To Andy, art was art, regardless of what other people paid for it. The statue Rodin had made, a painting from da Vinci, and Joe's sketchbooks full of nothing but half-done drawings of them all doing silly domestic things were of equal value to her. What made the art important was the meaning, not the popularity or price.

She knew Booker felt the same, he just had better tendencies to take care of things.

"That's...the detective one? Mason, or Marlowe or something, I never get his name right," she hummed gently. "I remember you talking about it because of the coins." She also remembered him faking valuable coins, and Andy had sat for hours one time just watching him do it. His concentration had been fascinating. "It's not the one with the sisters, is it?"