The Pigment of Ruin
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, folded into itself three times as though the sender feared its own contents. Arthur Pendelton found it wedged beneath the door of his garret on Drury Lane, the paper thick and cream-colored, the seal a crest he did not recognize. He broke it open by candlelight and read: We require the services of a skilled painter for a portrait commission. The subject is...
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