In the center stood an easel, draped with a deep purple cloth.
"Please, sit." Lorenzo gestured towards a hard wooden chair by the wall, leaning against the workbench himself.
Anger remained standing.
Lorenzo spoke again. "Elliott Green. A scholar whose talents were... misunderstood. He was obsessed with ancient contractual texts, convinced that certain artworks concealed supernatural ciphers. A pity. That fixation ultimately shattered his mind."
"Just as you intend to shatter his son tonight?"
"Detective, I have forced no one to utter a single word." Lorenzo spread his hands. "Elliott chose to step forward. He chose to voice the truth he believed he saw. In the realm of artistic appreciation, that is a form of courage. Though courage, at times, must be matched by commensurate judgment."
Anger’s eyes were fixed on the easel. "What are you going to show me?"
"An item that may help you understand the importance of... discretion. But before that, I wish to clarify one thing. Earlier, you claimed you never believe in such fantastical tales. Was that your genuine opinion?"
Anger did not answer. He fell into his habitual gesture—fingering the corner of the notebook in his pocket. That little tic of his when thinking.
"Let me rephrase. Having investigated so many cases, even those of a… grey and irregular nature, you stand here now and tell me you do not believe in phenomena beyond conventional reason?"
"I believe in evidence. Evidence that can be verified, recorded, and reasoned through. As for the causes of phenomena not yet concluded… I am still investigating."
"Excellent. Then let us examine some evidence." Lorenzo’s smile vanished completely, replaced by keen interest. "Detective, you have questioned my game, doubted the painting, even challenged the authenticity of this entire salon. I sense you are sharp. And also… reckless. In Londinium, recklessness usually leads to one of two outcomes: either you are assimilated more swiftly, or you are ground to dust more swiftly."
As he spoke, he walked to the easel, his fingers tracing the edge of the drape. "You insist it is merely a painting. You insist on measuring all this with your own yardstick of evidence and logic. It is fascinating. And brave. But bravery often springs from ignorance."
He raised his eyes to meet Anger's. "So I have decided to let you witness firsthand how the very ‘fantastical’ things you dismiss demand… discretion… from those who behold them."
Whoosh—
******
The drape was swept aside with a sharp flourish.
The work on the easel sprang into view.
A girl with silver hair and green eyes — the core figure was unmistakably identical to the legendary original from the Herron Auction House.
The differences, however, were what gripped Anger’s attention.
There were no dice in her hands. Instead, she clutched a viciouslooking invertedcross dagger, its point pressed against her own heart, piercing the thin fabric of her dress.
The background was not a chaotic temporal bubble, but a dense, interlocking web of geometric lines. Anger could almost perceive an intangible chain within those lines.
And most unsettling of all was her face.
Her lips were slightly parted. From the corner of her mouth, a damp, crimson trail of pigment wound its way down. It ran directly over her jawline — like a freshly shed tear of blood.
On the static canvas, this bloodtear gave a ghastly illusion of slow, dreadful seepage.
"A study from my private collection. Some call it an Echo Canvas."
Anger forced his gaze away from the girl's face, which seemed to radiate palpable agony. "Echo?"
"I can explain. An echo… or perhaps a replay. A replay of the price of a name." Lorenzo's fingertip hovered near the painted girl's parted lips. "This painting points to a specific historical entity. Some say a… used sacrifice. She had a codename. A true name. A pact. This information was woven into the very structure of this piece by its maker."
He took a step forward. "Now imagine, Inspector. If you, standing here now, were to speak — out of curiosity, or even an unthinking slip — and clearly utter that possible name… 'Elizabeth,' perhaps… or 'the greeneyed sacrifice'… this canvas would forge a brief, but very real, link between you, the namer, and the pact borne by this named subject within."
"Link." Anger knew — and inwardly acknowledged — the existence of such dangerous artifacts. But he needed to probe further, to maintain the guise of a merely skeptical policeman. "So… if I said the name?"
"Yes. You would experience, in an instant, a fraction of what the bearer felt when that name was acknowledged by the Edict and its punishment enacted. Perhaps the phantom pain of a blade through the heart. Perhaps the burning sensation of blood flowing backwards. The intensity… well, that depends on the accuracy and intent of your utterance."
"This is the dreadful 'replay' an incautious word might invite in our world. This is the price that demands… discretion."
He took half a step back, beginning to relish Anger’s grave expression.
"Do you understand now what happened to Elliott Green, and to his poor father before him? They possessed only a pitiable talent. They read things passively, things they believed they alone understood. Elliott Green likely heard whispers that did not exist, until his sanity crumbled. His son tonight… trod the same path."
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"So you're saying this isn't a game. This painting has power. It contains some pact, some naming… and one must be careful around such things, lest they trigger something… peculiar. Is my understanding incorrect?"
Lorenzo reached out and pulled the cloth back over the painting. "Let us conclude tonight's demonstration."
"It is not a lesson, Inspector. See it as you will. In this world, words have weight. Names come with hooks. Every question, every deduction, might be fastening an invisible shackle upon yourself. Discretion is not mere social etiquette. It is an iron law of survival."
He moved to the door, assuming a posture of dismissal. "For now, I must ask you to leave, armed with this… preliminary understanding of consequence. I only hope it helps you live a trifle longer in your investigations. Of course, if you persist in your… admirable arrogance—" A faint smile touched his lips, "—and happen to utter some forbidden term… then we may meet again in a more direct setting. Though in that case, what flows upon the canvas may not be mere pigment."
A powerful sense of dissonance surged within Anger.
If the painting truly was what Lorenzo claimed — an Edictvessel capable of replaying the cost of a name — then it was a perfect demonstration tool. A way to let him experience firsthand the consequences of a careless word. Why didn't Lorenzo simply use it?
But Lorenzo hadn't. He'd only explained, given a small warning, and was now ending it.
This didn't feel like a master confident in his tool. It led Anger to infer that perhaps Lorenzo himself feared the artifact — that he dared not trigger it lightly. That this socalled "replay" carried deeper restrictions, or graver risks.
Anger's suspicion peaked. But Lorenzo was already holding the door open.
"Pray, Inspector. The night is young. You should return and digest tonight's… revelations."
Anger cast a final glance at the nowdraped easel, the cloth hiding the girl's tormented face and that ghastly bloodtear.
Just as he prepared to turn and leave, a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his eye. A powerful perception was screaming a warning.
The corner of the room — a patch of empty wall where shadow met shadow — began to warp and distort.
Every muscle in his body tensed. His left hand flew instinctively to his gun. His right clenched the corner of the notebook in his pocket, his gaze locked onto that patch of shifting darkness.
******
The doll, Beannandi Bethany, materialised from the shadows. She traced the contours of the painting with her finger.
"What's the matter, Inspector?"
Lorenzo, noticing Anger's abrupt stillness, followed his gaze to the corner.
Yet, to Lorenzo's eyes, there was nothing to see.
"Is something amiss?"
His query received no answer. A sliver of genuine perplexity deepened on his face, but the welltravelled collector's eyes grew sharp, sweeping the room with renewed intensity.
Just as the shadowy distortion completed its form...
A black patent leather ankle boot settled softly upon the carpet, utterly without sound.
Then, the hem of a Gothic gown adorned with pale lace and satin ribbons.
Then, fingers curled around the handle of a closed black oilpaper umbrella.
Silverywhite hair, perfectly arranged. A face of exquisite, hollow beauty. Green eyes gazing forward.
Beannandi Bethany.
Here, she manifested within this sealed collection room in a manner that defied mundane physics.
She utterly disregarded Lorenzo's presence. She stepped forward, the tip of her black umbrella dragging soundlessly across the carpet, leaving not a trace.
"Wait—" Lorenzo uttered a low exclamation, his voice thick with confusion and dawning uncertainty. He saw no distinct form, yet his own honed perceptions were screaming at him. Something is here. The canvas—something is wrong.
His eyes darted between the ostensibly empty space before the easel and the rigid profile of Anger's face, struggling to parse the bizarre situation.
The dollgirl had already halted before the easel.
She tilted her head slightly, her green eyes contemplating the velvet drape covering the canvas. She raised that pale hand—not to pull the cloth aside, but to place her fingertips directly upon its surface.
Then, her fingers began to move, sliding slowly, tracing the invisible outlines of the painting beneath.
Anger understood instantly. She was tracing the outline of the girl in the painting—specifically, the path of that invertedcross dagger over the heart.
"Stop!" Lorenzo's shout was sharp. He saw no intruder, yet upon the surface of the purple drape, indentations—the clear outlines of fingertips—appeared from nowhere. And they were moving.
An invisible hand was caressing the canvas.
"Whoever you are, leave that painting at once!" Lorenzo barked, beginning to surge forward, only to freeze midstride. What could he do, charge at thin air? Throw punches at nothing? And was this… anomaly… something he could even confront?
In that moment of Lorenzo's furious hesitation, the doll's gesture changed.
Her index finger, which had been merely tracing, now curled. It pointed downwards at the drape… and gave a single, deliberate, downward flick.
Shhrrrp—
A crisp, utterly audible sound of rending fabric tore through the silence.
******
The purple drape remained perfectly intact, yet upon the canvas beneath, a rent had appeared from nowhere. It began at the portrait’s throat, sliced cleanly through the point of the invertedcross dagger over her heart, and continued downward in a single, decisive stroke to the very bottom of the frame.
“No!”
A low roar of anguish and fury tore from Lorenzo. He lunged toward the easel, throwing himself between the invisible defacer and his treasure.
It was too late.
The easel toppled. The drape slipped away, finally revealing the greeneyed, swordclutching maiden once more.
Along the edges of the fresh laceration, the layers of oil paint curled back like wounded skin. Beneath them, another image was exposed.
It was not a full painting, but a pigmentborn sigil—a complex design. An ancient ship’s anchor, grotesquely entangled by twisted, thorny vines.
And Anger’s eyes saw more.
From the fallen canvas, from that very emblem of anchor and thorn, faint particles of silvery lightdust began to rise. They did not drift aimlessly in the room. Instead, drawn by some unseen force, they streamed in a single, coherent line toward the room’s shuttered window.
Anger’s gaze followed the trail of motes against his will. His sight pierced the slats of the shutter, out into the night sky.
There, the ghostly halos of the two moons had nearly merged completely, their light intermingling and eroding one another. And at the core of their impending union, a strange, circular void had opened.
Within it, a hazy, rustred lunar phantom hung silently in the firmament, casting a baleful, sanguine glow.
The Red Moon.
The notebook in Anger’s pocket grew suddenly, searingly hot.
“You! What did you just see? What in blazes did this?!” Lorenzo bellowed. He had witnessed nothing, yet his prized possession lay ruined by an unseen hand. His customary composure lay in tatters.
The dollgirl, the agent of the canvas’s defacing, had already withdrawn her hand.
She turned slowly, her gaze finding Anger.
Her lips did not move, yet words formed in his mind: The window has moved forward.
With that, her form began to fade. Starting from her feet, she dissolved into strands of shadow, melting back into the darkness of the room’s corner.
Nothing remained of her presence—save for the rent upon the canvas, and the red moon hanging high outside the window.
The rustred moonlight filtered through the shutter slats, casting faint, accusing stripes upon the carpet.
Anger slowly released his grip on both pistolbutt and bookcorner. “I believe,” he said, his voice flat, “your demonstration on ‘discretion’ has concluded. In a manner neither of us anticipated.”
His tone offered no comfort, only stark fact.
And in that moment, the logbook in his mind presented its findings anew:
Subject: Oil Painting – Greeneyed Maiden with Sword.
Canvas Sublayer Analysis: Traces of a second image detected. Faded emblem: Anchor and Thorn Sigil.
Risk Assessment: Highconcentration EdictVessel. Hybrid nature detected (Suspected Edicts 2, 9, 5). Prolonged direct observation may trigger namebinding or debtperception.
Note: The construct stated: “The window has moved forward.” Expedited action to the indicated location is now imperative.
Anger cast a final look at the furious, bewildered Lorenzo. Without another word, he turned and left the room.