As Anger finally got close enough to see the details of the painting clearly...

  The girl's left hand hung at her side, fingers slightly curved, their tips brushing against a die suspended in midair.

  At first sight of this die, a feeling welled up within him — this die — and before he knew it, his hand moved instinctively towards his overcoat pocket, only to find, to his chagrin, that he had left his overcoat in the carriage upon entering. His hand awkwardly retreated into his trouser pocket instead.

  The numbers on the die... In the stillness of the painting, only three faces of the cube were visible, yet in Anger's eyes, the pips swirled and changed with frantic rapidity, flickering randomly between 1 and 6.

  Her right hand gripped a short sword. The blade itself was shaped like an inverted cross, its point pressed against her own heart. No blood stained the steel, but the paint on the canvas around the tip seemed on the verge of melting, dissolving.

  Simultaneously, her background now featured flecks of an amber hue — stasis bubbles.

  Anger took a deep breath, marshalling all his focus into his eyes.

  He looked again, scrutinizing those green eyes with meticulous care. The longer he looked, the more he felt an intangible pull, dragging him down into their depths—into darkness.

  "Messenger, sire..."

  Dozens of voices, layered over one another in different pitches, whispered in unison. As the chorus faded from his ears, Anger found himself in a dim space. A studio.

  Candlelight flickered. A wrinkled, trembling hand held a brush. The pigment on its tip was of a single colour, accompanied by a thick, metallic scent — unmistakably human blood.

  A voice muttered in an ancient tongue: "With blood as the medium, the eye as the gate... Bear the pain of the Contracted, bind the soul of the Messenger..."

  From the canvas, the brush drew a dab of viscous green solution and placed a dot upon the eye. The moment that final touch met the pupil, the entire painting erupted in a blinding incandescence.

  In the corner of the studio, a humanoid outline, bound in chains, let out a silent scream. Its body desiccated rapidly, crumbling to ash. The dust drifted towards the canvas and was absorbed into the wet paint.

  The vision snapped.Anger stumbled back a step, colliding with a society matron standing behind him. He apologized immediately. "My apologies, madam."

  The matron did not exclaim. Her eyes were unfocused, and her lips merely moved in a continuous, soft murmur: "Messenger, sire... Messenger, sire..."

  Seeing she was unresponsive, Anger quickly withdrew. He pulled his journal from his inner pocket.

  Pigment: Quinine extract, mixed with human blood, silver particulate suspension.

  Energy: MultiEdict symbiosis. Primary: Edict 5.

  Intent: Not artistic. Ritual product.

  Urgent Recommendation: Immediate withdrawal from contamination field.

  Edict 5. Anger looked up at the painting again. To ordinary eyes now, it was still breathtakingly beautiful. To him, it was unequivocally a ritualborn monstrosity. He retreated swiftly to a far corner of the room.

  ******

  About an hour into the preview, three Parish clerics in long, dark robes entered the exhibition hall. The middleaged priest at their head made a beeline for the central exhibit.

  The auction house manager, recognising men of the cloth, immediately shot a meaningful glance towards a side door.

  "In the name of the Sacred Church," the priest announced. His voice was not loud, but it landed like a stone in a pond, sending ripples of silence through the crowd. "This painting is suspected of bearing blasphemous spiritual contamination. Under the Sacred Articles Control Act, it is hereby impounded pending purification and investigation."

  The hall fell into a brief, tomblike silence, followed by a wave of suppressed gasps. Art consultants and collectors exchanged bewildered looks. The nobility present turned various shades of pale. Even the waiters were at a loss; such a thing had simply never happened.

  The manager of Heron Auctioneers stepped forward swiftly, a professional smile plastered on his face. "Your Reverence, this piece has already been authenticated by the Cultural Relics Review Board. The paperwork is in perfect order. Surely you can see—"

  "The Review Board does not investigate supernatural contamination," the priest interrupted. He drew a short rod from within his robes, tipped with a peculiar crystal orb that now glowed with a faint, ominous light. Regarding the rod's aberrant display, he stated coldly, "The painting must be isolated."

  Before the cleric could enforce his verdict, a man emerged from behind the same side door. This was Lorenzo Bellatus.

  Lorenzo appeared young, with prematurely silver hair.

  He moved with a manner so leisurely one might think he was strolling in his own garden.

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," Lorenzo's voice was smooth, conciliatory. "Legal procedure must, of course, be observed. The Parish has every right to investigate blasphemy. And Heron Auctioneers possesses all the proper, lawful documentation."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  He walked to the painting, then let his gaze settle on the middleaged priest's face.

  "Allow me to remind you of two points," Lorenzo continued, unhurried. "First, ownership of this painting currently resides with the estate trust of a deceased baron whose name, for now, must remain confidential. Until the formal sale is concluded, any seizure or damage to it by any entity could result in substantial civil litigation." He paused, then turned slightly, allowing everyone a clear view of the artwork. Second..."

  the value of art should not be buried under conjecture.

  "This is a treasure from the zenith of the Dynasty. Its technique, its—its very soul—its historical worth, have all been confirmed by multiple independent, authoritative appraisers. To brand it a dangerous object based on nothing more than... unnamed whispers of occult forces, would be a brutal trampling of Art itself."

  The Parish priest retorted coldly, "If the painting is indeed a vector of blasphemy, damage is a necessary cost."

  "And who, pray tell, holds the authority to make that determination?" Lorenzo countered. "I am aware of the Religious Freedom Guarantee Act of the Core Empire of Alikaxi. The Parish's enforcement of supernatural judgements upon private property requires joint confirmation by an Arbitration Tribunal before any coercive measures can be taken."

  "This is not the Rhine Federation, nor the New World. You cannot simply march in here with your... curious little rod and seize a legally held item on a whim. Has the Church turned brigand?"

  Fortunately, it was only clerics who had entered this time. Had it been the Order of Knights, violence might have erupted outright. Lorenzo, for his part, had no desire for conflict with the Church, but neither could he allow them to walk all over him.

  The priest's face darkened further, if that were possible, but he could find no ready rebuttal. "We will maintain surveillance. Until the Tribunal is convened, the painting does not leave the auction house's warehouse."

  "Of course," Lorenzo seamlessly took up the thread. "In fact, prior to tomorrow evening's official auction, the piece will be transferred to Heron's secure vault. All bidders will then participate with full knowledge of the... situation. The art market, after all, should be transparent, should it not?"

  Lorenzo was born into artistry. He possessed not only a refined eye for beauty, but also served as the external voice of the Bellatus family.

  Seeing the Church temporarily stymied, a thought struck him—this wasn't a crisis; it was a marketing opportunity made in heaven. The Parish's interest could only heighten the painting's mystique and, consequently, its bidding heat.

  A piece so mysterious it attracted the Church's gaze? That was sure to draw even more of the upper crust.

  Lorenzo, ever the picture of courtesy, then ushered the three clerics into a rear salon for refreshments. He called the auction manager over for a hushed conversation and offered polite nods to several key potential buyers.

  With the immediate drama subsiding, Anger turned to leave. That's when he spotted a man lurking with an air of furtive discomfort, his eyes darting about the room. The Detective in him instantly went on alert. He decided to stay a little longer, to see if this watcher might lead to another thread worth pulling.

  ******

  Anger watched him move, then followed at an unobtrusive, unhurried pace, keeping a tailing distance that felt safe. The man himself seemed a cautious sort, glancing over his shoulder every so often to check if he was being followed.

  He eventually made his way to a service lift near the auction house’s warehouse area. Anger waited a moment before quietly approaching. He didn’t push the door open. Instead, he pressed his ear to the gap.

  “You’re sure he’ll take the bait?” The voice sounded tense.

  “Lorenzo’s already cast the line. The Parish lot turning up was perfect—free publicity, really. By tonight, every highsociety gossip in Londinium will know there’s a forbidden piece the Church itself wants suppressed going under the hammer.” This voice was calmer, steadier.

  “But the reserve is only twenty thousand.”

  “He’ll push it to thirty. I know Lorenzo. He’s good at this. First, have a few shills drive it up to twentyfive early on, create the illusion of a bidding war. When the serious buyers start hesitating, arrange a ‘mysterious overseas collector’ to bid twentyeight by telephone. Then have the readymade white glove knock it down at a neat thirty thousand.” The steady young man was laying it out. “The actual value of the painting doesn’t matter. What matters is the story. And the Parish just delivered the perfect one.”

  Anger held his breath. It was a textbook case of pricefiddling and confidence tricks.

  “Sir… about Mr. Edwin Lyle. Are we really going to meddle in the Bellatus family’s affairs? If we’re found out…”

  “We’re not ‘meddling.’ We’re gathering intelligence.” The steady voice turned sharper. “Mr. Edwin Lyle needs to know what tricks Lorenzo Bellatus is using to cement his family’s monopoly in the art market. More importantly, we need to confirm whether what’s behind that painting is worth our… acquiring the manuscript.”

  The manuscript. Anger’s heart gave a violent thump, as if he’d stumbled upon another grand secret.

  “Risking the ire of their family, for a manuscript?” The informant sounded even more uneasy.

  “That’s not your concern,” the steady voice cut him off. “Your job is to report everything you see and hear tonight back to Mr. Lyle. Especially who Lorenzo meets with, who from the Parish shows up, and how they react. Every detail. Remember, we’re not here to bid. We’re here to watch the play. Now, take the service lift down. Use the rear exit. Don’t speak to anyone.”

  As the conversation ended, Anger slipped quickly away and returned to the main exhibition hall.

  “Inspector?” A waiter was suddenly standing behind him.

  Every muscle in Anger’s body tensed, but he turned calmly. The waiter was holding out his own dark grey overcoat.

  “Your coachman asked me to give this to you, sir,” the waiter said with a polite smile. “He mentioned you’d instructed him before the preview that if you hadn’t emerged after two hours, he was to send your coat in—lest you catch a chill.”

  Anger had given no such instruction to his coachman. But he took the coat anyway. That’ll be Hendrick’s doing, he thought.

  It was time to leave. He couldn’t afford a single piece in this place anyway.

  “Where is the man who gave you the coat?” Anger asked the coachman directly, pulling on the overcoat as he stood before the carriage.

  “Said he’d wait for you in the alley behind, sir.”

  “Right. Wait here a while longer.”

  ******

  Anger walked towards the alley.

  "Detective, following your lead, I went to ask around at the docks in the East End. Old Meb was the one mainly running things over in our West End, but now he's dead, everything's gone to pot here. But over in the East End, I asked a few of the old opium fiends. They said if you're really after the highpurity stuff, you need to go to an opium den called 'The Loom of Lethe'."

  "An opium den selling quinine?" Anger frowned.

  "In practice, it's an opium den," Hendrick leaned in, lowering his voice. "Detective, they say a lot of people smoke there. Even quite a few from the station have... acquired the habit."

  "People from the station too?" That complicates matters. Opium was strictly prohibited, but if even the police were hooked, the web of interests behind this must be significant. Poke at this, and you might just uncover a veritable hornet's nest.

  "Give me the address." It was too late for second thoughts now. He was already in deep. Best to keep a low profile.

  "Spindle Lane. Not far from Whitechapel in the East End. But, that area..." Hendrick hesitated. "That area falls under Carter's jurisdiction. And I've heard the den's owner has... unclear connections with several of the big families. Sir, should we inform the division first? Bring more men?"

  "Forget it. This isn't official business. You head back. I'll have a look myself." Anger glanced at the sky; rain seemed imminent again. "Take my carriage."