the condition. The edges are severely damaged. There's what appears to be significant staining—" she pointed to the dark marks I'd noticed, "—and the paper has been folded so many times it's nearly falling apart at the creases. By industry standards, this is a piece in poor to fair condition at best."
She turned to face me directly. "Maritime charts from this period, even rare ones, typically sell for $20,000 to $50,000 in good condition. In this condition?" She shook her head. "Maybe $30,000 if you find the right collector. But $5 million? That's not just optimistic—that's irresponsible valuation."
Morrison seized on the moment like a shark smelling blood. His face darkened, that earlier skepticism flooding back. "Every dollar in this acquisition requires board approval, Miss Vance. We're not in the business of throwing millions at damaged goods because they look historically interesting."
Felix leaned back in his chair, and I could see the satisfaction radiating from him like heat. "You see? This is exactly the kind of amateur mistake I was concerned about. All the Yale credentials in the world don't replace actual experience in high-stakes acquisitions."
Wesley's expression transformed—defeat giving way to something almost gloating. "Uncle Lance, I think this proves she's out of her depth. One lucky streak of accurate valuations doesn't—"
"That's not a stain."