11. Quinn #2
Miriam said nothing. I worried I’d overstepped, but then her face softened, and I felt unexpectedly protective of her.
“You noticed that?”
“I did.”
“Most people just say they like the flowers.”
“The flowers are also good,” I said, because they were. “They’re cut low enough that people can see across the tables. Pretty without pulling too much focus. Whoever chose them understands that a centerpiece shouldn’t become an extra guest at the table.”
Miriam laughed a little unsteadily. “I chose them.”
“Excellent work. On both fronts.”
She looked at the photographs again, and when she spoke, her voice was lighter than her expression.
“I studied architectural design. I used to do exhibit flow and accessibility consulting before I married Georgiana and accidentally became—depending on who’s speaking—charming, decorative, or very energetic. ”
I knew that tone. It was the voice women used when they had been insulted enough times to turn the insult into an anecdote to make it less painful.
“Very energetic is what people call you when they can’t admit you’re good at something they undervalue,” I said, regretting it instantly. I should have made a joke instead. Jokes were easier to hand over. Truth required the other person to decide whether they wanted to hold it.
Thankfully, Miriam smiled. “Exactly. And you?”
“Me?”
“What do they call you when they’re avoiding saying competent?”
I thought of Payton & Wallace. Of coffee orders, jammed printers, and being asked to collate documents by people who didn’t know I’d found a setting on the machine that did half the work for me. I’d made myself useful enough to make people dependent on me, but not always respect me.
“Helpful,” I said with a grimace.
Miriam winced. “Oh, terrible.”
“The worst.”
“Deadly in professional environments.”
“Career quicksand.”
She nodded with complete seriousness. “You have my condolences.”
“Thank you. I’m managing.”
Max leaned against my leg, grounding me, though I hadn’t realized I needed it. The quartet started playing something brighter but no less elegant. Across the ballroom, Rafe had stopped pretending to examine an auction table and was now openly looking in our direction.
Miriam followed my glance. “Are you here for the charity, the museum, or him?”
“The safest answer is the museum.”
“And the less safe answer?”
“I like the charity. Max likes compliments.” I hesitated. “And Rafe needs help with your wife.”
“Ah. About the sword.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Georgiana mentioned his letters. She described them as persistent. And you’re on his legal team?”
“Very junior-ly.” I could hear Moira’s voice in my head and amended, “But informed. I don’t want to overstate my role.”
Miriam studied me, and I got the feeling she liked that answer more than anything else I could have said.
“Why don’t you tell me what you can?”
I glanced at Rafe. I’d promised him eight minutes. I’d almost certainly used more than that. But he hadn’t interrupted. Trust, apparently, could look a lot like a dragon standing beside luxury dog portraits and pretending patience didn’t cost him anything.
“The sword belonged to his family. But it’s more than property to him. It’s history and memory. His great-grandparents fled Japan during the Winged War, and a lot of their relics scattered afterward. Some were traded for safe passage, some lost, some ended up in collections.”
The humor left Miriam’s face, but not the warmth. I chose my next words carefully.
“The public history matters. I know it does. I don’t think Rafe wants to erase that. But right now, the museum has the object, and his family has the absence.”
Miriam looked at the photo display.
I let the silence work. Every instinct in me wanted to keep talking, to solve the pause before it could become rejection. I’d built a life out of making myself useful in other people’s gaps, but sometimes staying quiet was best.
Finally, she said, “That’s a magnificent sentence.”
“I was hoping the truth would do most of the heavy lifting.”
“It usually does, when people let it.”
“Does Georgiana know the full history?”
“She knows the provenance and has studied the acquisition records. She knows all about board obligations and donor politics.” Miriam’s gaze sharpened. “Can he prove the family claim?”
“As far as I understand, yes. There are records, but I’m not the lead attorney, so I don’t want to misstate details.”
“Has he offered a long-term loan arrangement? A replica? Shared display rights?”
“I know he tried direct requests first, and I know he offered to purchase it. I don’t know every term that has been discussed, and I don’t want to invent an answer because it would be convenient.”
Miriam nodded slowly. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Good that you know what not to say.”
“Oh. Thank you. That’s one of my more marketable anxieties.”
Her smile returned as she caught sight of her wife across the room.
Dr. Georgiana Sorel stood near the entrance of the silent auction, silver hair glimmering beneath the chandelier light, her attention divided between three donors. She was an elegant, yet formidable woman, who likely believed strongly in order because order had mostly worked for her.
“Georgiana isn’t cruel,” Miriam said. “But she trusts institutions too much. She thinks if a process exists, and if good people are inside it, then the process must be fair. It’s one of her more exhausting virtues.
” Miriam sighed. “She also hates being cornered. If she thinks Rafe is trying to pressure her publicly, she’ll become completely immovable. ”
“Good to know.”
“No one says stolen in the first thirty seconds.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Rafe might.”
“Rafe might say appropriated.”
Miriam laughed. “Not in the first thirty seconds.”
“Understood.”
“And you lead.”
I blinked. “Me?”
“You’re very good at translating the human part.”
The compliment caught me off guard. I’d spent years being praised for my ability to figure out what people needed before they asked, but this was different. My throat tightened.
“Rafe is the client,” I said.
“He’s the claimant,” Miriam replied. “Right now, you’re the bridge.”
No pressure, then.
Miriam glanced down at Max. “And bring him. Georgiana pretends to be immune to charm,” Miriam said, “but she lies about that more than she realizes.”
“I’ll keep his tie centered for maximum impact.”
“Good. She respects preparation.”
“Rafe will be thrilled to hear that. Preparation is his love language.”
The sentence escaped before I could stop it.
Miriam’s brows rose.
I closed my eyes briefly. “Professional love language.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
I laughed, nervous now, and looked across the room. Rafe’s attention found mine instantly, and I saw the questions in his eyes. Are you all right? Did it work? Should I come over?
Miriam touched my arm lightly. “Come on.”
As we started toward him, Max marched at my side with senior-counsel dignity, and I let myself feel a small spark of triumph.
I hadn’t charmed anyone’s pants off. Technically, all trousers remained in place, which was best for the legal integrity of the evening.
But I’d found the door, and the door had opened when I knocked.
Miriam Sorel took my hand as if we had known each other for years and were merely late to something mildly scandalous. It said, Come along, darling, I know where the knives are kept and which ones are decorative.
Across the room, Rafe straightened when he saw us coming, his attention sharpening. He looked at all three of us, as if checking for injury, insult, or possibly treason. When he found none, something in his jaw eased.
I hadn’t realized I wanted him to see that I’d done it.
Not won. Not yet. But found the door.
Miriam lifted her free hand toward him. “Mr. Virelli.”
“Mrs. Sorel,” Rafe said, stepping toward us. His voice was formal, but his eyes moved to me for one brief second. “Ms. Bradley.”
“Mr. Virelli.” Apparently, we were all pretending I hadn’t recently put my hand on his chest and reorganized my nervous system around it.
Miriam looked between us and smiled in a way I didn’t trust.
“Come,” she said. “Georgiana is about to be trapped by a donor who wants to discuss naming rights for the archives. If we move now, she may thank us later.”
We crossed the ballroom together. Rafe fell into step beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushed mine. I didn’t look at him. Looking would have been unprofessional. Also, I didn’t trust my face.
Dr. Georgiana Sorel was taller than Miriam by several inches, willowy and elegant, with piercing eyes and the kind of posture that made everyone around her remember their mothers had once told them to stand up straight.
She was listening to a man in a navy tuxedo talk about endowment structures.
Miriam squeezed my hand, then released it.
“Georgiana,” she said.
Dr. Sorel turned. Her gaze landed on Miriam first, softened almost imperceptibly, then moved to Rafe and went professional. When it reached me, it didn’t dismiss me, exactly, but it sorted me quickly: young, unfamiliar, not donor class, standing beside the dragon claimant and a very dignified dog.
“Darling,” Dr. Sorel said. “I’m in the middle of?—”
“I know.” Miriam smiled. “You’re always in the middle of something.”
The donor in the navy tuxedo laughed uncertainly.
Dr. Sorel didn’t. “Mr. Virelli and I have already agreed that his office should contact Elaine.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Miriam said.
Dr. Sorel’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not Elaine.”
“Thank God,” Miriam said. “Elaine has suffered enough tonight.”
Dr. Sorel’s attention shifted to Max. For one second, the severity of her face rearranged itself around surprise. “And this is?”
“Maximus Decimus Aurelius Bradley,” I said. “Max, mostly. Retired military. Excellent tie model.”
Max sat. Show off.
Dr. Sorel looked down at him, and to her credit, she didn’t immediately reach. “He is remarkably composed.”
“He practices,” I said.
“Unlike several trustees,” Miriam added.
“Not now,” Dr. Sorel said quietly.