Alexsander hailed the man and asked what he was painting.

‘Whole town and valley,’ the man said, ‘as much as I can see from here. I paint one every year.’

This piqued Alexsander’s interest, and he was always bold. ‘I’d very much like to see them,’ he said.

The painter, a man by the name of Marcus, indulged him gladly; this was not an artistically minded town. The painter sold his work farther north. Reikova? No, not that far. Not since his formative years had he travelled that far. The painter lived above a little framer’s shop – a happy, brotherly coincidence – that was rarely open. His lodgings were modest but tastefully furnished. One room was given over to what the painter called his studio, but was clearly more of a storeroom: canvas after canvas were stacked against the walls and on the shelves. Few were fully visible, giving the room a kaleidoscopic character. Those that Alexsander could see he judged to be good, though he was by no means an expert. He commented on the sheer amount of work in the room.

‘I paint faster than I sell,’ Marcus said. ‘And I don’t paint all that fast.’

‘Perhaps I will buy a piece before I return north,’ Alexsander said.

‘Would you like to see the valley?’

They moved into another back room, which was empty except for what hung from the walls. Every inch was covered by what appeared to be the same painting, replicated over and over but with different frames. It was dizzying. To steady himself, Alexsander focused on the closest painting. A small brass plaque on the bottom of the frame read 1693. The view depicted was obviously that from Marcus’ balcony: the town stretching out below, the hills beyond, and the sky soft and autumnal.

The paintings moved through the years, and he began to see changes and even small sequences or progressions. A broken chimney that became a roof under repair. Trees pared back, then chopped down. One street grew from obscurity to bustling commerce. And in the distance Fort Seeben suddenly scarred the landscape.

‘These are astonishing,’ Alexsander said.

‘My memory goes, but they remind me of so much.’

‘And your night-brother, does he paint too?’

‘No, but we do share a love of wine,’ Marcus said.

Alexsander excused himself, not wanting to keep Marcus from his work. He was glad to be out in the open air once more and away from the heady smell of oils. He strode to the edge of town in order to walk out among the trees but, despite Marcus’ detailed depictions, he had forgotten the river. So, saving the forest for another morning, he walked upstream until he grew hungry, then walked back to the inn. There, he spent the afternoon gossiping with anyone who was likewise unencumbered by significant employment.

My first task was to introduce myself to the local constable and determine some of the background details pertinent to my investigation. Mrs Lehner was kind enough to provide me with directions and I set off into an unpleasantly wet evening. The streets of Drekenford were all but deserted in the downpour, and of a far more subdued character than that of the market the night before. With no moon to speak of and so few streets blessed with lamps I was forced to navigate by my own hand lamp, which was poor in such weather. I soon found myself lost in the maze of unfamiliar streets.