Justice of the Supreme War God

Chapter 33: The Port PART 1

Elizabeth Steel's residence was the kind of house that had stopped trying to impress people sometime in the previous century and had settled, with considerable comfort, into simply being what it was.

Three stories of Federal-style architecture set back from the road behind mature oak trees, it communicated age and stability in the way that only buildings occupied by the same family across multiple generations could — not the aggressive newness of constructed wealth, but the settled, undemonstrative confidence of something that had survived long enough to stop caring about appearances.

Marcus arrived at ten in the morning.

The alternative had been the villa, where Diana had been conducting a masterclass in pointed silence since the previous evening — not the absence of conversation, but the specific, managed kind that communicated more than conversation would have.

She had come downstairs for coffee without looking at him. She had collected her bag without looking at him. She had left for the office without looking at him.

He had looked at her.

He had noted the slight tightness around her eyes that she wouldn't acknowledge was from insufficient sleep, and the way she held her coffee cup with both hands for approximately three seconds longer than she needed to before releasing it, which was a thing she did when she was running a calculation she hadn't resolved yet.

She was thinking about what he had said.

She didn't believe him yet. But she was thinking about it.

He had filed that under sufficient for now and accepted Elizabeth Steel's invitation.

The butler showed him to a sitting room that smelled of good wood and old books and the specific quality of air in a house where the windows were opened correctly and the furniture was not arranged for display but for use.

Elizabeth was already seated near the window in the chair that was clearly hers — positioned for the light, angled toward the room's entrance, with the small table beside it bearing a teapot that had been placed there with the ease of long habit rather than preparation.

She looked at him when he came through the door with those sharp, still eyes that had been taking accurate measurements of people for eight decades and had not slowed down.

"Mr. Hayes," she said. "Sit down."

He sat.

She poured tea without asking how he took it — two cups, both plain — and handed him one with the direct efficiency of a woman who had spent her life in rooms where performing hospitality was less interesting than getting to the point.

"You came," she said.

"You invited me," Marcus said.

"A lot of people I invite find reasons not to come." She looked at him over the rim of her cup. "You came without reasons or excuses, which tells me something."

"What does it tell you?"

"That you're either very confident," Elizabeth said, "or you're genuinely curious about what I want." She set her cup down. "Possibly both."

"Possibly," Marcus agreed.

Elizabeth regarded him for a moment with the unhurried, comprehensive attention of a woman who had developed her particular skill at reading people through nine decades of practice and had no remaining patience for the social conventions that slowed the process down.

"My granddaughter thinks you're a thief," she said.

Marcus said nothing.

"She's wrong," Elizabeth said.

It was not a question. Marcus looked at her steadily and neither confirmed nor denied it, which Elizabeth appeared to find acceptable.

"I want you to look at something for me," she said, and stood with the ease of a woman who had stayed physically active through sheer force of habit. "Not here. I have a piece arriving at the port this afternoon. A Flemish oil — sixteenth century, supposedly. Private seller, significant provenance documentation." She moved toward the door with the measured, purposeful stride of someone going somewhere. "I want to know if it's real."

Marcus set his cup down and stood.

"You have three appraisers on retainer," he said. "I know because I asked about the fountain pen before the party. Your people are qualified."

Elizabeth glanced back at him without stopping. "My people use equipment. You used your eyes." She kept walking. "There's a difference."

Marcus followed her.

"This is a test," he said.

Elizabeth reached the hallway. "Most things worth doing are." She looked back at him with the slight, dry curve of a woman who had made her point and didn't require it to be acknowledged. "Get your coat, Mr. Hayes. The port is forty minutes."