“Is there a reason you’re talking to Teela and not me when I asked the question?”

Squawk.

“He says it’s too much like work to squeeze meaning into your pathetic language.”

Hope hovered in air, squawking up a storm.

“I guess he doesn’t like it when you take liberties with his words.”

“Then he can use them himself.” Teela looked thoughtful. “When you asked about the painting and possible effects on Mrs. Erickson, his response was: ‘Too late.’ And to be fair, he’s telling me to keep as much distance as possible.”

“It’s a painting, Teela.”

“Indeed.”

“Her parents were normal, mortal parents.”

“I have no doubt of that. But he feels that the painting itself is something I, in specific, should avoid. I don’t believe you should take it outside of this room. I do believe that you’re the one who is going to have to examine it for magical signatures, unless you believe your familiar is being overly neurotic.”

“I’d like to.”

“But you don’t. Exactly my position, which will be right here.”

“It’s okay if I approach it?”

“You have Hope,” she replied. “And the marks of the Chosen. His words, not mine. The amount of trouble you can trip over when you have both has lost bets in the office.”

“Yours?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Kaylin walked toward the wall that contained the door; the open door had partly obscured the picture. She considered shutting the door but decided against. If they found whatever it was that was off and it proved to be dangerous, closed doors didn’t make speedy exit any easier.

She frowned.

“Teela, can you move the magical light toward the painting’s surface?”

The bobbing light moved—swiftly—toward the framed painting. As it did, the image in the painting grew increasingly dark, increasingly murky. Kaylin could make out the shapes of three people and the height of one chair, but they had no color and no other features; it was as if she was seeing them in silhouette.

“Move it away now?”

The light retreated. Kaylin lifted the lamp—the normal lamp—and held it out, her arm at full extension. The cloudiness, the inkiness, was gone. Beneath the glow of natural—or at least mortal—light, she could see three people clearly. A man sat in the center of a large chair, a woman sat on the upholstered chair’s right arm, and in the man’s lap, a young girl, her hair done in braids and wrapped around her forehead.

A sprig of flowers was caught in the weave of the braids, its leaves an odd, luminescent green. Although the effect should have been cute or charming, Kaylin found it disturbing.

“Well?” Teela prodded her.

“You can’t see it?”

“I can see the painting.”