He saw the Rhinehart triptych, complete at last.

The panels were leaning against the wall, resting on top of several sheets of brown wrapping paper that rose up behind them. The Magi was to Storm’s left, the Madonna to his right. The Nativity—the beautiful Christ child—was set in the center. There were no frames to separate the pictures. They joined together into one flowing whole.

Iago passed the flame over the scene, smiling down at it.

“You know, I told my friends here to leave you alone,” he murmured. He glanced up at Storm. “I did, truly. Well, I had my own reasons, but I am a fan of yours as well. I had them be as quiet as little mice just so as not to disturb you.” He nodded thoughtfully, as if to himself. “Sir Michael gave up the location of the painting in return for his daughter’s life,” he said. “My gentlemen stabbed him to death with the softest touch imaginable. And off they crept to meet me here on little tippy-toes. You see? All to keep you out of it, Mr. Storm. Because I didn’t want to hurt you if I didn’t have to. Truly. And yet—and yet, all the while,” he went on, in the same tone of reverie. “All the while, I had this suspicion, you know, that this was really our destiny. The moment I heard the sound of the pick on the stone, I thought, ‘It’ll travel. It’ll travel through the walls of the house and he’ll have to come to it.’ Tick-tick, tick-tick. Isn’t that remarkable? Destiny. Our destiny.”

He looked down at the triptych again. Lovingly, Storm thought. He passed the candle back and forth over it.

Storm’s own gaze was drawn by the shifting light. He looked at the panels too, from The Magi to the Nativity to the Madonna. And slowly—he thought—he could have sworn—slowly—he saw something in the paintings that almost seemed—what?—almost seemed to be coming to life. Changing. Metamorphosing as he watched. It must have been his own perception, but it really did seem that—there, where the triptychs joined—the scenes transformed themselves. No one image, but the very brushstrokes themselves, seemed to come together into some sort of rune, some sort of mystic writing, that ran vertically along the lines of the joins.

Storm’s lips parted. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Jesus, it’s really there.”

Iago gave a little happy hum of laughter. “Destiny,” he said again. “Beautiful.”

Slowly, he began to stroll back from the panels, back towards Storm. Storm looked from the triptych to Iago’s face. He felt fear rising from his stomach to his throat. Iago came nearer.