Page 29 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

The receptionist rose as I approached, her smile professional without being ingratiating. “Mr. Virelli. Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

She directed me toward a seat upholstered in soft gray while she notified the appropriate people of my arrival. Everything about the place was calibrated to suggest competence in expensive tones. The flowers on the console table had been arranged by someone who understood proportion. The coffee service gleamed. All the magazines on the end tables were new. The artwork on the walls had the bloodless boldness corporations preferred when they wanted to imply cultural seriousness without risking offense.

A woman in a navy sheath dress and a tailored blazer came to collect me. She introduced herself as Moira Bennett, shook my hand firmly, and led me toward the conference rooms.

“This way, Mr. Virelli. We appreciate you coming in.” The faintest smile touched her mouth.

She was young enough that a worse man might call her girl, senior enough that only a fool would do it twice. She had an air of efficiency and carried her ambition without apology—exactly the type of lawyer I preferred, if I had to have one.

The conference was glass-walled on one side, with leather chairs and a carafe of water set in the middle of a long, walnut table. Two senior attorneys were already there, along with Moira and a younger associate taking notes.

“Mr. Virelli,” said the senior partner at the head of the table once introductions had been made. Helena Wallace was a silver-haired woman whose face suggested she’d spent twenty years being underestimated by men and using it as leverage. “Before we discuss approach, I’d like to hear the matter in your own words.”

“My maternal family lost a number of heirlooms during and after the Winged War,” I said. “Some were surrendered for safe passage, others were sold or stolen outright. Some disappeared into private collections or institutions with weak provenance standards and stronger public relations teams.”

The younger associate’s pen moved faster.

“There are five items I’m currently attempting to recover,” I went on. “I have confirmed the existence and present location of three.”

I opened the folder I’d brought and removed the copies of photographs and documentation.

“The first is a samurai sword carried by my great-great-grandfather’s sworn protector, who died ensuring my great-grandparents had time to escape. It is in possession of a smaller private museum in Connecticut. They have refused my request for restitution and declined an offer of purchase.”

I set the photograph down.

“The second is a silver reliquary comb with documented family ownership across three generations. It is currently in a separate regional museum, which has been no more cooperative.”

A second photograph joined the first.

“The third is a family shrine mirror⁠—”

“Not an actual reflective mirror,” Moira said lightly to the others, glancing up from her notes. “A ritual object.”

I looked at her. She met my eyes without any sign of self-congratulation, only calm preparedness.

“Yes,” I said. “That.”

She gave a small nod and resumed writing.

Interesting.

“The shrine mirror is in a private collection,” I continued. “It is due to go to auction shortly. I can bid for it myself if necessary. I would prefer not to have to compete for something that should never have entered circulation in the first place, but I am pragmatic.”

Helena folded her hands. “And the others?”

“Incense burner and a pendant necklace. Still unlocated.”

I didn’t say so far. The phrase had begun to sound too much like hope, and hope was only useful when one had a mechanism for acting on it.

“What I want from your firm,” I said, “is a strategy that uses cultural restitution precedents, inheritance law, and any available repatriation arguments to compel the museums into one of two reasonable positions. They return the items to my family based on documented ownership and wrongful transfer, or they permit private reacquisition.”

James Payton, a broad-shouldered man who had the air of someone who had once played lacrosse and later found litigation similar enough to remain interested, leaned back slightly in his chair. “You can prove chain of ownership?”

“For each item to varying degrees. Strongest on the sword and the comb. The mirror is more complicated, but not impossible.”

“Complicated how?”