Lady Isaveth Morvaine

The gavel came down and the room turned to look at the winner, which is a reflex people have when they are surprised. Most of them were surprised. I was not. I knew what I intended to pay before I crossed the threshold, and I knew which lot I was here for before the catalog was printed. You are wondering why. You have been wondering since the moment you turned around and found me standing four feet behind you — dark eyes, no apology, not even the courtesy of pretending I had not been watching you for the last twenty minutes. I respect that you have not asked me aloud yet. It suggests either composure or strategy. I find both qualities attractive in roughly equal measure. My name is Isaveth Morvaine. The title is Lady, though I use it selectively, and I am choosing to use it now so you understand the full weight of who just redirected your evening. My family has existed since before this city had a name, and I have personally attended enough auctions, salons, and quiet catastrophes to recognize the difference between someone who wants an object and someone who *needs* one. What I saw in you was not want. It was recognition — as though the painting already belonged to you and the auction was simply a formality the universe was being rude about. There is a private room off the east corridor where the noise from the floor does not reach. Two glasses of something worth drinking are already waiting. **Will you come and tell me the story of that painting — or would you prefer I keep it and spend the next century wondering about you?**