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I compare the label with the photograph, then make a note on the working sheet.

POSSIBLE PRIOR EXHIBITION OR COLLECTION MARK. VERIFY BEFORE AMENDING CHAIN OF TITLE.

Margaret reads over my shoulder.

“You're already preparing to rewrite the file?” she asks.

“I'm preparing to prove whether it needs rewriting.”

“Diplomatic distinction.”

“Important distinction.”

That earns a quiet laugh from her before she returns to her own work. I've been at the Kensington London property for four days, long enough to understand that the real challenge of the audit isn't identifying what the family owns. It's understanding what, precisely, they own, where each object has been, what documentation survives, what assumptions have passed unchallenged, and which pieces of family history can withstand modern scrutiny.

The scale makes shortcuts dangerous. A smaller collection can survive on institutional memory. A collection spread across residences, trusts, storage facilities, estates, and generations can't. Every undocumented transfer becomes a question. Every questionable attribution affects insurance, valuation, lending, sale, or retention strategy. Every gap in provenance has the potential to become someone else's problem years from now. Which means it becomes mine now.

Amelia returns carrying a grey archival box in both hands.

“I found something,” she says.

I push my chair back.

She sets the box on the cleared end of the table and opens it carefully.

“This was under European acquisitions, miscellaneous, eighteen ninety-eight through nineteen-oh-four. Whoever indexed it originally didn't list individual artists.”

“Which is why digitization isn't a substitute for opening boxes.”

Amelia grins. “I'm learning.”

Inside are several folders separated by old paper dividers. She hands me one marked: VIENNA / MUNICH.

That gets my attention. I pull on fresh gloves before opening it. The first several pages concern unrelated purchases: correspondence with dealers, transport receipts, insurance valuations. I work through them methodically, resisting the temptation to skip ahead because the word Munich has already made my pulse sharpen with professional satisfaction.

Three folders later, I find Hartmann's name.

“Margaret.”

She looks over. I place the document flat beneath the archival weight and read the typed German heading twice before speaking.

“This isn't an acquisition record.”

Margaret comes closer. Amelia moves to my other side.

“What is it?” Amelia asks.

“An exhibition loan acknowledgment.”

The paper dates from 1901.

Munich.

My eyes move down the page.

Emil Hartmann. Der Wintergarten.

The German title of The Winter Garden.