Inez gave her an access card and a folder at reception.
“Ballroom, six fourteen, service entrance. If you need anything moved, ask me. Not Noel.”
“I only came for my things.”
“Then that's all you need to do.”
Mara opened the folder. Her independent access authorisation, usable archive photographs and relevant buyer emails were there. In one email, dated before she had been approached, someone had asked for confirmation that the “Bell issue” could be resolved ahead of the preview.
She shut the folder. The phrase made her feel like a stain.
“He said you'd want the originals of anything about you,” Inez said. “The buyer emails are copies. They know you're receiving them.”
“Where is he?”
Inez's mouth tightened. “In the office. Making a choice.”
Mara went to the ballroom first. Her apron had been folded on the table. The dress was covered but not wrapped tightly; someone had remembered. She inspected the released seam and the support under the skirt. All sound.
She could take the apron and leave. The practical part of leaving was astonishingly small. The rest of it followed her down the corridor.
At the office door she heard Inez say, “My people don't get a month to decide what kind of people they'd like to be.”
“I know.”
“Then stop saying the exhibition will pay for itself. If this money doesn't arrive, it pays for itself out of salaries and things we don't repair.”
“It comes out of mine first.”
“It already ought to. That doesn't make the gap disappear.”
Mara knocked on the open door. Both looked toward her. Elias stood behind the desk with a telephone in his hand. He looked as though he hadn't slept much, which didn't make her feel better. She was tired too.
“I can come back.”
“No,” Inez said. “You should hear what this costs. He can tell you what he's doing.”
Elias put the phone down. On the desk lay the transfer she'd had checked on Wednesday, with the dress identified by photographs and measurements. She compared it with her copy. No change.
“The note says it belongs with you,” he said. “I can't know how she would have done it. I can transfer what I own.”
Mara kept her hands in her coat pockets. “Why?”
He looked at her. “Because she meant you to have it. You don't have to finish the work.”
She signed the receipt. It did not depend on the commission, a settlement or another conversation with him. She kept her signed copy.
The dress was hers. She felt no swell of victory. She felt protective and suddenly responsible for finding somewhere dry to put it.
“The attribution settlement's withdrawn,” Elias said. “The buyer needs to hear why.”
He asked whether she'd stay while he called. She sat on the only spare chair. Inez remained standing.
The person on the phone was efficient and pleasant. Elias said the authorship claim was live and Clara's own writing supported it. “I left the old caption and ownership settlement in place after I knew the account was inaccurate,” he said. “I was waiting for a signed agreement before I told you. You mustn't rely on that packet. It's withdrawn, and there is no replacement agreement.” He said he'd hired Mara knowing there was an unresolved issue and hadn't told her.
The pleasant voice became quieter. The exhibition contribution would be frozen pending clarification. The buyer could not rely on the planned provenance account. Was he prepared to cover the committed costs?
Elias looked at a page on his desk. “Yes.”
“We'll need that in writing.”
“You'll have it today.”
After the call, Inez named a sum. Mara had no way to absorb it except to compare it with her rent. It amounted to years.
“Which account?” Inez asked.
He told her. She wrote it down, then said, “That's the part you've used for the winter repairs.”
“I know.”
“Right. We need another meeting. With figures, Elias. I can't roster a hope.”
She left them, angry enough to close the door too hard. Mara found herself on the wrong side of the door, sharing the silence with him.
“I don't want them losing things because of me,” she said.
“The money was already uncertain. I've been treating it as certain.”
“You let me think finding the letter was going to solve this for you.”
“I let myself think it.”
She looked at the folder on her lap. The emails, the copies, the unflattering dates. She could read it at home, without him watching her face.
He went to the kettle, then turned back before switching it on. “Do you want tea?”
“No.”
“All right.”
“I can't make you feel better about this.”
“I know.” He stayed by the cold kettle. “You'd better take the folder.”
She stood. “I'll arrange to move the dress after I've found space.”
“Inez will help with access.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded and opened the door for her.
She went out with the folder under one arm and her apron over the other. In reception, two guests were asking Inez for a walk that didn't involve steep steps. Inez drew a route on a map, patient and exact, while the hotel's less visible troubles waited on her desk.
Mara stood aside until she had finished. Then she handed back the access card.
“Keep it,” Inez said. “It works whether he's here or not.”