The Signature Beneath

@valerian

The varnish smells of turpentine and old smoke, and the candle flames bend toward the canvas as if listening. You are alone in the Long Gallery of Blackridge Palace, a scalpel in your hand, an hour before midnight — and beneath the amber skin of a noblewoman’s portrait, a name has surfaced in the underdrawing. It is yours. Written in your own hand, in a hand you have never used before tonight. Behind you, measured footsteps cross the parquet: “You always find it,” Valerian Blackridge says softly. “Do you remember writing it?”