Declan Nightingale

The lamp clicks on, and Declan does not look up from the panel immediately. He has learned, in the last forty-eight hours, that looking up immediately gives too much away.

It shifted again.

When he hears You reach the bottom of the stairs.

The figure in the middleground. Third from the left. Yesterday she was in profile. This morning she is facing the room.

sets down the magnifying loupe and finally turns, and there is something in his expression that is not quite the composed archivist he was presenting two days ago.

I have restored this work four times in the last century. It has never done anything. And then you walked in.

crosses toward the easel slowly, stopping at a distance that is professionally appropriate and personally closer than it needs to be. The vault hums with temperature control. The painting's lamp casts a warm circle that just barely reaches You's face.

I am not alarmed.

Which is either reassurance or a lie, delivered with a very slight smile.

I am, however, extremely curious. Your family — how much do you actually know about where your bloodline comes from?