She was no closer to understanding how sweetmetals worked. And if anyone knew anything about them, they weren’t talking to her.

“Several of the Monets are sweetmetals,” Jordan said. “At the MFA.”

“Water lilies?” Declan suggested.

“One of the cathedrals, if you can believe it. The lilies gave me nothing at all.”

Her first theory had been that a piece’s sweetmetal value was linked to its artistic merit, but she’d had to abandon it for lack of evidence. Several of the pieces that felt the strongest to Jordan at the Boudicca demonstration were the least artistically accomplished, after all, and there were many masterpieces that left her cold in the sweetmetal department. Her next theory? She had no next theory. She’d decided her next step was to do a deep dive into the backgrounds of each of the sweetmetals she found, to see if there were clues there, but then Declan had invited her on this boat ride.

Boat ride.

It was a fine distraction, she told herself. She shouldn’t let herself feel hurried by Boudicca’s timeline. By Hennessy’s silence.

“Have you thought about stealing one?” Declan asked casually. Not from the Gardner, but from somewhere.

“Of course.”

“Which?”

“Easiest would be nicking one like Sherry Lam’s, but it hardly seems worth the crime, does it? It’s not got a lot of oomph to it. If I stole one, I’d go big.”

He leaned the wheel to the left, sending them deeper into the harbor. “Tell me how you’d do it. Blue-sky thinking.”

Jordan ducked under his arm on the wheel in order to sit on his lap. He matter-of-factly sorted out her voluminous ponytail as she leaned her head back on his chest to gaze up at the shifting evening sky. He bent his head prayerfully, eyes still on their destination. Now mouths and ears were close enough for speaking at regular volume in this fast-moving boat. “The Provenance Game always makes the most sense to me.”

Provenance was the real work of a forger. The show your work of the art world. Beauty was nothing without bloodline. Creating the art in the style of a master was only the first step. Then came paperwork and research, fastidious work that began and ended with a story. A forged piece couldn’t just spring into being; no one would believe one had suddenly found a new Monet, a new Cassatt, a new whatever it was. An alibi had to be invented, proven, knit into truth. Where had it been all these years? The more desirable the work, the better the story had to be. Hidden in a recluse’s private collection. Misattributed for years by bumpkins. Discovered in a hidden basement after a house fire.