The Auctioneer – Part 2: Sold

She catalogued him from the rostrum, flaw by flaw, in the dry language of a sale. She made him turn, kneel, stand, hold. She corrected each movement with a tap of the gavel and a cool murmur. She told the empty gilt chairs what he was worth, and the list was so tender, so precise and so entirely unexpected that he felt his eyes sting. She climbed down from the rostrum and walked a slow circle round the block, an examiner with her hands behind her back, and put one gloved finger under his chin and tilted his face to the light.

It was strict, ceremonial and deeply gentle, and the grandfather clock ticked time into the hush.

Every half hour: "Does the lot wish to continue?" "Yes, Madam." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

"The auctioneer does not require thanks." But the corner of her mouth moved.

At two, she climbed back to the rostrum and lifted the gavel.

"I have a bid," she said, to the empty room. "From the lady in grey. A very high bid. Going once." A pause. "Going twice." A longer one. She looked at him, and her voice, for the first time all night, wavered. "Sold."

The gavel fell, a single dull, final knock that rang through the great dim hall.

"Withdrawn," said Philippa, softly.

It was her word, and she meant it for them both. The gloves came off. The grey coat was laid across the rostrum. She came down the steps in her stockinged feet, sat on the edge of the wooden block beside him and put her arms round him, her cheek against his hair.

"How are you?"

"Hammered," said Jonathan, laughing damply. "Sold to the lady in grey."

"You were extraordinary." She kissed his forehead. "A very fine lot."

"Is the lot reserved?"

"Reserved indefinitely," said Philippa. "Subject, of course, to inspection."

They sat on the block in the half-light, sharing a flask of tea she had hidden in the rostrum, while the old clock ticked on.

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