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she is already beginning to doubt that LaRusse is truly her shining knight on horseback. But do you
think she will –“
“That thought must wait, for here’s the gatehouse,” Trevor interrupted. “Did you bring matches?”
Rayley had, and they fashioned a pair of torches out of some obliging hops branches, the plant
seeming to lend itself to any number of impromptu uses. As they stepped across the threshold of the
small gate house, Rayley’s nostrils were hit with a strong smell. Chemical, almost medicinal, and he
froze in his tracks.
“Leave the door open, Welles,” he said. “I smell paint.”
“Of course you do,” Trevor muttered. “It’s an artist’s studio.” But he propped the door open,
nonetheless.
“No, it’s fresh paint, exactly the smell I encountered when I was in the garret watching Dorinda mix
them. The toxicity is much stronger in wet paint than dry, which is why artists go mad and art-lovers
do not.”
“Perhaps LaRusse left a jar open,” Trevor said, advancing cautiously with his torch. “He was
working right here, in this corner.” He picked his way through the room, one hand outstretched until
finally his fingertips found the canvas propped on the easel. They immediately met with a cold
stickiness, and Trevor jerked his hand back.
“See here, Abrams, you’re right. The canvas is wet.”
“How can that be? No one has been here for hours,” Rayley murmured, inching toward the sound of
Trevor’s voice. “I counted heads at the bonfire and everyone in the colony was present.”
“How long does it take paint to dry?”
“I can’t say. My canvas was still flowing like a river when I left it, but I’m sure I mixed the paint too
thin.”
“I suppose LaRusse could have come back in the afternoon to work alone,” Trevor said, “but for now
we should continue with the search. And let us be quick about it.” Even with the door open, the
fumes in the gatehouse were overpowering, and he was beginning to worry about the effect an open
flame might have on whatever chemical was in the room. Just as troubling, the hops brambles were
proving to burn quickly and already his torch was low. “If LaRusse truly has a stash of fine liquor
then he must –“
“Welles, look at this.”
Rayley was still standing at the easel with his torch raised so that he might see the painting there. “Is
this the portrait you saw today?” he asked urgently. “The one that caused the row between Anne and
LaRusse?”
“I didn’t see much of the picture,” Trevor said, hastily scanning the room’s few possible hiding
places before joining him. “I was cowered outside beneath the window, remember? I only heard
them discuss it.” He made his way to Rayley and peered at the canvas before them. A young and