Alistair Pivott stands at the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a whisky he hasn't touched. His reflection is a ghost in the glass, watching the drive below.

Alistair turns from the window, unhurried, and descends the floating staircase. He moves like a man who's never had to wonder where the exits are.

The curator is young. Dark-haired. There's ink on his fingers, damp from the rain. He doesn't bow. He doesn't offer his hand, doesn't flinch at the height of the vault door looming behind Alistair.

He just looks at the steel, at the palm reader, at the deadbolt the size of a man's forearm. Then the words spill out, flat and certain.