Brancati did not look at the paper.
That was the thing. He looked at the painting, and then at the examination table, and then at Mara's gloved hand — and his eyes passed over the strip of paper she was holding with the smooth, practiced indifference of a man who had decided, before he crossed the threshold, that he was not going to look at it.
Which meant he already knew it was there.
"The work appears to be going well," she said, because someone had to speak first, and she was not going to let it be him on his own terms.
"I hope so." He came fully into the room — unhurried, at ease, the glass held in a way that suggested he had forgotten it was there. He stopped a few paces from the easel and looked at the painting with the slightly abstracted appreciation of a man examining something he has seen many times. "It's a remarkable piece. I've always thought so. There's a quality to the light — the way it handles the window — that I find genuinely moving."
"It has considerable quality," Mara said. She kept her hand still. She had not moved the paper and she was not going to move it, because moving it would tell him she thought it needed moving.
"Cantor acquired it in 1988," Brancati said, still looking at the painting. "He was very particular about what he took on. He had an eye — a real one, not the performed kind." A slight pause. "Did you know him? Professionally?"
"I didn't."
"A loss. He was the kind of man who improved a room." He turned from the painting and looked at her with the full warmth of his attention, which was considerable. "I wanted to check in — to make sure you have everything you need. It can be a somewhat isolated experience, working alone in a house that isn't yours."
"I have everything I need," she said.
He smiled. It reached his eyes just far enough to be convincing. "Good." He glanced at the examination table — at the folder, the instruments, the UV lamp — and let his gaze pass across her hand one more time without arriving at it. "The documentation is complete, I hope? The 1948 provenance was always the most — opaque section of the chain. I want to ensure it isn't causing you difficulty."
"It's being addressed," she said.
"Of course." He nodded, as though this were entirely expected. "If there's anything I can provide — additional documentation, contacts at the archive in Milan — please don't hesitate." He took a small sip from the glass. "Authentication work requires trust between the specialist and the estate. I want you to feel that trust."
The canal moved outside. The paint on the easel caught the late afternoon light and did not move at all.
"I appreciate that," Mara said.
He held her gaze for a moment longer than courtesy required. Then he smiled again, made a small gesture of departure, and crossed back toward the door. He paused at the threshold.
"I should mention," he said, with the air of someone remembering something minor, "that there was a man in the corridor earlier. When I was coming up — younger, dark jacket. He asked one of the staff about the studio. I had him shown out." A brief, regretful expression. "We've had some interest from press since Emilio's death. People finding angles. I hope he didn't disturb your work."
"No one disturbed my work," she said.
"Good." He nodded once more and left.
She listened to his footsteps on the stone floor of the corridor — unhurried, even, becoming gradually inaudible. She waited another thirty seconds. Then she looked down at the paper in her hand.
