"I can't believe this is headquarters now." Schuldich runs a finger over the nacreous lampshade. "Art Deco..."
"The furniture was commissioned," Crawford says. Golden light refracts within the martini glass he hands Schuldich. "The first owner was a Rothchild. And it's Jugenstil. You should know."
"I do know." Crawford is remembering blood, splattered on the lamp's gilt-lily whorl. A shared memory. The Organisation wanted the estate, and the house is merely a mission bonus.
Crawford thinks that red hair is lovely, where it brushes the antique leather.
If their eyes meet the moment would shatter. So Schuldich doesn't look up.