We met again in a smaller room with worse air and better coffee. I placed a single sheet between us. She didn't touch it.
“Let's save time,” I said. “I'll take the brief — on five conditions.”
“One. Scope: I'll target a documentary hit that stitches the 1838–1840 seam — bill of sale, ledger entry, letter, rail or shipping docket, framer's label, presentation record. I'll provide a short chain-of-custody narrative for counsel and lenders.” “Good.”
“Two. Governance: I work alone. Fortnightly written updates. Chain-of-custody logged. No promises on miracles.” “Expected.”
“Three. Time and money: eight weeks. Day rate and expenses. Success fee if the decisive document is obtained or licensed in time for the lenders' packet.” “Sign-off is easy,” she said.
“Four. Scope of findings: anything I turn up that falls outside the portrait's chain — unrelated provenance, adjacent records — stays mine. I'll flag it; I won't hand it over.” A pause. “We can live with that.”
“Five. My own project: I'm running a parallel inquiry — unrelated, private, Victorian-Edwardian. No conflict with your work. No use of your resources. You don't ask about it; I don't mention it.” She held my eye for a long moment. “Agreed.”
She signed where she needed to sign. I signed where I needed to sign. Mercer witnessed without being asked.
“One question,” she said, as she capped her pen. “The parallel inquiry. Is it connected to any of our lenders?” “No,” I said. That part was true. She nodded. “Then start Monday.”