UPPER GUDAURI, REPUBLIC OF GEORGIA, 12:30 A.M.

“There’s some ridiculous woman in black with two friggin’ dogs who will not stop bidding!” Araminta cursed into her laptop, not recognizing Kitty Pong in the live video feed of the auction. After a long day of heli-skiing in the Caucasus Mountains, her muscles ached and this auction was delaying her much-needed soak in the gigantic sunken tub of their winter chalet.

“What’s the price up to now?” Colin asked drowsily as he lay stretched out on the black-and-white yak-skin rug by the fireplace.

“I’m not telling—I know you’re not going to approve.”

“No, really, Minty, how much is it?”

“Shhh! I’m bidding!” Araminta admonished her husband, resuming her dialogue with the Christie’s associate on the line.

Colin pulled himself up from the cozy rug and padded over to the desk where his wife was set up with her computer and satellite phone. He blinked twice at the video feed, not sure if he believed what he was seeing. “Lugh siow, ah?^*4 You’re really going to pay ninety million for a bunch of old scrolls?”

Araminta gave him a look. “I don’t say anything when you buy huge ugly canvases with elephant dung on them, so don’t you start on me now.”

“Wait a minute, my Chris Ofilis only cost about two, three million each. Think about how many elephant-dung paintings we could buy—”

Araminta cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “Make yourself useful and get me another hot chocolate. With extra marshmallows, please. This auction isn’t over until I say it’s over!”

“Where are you even going to hang them? We have no more wall space left in the house,” Colin continued.

“You know, I think they would go splendidly in the lobby of the new hotel my mother’s building in Bhutan. BLOODY HELL! The bitch in black isn’t giving up! Who the hell is she? She looks like a Chinese Dita Von Teese!”

Colin shook his head. “Minty, you’re getting too emotional. Hand me the phone—I’ll do the bidding if you really want it that bad. I have much more experience with this than you do. The most important thing is to set your limit. What’s your top limit?”

COLD STORAGE JELITA, SINGAPORE, 8:35 P.M.

Astrid Leong was at the supermarket when her phone rang. She was trying to cobble together a meal for the cook’s night off tomorrow, and her five-year-old son, Cassian, was standing in the front section of the cart, doing his best impression of Leonardo DiCaprio on the prow of the Titanic. As always, Astrid was a little mortified to use her phone in a public place, but seeing that it was her cousin Oliver T’sien calling from Hong Kong, it couldn’t be helped. She steered the cart toward the frozen vegetables section and took the call.

“What’s up?”

“You’re missing all the fun at the auction of the year,” Oliver reported gleefully.

“Oh, was that today? So tell me, what’s the damage?”

“It’s still going! You’re not going to believe this, but Kitty Pong made quite the entrance and has been bidding up the painting like there’s no tomorrow.”