February brought an unyielding arctic front across the Hudson Highlands, freezing the granite ledges of Stony Point in thick sheets of translucent ice. From the upper elevation of the estate, the river resembled a vast, motionless ribbon of white slate, cut only by the dark, steaming wake of a solitary Coast Guard icebreaker working its way south toward Haverstraw. A steady north wind hummed against the exterior quartz panes, but inside the subterranean conservation subterranean wing, the air remained undisturbed, smelling faintly of dried pine, beeswax, and ozone.
I stood beside the central restoration desk in the North Vault, dressed in a long wool knit tunic of deep olive, dark tailored trousers, and soft leather boots. My dark hair was coiled low and pinned securely at the base of my
