“Leave her alone.” Dante did not take his eyes off Selene. “Go on.”
She could feel her pulse in the heel of her hand. One minute earlier, she had been earning tips. Now she was standing before a man whose reputation was built on the cost of disappointing him.
“Whoever wrote it wanted a trained reader to make the wrong assumption,” she said. “The older language is real, but it's being used as camouflage. The repeated characters aren't consistent with natural vowels. They appear at measured intervals.”
“Translate it.”
“I can't. Not from across a table.”
He laughed once, without humor. “Ten million wasn't enough?”
“Ten million doesn't change how evidence works.”
A woman at another table actually set down her fork. Henderson's face turned the color of damp paper.
Dante stared at Selene long enough that Luca shifted his weight. Finally, Dante slid the parchment toward her, keeping his fingers on one corner.
“Show me one thing you know.”
Selene did not touch it. “May I have a clean sheet of paper?”
Luca produced a notebook. She copied seven marks from the outer margin, leaving spaces where the ink was damaged.
“There's a transposition layer,” she said. “The scribe may have used an alphabet associated with an ancient language, then applied a much later cipher. The lettering is old-fashioned; the method need not be. If you try to translate it word for word, you will get nonsense.”
“Then you've solved it.”
“No. I've found a reason not to trust the first reading.”
“What would you need?”
“High-resolution photographs of both sides, information about the paper, and time. A proper workspace. An independent agreement specifying exactly what your ten million buys.”
Dante leaned back. “You negotiate like somebody who expects to live a long time.”
“I negotiate like somebody who's been paid late.”
A corner of Luca's mouth moved. Dante did not smile.
“What's your background?”
Selene looked toward the glass doors and the dark river beyond. “Languages.”
“Everyone here has languages.”
“I have more of them than is useful for carrying plates.”
Dante nodded toward the copied marks. “You recognize that symbol.”
She hesitated. “I've seen a related sign in a private collection. Not enough to make a definitive attribution.”
She put down the pen. “My professional history is not something I discuss at work.”
“Your professional history has a price now.”
“No,” she said. “My work might. My history doesn't.”
He looked astonished. Not offended, she realized. Astonished that the distinction existed.
Henderson arrived carrying the check for a table that hadn't asked for it. “Miss Rostova, your shift is finished.”
Selene's stomach dropped. She had $214 in her account and a landlord whose kindness had expired. She untied her apron anyway.
“There's no need to fire her,” Dante said.
“Mr. Valerio, I think this is a matter for management.”
“It is,” Selene said before Dante could reply. She faced Henderson. “If you are terminating me, please put it in writing. Including the reason.”
Henderson blinked. He knew the rule; she could see it in his expression. “We'll speak tomorrow.”
“Then I'm still on the clock.”
Luca made a strangled sound. Selene took the empty wine bottle and moved it out of the way, because one small ordinary task was something her hands could still manage.
Dante watched her. “You believe I could pay ten million and still be wrong about the contents.”
“I believe your father might have had reasons to make you believe there's a fortune here.”
“That's what he told me before he died.”
“He also put an ancient-looking cipher in front of a group of bankers and criminals who would naturally expect numbers.”
The word criminals hung between them. Nobody rushed to deny it.