Page 42

I glanced from him to the painting and then leaned closer. “There's something wrong with the surface.”

Tristan shifted his gaze to the spot I inspected.

On the right edge, near the bottom corner, there was a slight unevenness in the canvas. A bulge. The surface was too flat everywhere else for it to be normal aging.

“There's something underneath the canvas,” I said.

Tristan glanced at the gallery entrance and then lifted the painting off its hook. He laid it face-down on the floor, and we crouched over it. The back of the canvas looked ordinary at first. A label in the lower right corner bore a Conclave sticker with Tristan's name and Curse on it.

I ran my finger along the tacking margin where I'd noticed the irregularity and found it: a second layer of canvas, adhered flat against the back of the first. Whoever had done it had done it well. Without the slight distortion visible from the front, it might have gone undetected indefinitely.

I worked my fingernail into the corner where the secondary canvas met the tacking edge and lifted it carefully, not pulling, just separating the edge with the patience I'd learned from years of conservation work. The canvas lifted cleanly, which was odd. I frowned at the adhesive residue. It was too clear, without any cracking. But something beneath the canvas pulled my attention away.

It was a piece of paper, folded twice. I unfolded it and found small, neat handwriting in in French. Unfortunately, I didn't know enough French to read it.

I held it out to Tristan. “Can you read French?”

Tristan nodded, his eyes wide, and took the letter. “It says, 'My dear friend.'” He cleared his throat. “'I don't know if you'll ever forgive me for what happened at Stylos. Please know that we only sought to free you. I'm hiding this letter here, knowing either you or your Conclave will find it. Your face will ensure that. I want you to know I have spent my life searching for a way to help you and finish the ritual. I've watched over you, Tristan, helping where I could, but I know it's not enough. I will find a way to free you. I promise you. Your most loyal friend, Fabian.'”

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

“Fabian,” Tristan repeated. He pushed the false canvas back in place and returned the painting to the wall.

“Do you think he's still alive?”

“Yes, and I think he's our heartbroken man.”

“But he says he's your friend. Why would he use the silver piece to hurt you?”

“I don't know, but I know someone who can find out.”

Chapter Sixteen

Haversham answered his door and sighed. “You two again.” He stepped back to let us in. “This had better be interesting. I was in the middle of a crossword.”

As we came in, Tristan said, “We found a letter hidden in an old painting of me. I need any information you can get me on the man who wrote it.” He handed Haversham the note.

Haversham read it as he walked toward his sitting room. We followed him into the same room we'd sat in before. Haversham motioned at the couch as he sat down in his chair, still reading.

“Well,” he said. “That's a hell of a thing to find behind a painting.”

“I'll send you the picture we took of the painting.” Tristan pulled out his phone and texted Haversham the picture.

Haversham brought it up and his eyebrows raised. “This is Stylos?”

“Yes,” Tristan said. “And it's accurate.”

“You were there in the 12th century, were you not?”

“Yes, yes.” Tristan waved it away. “Destiny already told me the painting isn't that old. Look at this man here.” He pointed to Fabian. “That's the man who wrote the letter.”

“Can you find him?” I asked.

“I can try.” He set the letter on the narrow table beside him. “Names change, faces don't. Give me a few hours.” He waved us away.

Tristan and I stood up.

“I'll call when I have something.” He was already typing on his phone. “And don't hover outside my door. It's unbecoming.”