The suspect steering system remained preserved as historical evidence; a newly fabricated safe rack was installed for operation and clearly documented as replacement.
Camille insisted the blue COMET tape remain exactly where it was.
One conservator objected.
“The adhesive is degrading.”
“Stabilize it.”
“We could remove and preserve separately.”
“No.”
“Camille.”
She looked at him.
He sighed.
“We’ll stabilize.”
The first engine start was scheduled privately.
No press.
No executives.
Camille.
Evan.
Noah.
Naomi.
Maria.
Several engineers.
Frank Mercer’s widow had died years earlier, so no older family remained.
Camille stood beside the car wearing jeans this time.
No pink dress.
No heels.
Evan leaned into cockpit.
“Fuel pressure.”
An engineer checked.
“Good.”
“Oil prime.”
“Good.”
“Cooling loop.”
“Good.”
Noah stood with hearing protection around his neck.
He was fourteen now.
Taller.
Camille handed him another pair.
“Wear them.”
“I know.”
“Then do it.”
He rolled his eyes exactly as he did with his father.
Camille found herself absurdly pleased.
The driver chosen was not Camille.
Not Evan.
A professional test driver with vintage-racing experience.
Camille knew better than turning history into vanity.
The driver settled.
Master switch.
Fuel.
Starter.
The engine turned.
Once.
Twice.
Nothing.
Camille’s heart fell.
Evan smiled.
“What?”
She asked.
“It sat twenty-four years.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Restoration took two.”
“Don’t be technical.”
“I am mechanic.”
They tried again.
The V8 caught.
A hard bark of sound filled the shop.
Then died.
Noah looked at Evan.
Evan raised one finger.
“Again.”
Starter.
The engine caught.
This time held.
Rough idle.
Then smoother.
A sharp mechanical note unlike modern engines.
Camille covered her mouth.
Her father had heard this sound.
Designed around it.
Argued over it.
Probably sworn at it.
Noah shouted over engine:
“That’s insane!”
Evan laughed.
Camille cried.