Nothing ships. There's no account to make.
Nobody adds up what leaves a house. Here it is, priced the way it actually happens.
Your house won't be that house. Most of what comes out of any house is thirty to eighty dollar goods, and I say so on page 121 before I say anything else. But you only need to be right once, and you can only be right if you looked.
Real pages. This is what opens on your phone. Type set large on purpose, and the hard ideas drawn out.
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Twenty-two chapters across ten rooms. Every object chapter runs the same six beats: what the ordinary one looks like, what the exception looks like, the names that carry money, what one actually sold for and where, the twenty-second check you run with the thing in your hand, and what ruins it.
And that's a fraction of it. 126 pages, and every figure names the saleroom that sold it and the date.
I'd rather print less and be right.
Most of what you'll read about old things carries a number and no source. Somebody heard it. Somebody's uncle sold one. Even the honest ones give you a range, which is a way of saying nobody wrote it down.
Every figure in this book traces to a completed sale, with the saleroom named, the lot given and the exact date printed. Over a hundred of them, listed in the back, so you can go and look them up yourself before you trust a word I've said.
Where I couldn't confirm a figure, the object is still in the book and the number isn't.
Instant PDF, on your phone about thirty seconds after you pay. Read it in your chair tonight; print the cellar card before the truck comes.

Write in and a person answers. Every message comes straight to me.
126 pages, instant PDF, on your phone about thirty seconds after you pay. Nothing ships.