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"There is one practical matter," Katherine says. She hesitates, and I can hear her choosing her words.

"From a security standpoint, the simplest arrangement by far would be to have the boys in London, at an established school we already work with. Richard's team has been very clear on that point. Everything becomes easier to protect."

A week ago, I would have agreed with her before she finished the sentence. It's sensible. It's efficient. It's the same argument that filled the folder in my hand.

"Not unless Blaire decides it," I say.

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then Richard's team will learn to protect them in San Francisco," I tell her.

"That's their job. Deciding where my sons live isn't."

Neither of them argues. When the call ends, I sit for a moment with the folder on my knees, then carry it to the shredding bin beside the business center on the ground floor and feed it in, one page at a time.

On Thursday night, we sit on the back steps of her townhouse after the boys are asleep, with the narrow garden dark in front of us and a soccer ball abandoned in the grass. I've told her about the call. I've told her what the letter to the trustees will say, word for word, and that Arthur's draft will be in her inbox tomorrow so she can read every line before I sign it.

She hasn't said anything for almost a minute.

"Nothing about their education," she says finally.

"Or where they live. Or their security. Not without me."

"Not without both of us," I say. "In writing. Permanently."

She looks at me as though she's trying to decide whether I'm real. Then she looks away toward the garden, and I see her press the back of her hand against her eyes, quickly, before she thinks I'll notice.

I wait until she's steady.

"Can I tell you something I've been thinking about? You can tell me it's a terrible idea, and I'll never bring it up again."

She turns back to me warily. "That depends on whether it comes with a folder."

"No folder," I say. "Only a question."

She nods for me to go on.

"At the Pembrokes' party, before everything happened, Margaret told me you were the person everyone had been trying to get time with that week," I say. "How many calls have you had since then? Not from me. From collectors."

She hesitates, then answers honestly. "A few. Thomas Avery in Boston has a client with a family collection that needs the same kind of handling as Charlotte's. Evelyn Harrington wants a private consultation. And two people I met at Julian Mercer's reception in London have written to ask whether I ever take clients in Europe." She frowns slightly. "Why?"

"Because every one of them reached out before The Ledger Report ever printed my name next to yours," I tell her. "They didn't ask for a Kensington. They asked for Blaire Wilson. The Whitcombe project made your name in Europe, and you did that on your own."

She doesn't say anything, but I can see her taking it in.

"London is where that kind of client lives," I continue carefully.

"Private collectors, family offices, the auction houses, the institutions. You know that better than I do. If you ever wanted to build your own practice, the way you described it to me on Tuesday, answering to no one, London is where it could grow fastest. And it could be bigger than anything you've had at Mercer & Vale, in freedom and in money."

"Ross—"

"I'm not deciding anything," I say.

"I'm telling you what I see. The boys would be close to me every day instead of whenever I can get a flight. There are excellent schools, and they take new students in January, so nothing would have to change before the winter break. The boys could start second grade here in the fall with their friends, the way they expect to. Your parents could fly over from Chicago and stay for as long as they like. And you could keep your San Francisco clients if you wanted them. You'd decide which ones and how. All of it would be your call."

She stares at the dark garden for a long time.

"And the practice," she says slowly.