The café on St. John's Lane was half-empty, the hiss of the espresso machine filling the gaps in conversation. Mercer was already there, back to the wall, coat folded neatly on the chair beside him. He looked like a man who never had to hurry.
“Mr Breidenthal.” He stood as I approached, offered a hand. I ignored it and sat down.
“First,” I said, “thanks for giving me the week.”
He inclined his head. “You made good use of it, I trust?”
“I did,” I said. “Which makes me wonder — why track me to Cambridge when we already had this meeting set?”
Mercer didn't flinch. “Professional habit. We like to know where our interests are headed.”
I stopped, the word hitting harder than I expected. “Interests? Let's get something straight — I'm not a stock, and I'm not yours to manage.”
His smile thinned, but he didn't back down. “Poor choice of words.” “No,” I said. “Perfect choice. Tells me exactly how you think. Here's how this works: you want a deal, you treat me like a partner, not an asset. Otherwise, we're done.”
A pause. Then the smile returned, smooth as glass. “Fair enough. Partners, then.”
“Access,” he said. “Introductions. Channels that open doors others can't.” He let the words settle, then added, almost casually: “We can open doors — even at Windsor.”
For the first time, Mercer looked wrong-footed. “I… assumed,” he said, then caught himself. “Given who I represent.”
“And who's that?” He hesitated, then let it slip. “The National Gallery.”
That landed like a stone in a still pond. Not just money — cultural authority. I kept my voice level. “Never figured they'd care about what I do.”
“They care,” Mercer said. “More than you think.”
“Here's the deal: you get first look at anything Victorian and significant. But I work alone. I decide what's worth sharing. And if I think something shouldn't leave my hands, it doesn't.” He nodded slowly. “Agreed.”
Outside, the air was sharp with the promise of rain. I walked back toward the river, wondering if I'd just bought myself freedom — or a leash.