It felt impossible.
“How did it get here?”
Silas shook his head.
“Nate died in 1974.”
“Shop contents sold.”
“I was already married.”
“Working maintenance at a plant.”
“Couldn't afford to buy anything.”
“I heard the anvil went to a machine shop.”
“Then it disappeared.”
“Everett Clay.”
Noah said.
Silas nodded slowly.
“Everett worked in machine shops all his life.”
“Could’ve bought it.”
Noah looked toward E-3.
“Was it valuable then?”
“No.”
Silas laughed.
“Not like now.”
“It was a good anvil.”
“A big one.”
“Old.”
“That was enough.”
“Why would it be valuable now?”
“History got older.”
Silas smiled.
“And collectors got richer.”
They photographed everything.
Then Silas called someone.
Professor Miriam Hale.
Curator of industrial history at Missouri State Museum.
Silas knew her from blacksmith demonstrations.
He sent photographs.
No response for twelve minutes.
Then his phone rang.
Silas answered.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m looking at it.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Silas looked toward Noah.
“She wants a video.”
Noah recorded slow walk-around.
Sent it.
Phone rang again.
This time Silas put it on speaker.
A woman's voice came through.
“Do not clean anything else.”
Noah looked at Silas.
Silas smiled.
“See?”
Miriam continued.
“Especially the face.”
“Do you understand?”
Noah answered:
“Yes.”
“Who owns it?”
“I do.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
Long pause.
“Of course.”
Noah frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Where are your parents?”
“My mom is here.”
“Put her on.”
Noah sighed.
Adults loved transferring calls.
Ellen came in.
Listened.
Miriam said:
“Mrs. Walker, the photographs are consistent with Whitlock exhibition series.”
“Consistent does not mean authenticated.”
“I need to say that clearly.”
“Understood.”
“If the serial is E-3, we have records.”
“What records?”
“Whitlock catalog from 1904.”
“Trade journals.”
“Fair exhibit documents.”
“Possibly photographs.”
“What could it be worth?”
Ellen asked.
Miriam paused.
“I cannot appraise property the museum may have an interest in.”
“Can you tell me whether five thousand dollars is reasonable?”
Another pause.
“No.”
Ellen looked toward Noah.
“Ten?”
“No.”
Silas grinned.
Ellen asked:
“Fifty?”
Miriam sighed.
“If authenticated and with strong provenance, private-market value could plausibly reach that range or higher.”
Noah stared.
Higher.
Ellen sat down.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
Then she laughed.
Not happiness.
Shock.
“My son spent fifty-five dollars.”
Miriam answered:
“That happens.”
“Not to us.”