e couldn't bring herself to move it, let alone open it again. It wasn't just paper; it was an invitation to a wor

on felt like a stor

t grounded her, that reminded her she was still Elena Cruz, the

lier, bending through thick forests where mist curled like breath. Every mile toward Blackston

d imagined: tall, ornate, and unwelcoming. At their center gleamed the

id it. Welcome to Blackstone, Miss Cruz. Mr

e words carried

hitectural ghost of stone and ivy sprawling over the cliffs. The sea thundered below, waves crashin

y waiting on the steps, tall, broad-shoul

pulse

ted something else entirely: a quiet gravity that bent the air aroun

one low and even. I appreciate yo

smile. The opportunity was

ed, not quite a smile. Most people he

t most

h that intrigued h

toward the massive doors. Come inside. There's

rn men and graceful women staring from centuries past. Chandeliers dripped ligh

family for four generations. Every painting here

ena asked, noticing an empty f

led. My mother prefers

pace. Not to display, she thought, as

ly lit room. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light.

week," Damian said. "My mother believes it's one of my

ted th

d, serene, her eyes hauntingly familiar. The brushwork, the soft blending of to

María

involuntary step forward, heart hammering

t catalogued. Damian studied her re

voice sounded foreign, like it belonged

en you'll understand why we need someone with care to restore i

d? Elena's disbelief slipped t

e

aid some legacies deserve to be

lighting, canvas condition, pigment decay, anything but the realization that

id after a long silence, why does someone choose to spend t

ything broken needs to be replaced. Some things j

almost imperceptibly. T

the t

soft scrape of her brush lifting centuries of grime. As the hidden layers

hands

ntation, small but deliberate. She leaned closer. Someone had pressed a seal

vereux

beneath it: faint letters s

D., for

th caugh

or De

en on that faded

a coincidence that the portrait, the crest, and

elt w

le

ay, his tie loosened, eyes darker tha

when I work, she said

's something about this pa

managed. You can fe

w. You look pale. You should re

ne, sh

then paused. The house has a way of gett

use was already in her head, whispering t

ffs; moonlight reflected off the waves below like scattered glass. Some

lid under her door, soft

yellowed. Her name, Elena, was written in delicate cursive i

a sing

knew better. One day, you'd find your way home through art, through memory, through blood. For

ignat

rí

other had written this. But how had

again: Where the ligh

sunlight through studio windows, the skylight at the

mething else, a place here

omeone knew who she was. Someone wanted he

clutching the letter. A shadow passed beneath t

s C

mi

refoot, wearing a dark shirt, the faintest vul

eep? she as

ed on the letter in h

at slipped u

hesitated. It's old. It m

a flicker of shock before

her head. Not yet. I nee

s too many ghosts, Miss Cruz. Be

lking down the corridor unt

t still pounding. She press

one the Devereux family had b

breaking like shattered glass. For the first time, she

or a second, it wasn't her face she saw, but her mot

kness: I'll find the truth

walls. In that moment, the portrait of María Cruz in the studio be

lackstone Manor, an unseen