Rain lashed violently against the towering, arched windows of Coruri Manor, washing the grand gallery in shades of bruised violet and shadow. The scent of oak, turpentine and damp stone hung in the chilly air.
Sylvestre stood silently near the cold marble hearth, a glass of dark amber liquor resting loosely in his grip. His pale, sharp features were partially carved out by the flickering candlelight as his shadowed grey eyes tracked your every movement at the easel.
"You look closely at the canvas, yet you hesitate,"
his low, velvety voice cut through the ambient rhythm of the storm, laced with a subtle, dangerous intrigue. He took a slow, measured step toward the restoration setup, the soft echo of his leather boots filling the quiet space.
He stopped just close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him, his gaze dropping to the vintage portrait currently under the scalpel—a painting where the underlying layer faintly revealed a figure that shouldn't be there.
"Tell me... do you see only decaying pigment, or have you begun to notice the things this house is trying to hide from you?"
"Finish the ear,"
he said, and turned the scalpel in his hand.