Every sound of conversation sank into the carpet’s downward pull. Wooden paddles rose and fell, or waved like water lilies on bottomless currents.

“I’m glad there was an empty seat,” Charles said. A dozen people were standing at the back wall.

“A guy I knew was sitting there a minute ago.”

“Oh-is it his chair?”

“No, I think he left.”

“Thirty-four. Do I see thirty-five? The bid is now thirty-four thousand. Any bid?”

There seemed not to be. Mr. Einstein from New York, with his wild white hair and black mustache, had bid last and now stared straight and smugly forward.

“Thirty-four thousand. Going once, twice -” The auctioneer’s eyes darted, reacting to some new movement deep in the room. “Thirty-five, thank you. The bid is now thirty-five thousand. Do I see thirty-six?”

Heads turned and searched, but Mr. Einstein himself hardly reacted to this new unknown. He only raised his own paddle.

“Thirty-six. Do I see thirty-seven?”

He did, and everyone else did as well. A woman in a light gray suit and very improbable blond hair, standing against the back wall. She held her paddle out like a sword.

“Thirty-eight?”

Charles paged through his catalog. Lot Sixty, Cherry Pedestal Desk, Philadelphia, 1876. Other people were flipping pages as well.

“Not much of a description,” Norman said. “Is there something special?”

“It’s historic. Derek was proud of it.”

“Oh, wait, that’s where they found him, right? On top of it?”

Charles didn’t answer. The bidding advanced, a conflict of deliberate and formal violence.

“Because that could be worth a premium,” Norman said. “They’d clean it up, right? They wouldn’t sell it with blood all over it. But you’ve got to be careful cleaning those old finishes. You can take them right off. I think it was a lot of blood, too.”