“It is certainly eye-catching,” I say as I approach the painting. There’s something about it that tickles my curiosity.

I run my fingers along the gilded frame. About halfway down the right side, the pads of my fingers brush against something anomalous.

A latch.

“Got you,” I say softly.

I pull the latch open and the painting swings outward.

“Christ,” Ana says as she draws up beside me. She’s clutching a newly found erotic figurine in her hand. How many of those did this man have? “Could he have been more obvious?”

“The arrogance of the affluent. They think they can get away with anything. Admittedly, they usually do.”

“They?” Ana quirks an eyebrow at me. “Don’t you mean we?”

“Fair enough.” I shrug. “At least I’m aware of it.”

Behind the painting is a safe. Ana lets out a low whistle because it is entirely gold. The metal has been carved with nude figures tangled together in debauched ecstasy.

“Well, at least he’s consistent,” I say.

Ana shakes her head, disgust written across her face. “This amount of gold could feed every hungry child in Potosí for a year,” Ana says.

She isn’t wrong. I lean closer to get a better look at the safe. The lock is a simple mechanism, meant more for show than security.

From the inside pocket of my frock coat, I pull out a leather roll. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to use these.”

I unroll the leather parcel, revealing a set of iron picks of varying size.

Ana peers at me. “How did you learn to pick locks?”

“I read about it in a book once.”

“Of course.”

I gently slide the appropriate-size picks from their leather pockets. “I practiced on every door in the villa when no one was looking.” I shoot her a small smile. “I thought I’d have a chance to impress you someday with a new skill.”

She chuckles, soft and low. “Consider me impressed.”

I make quick work of the lock. It’s honestly shameful how easy it is to get into the safe. All the money the magistrate must have spent on this went into the form over the function. The door swings open silently, revealing a tall stack of books, mainly large ones.

“Shall we?” I ask.

Ana sighs and starts taking the books out of the safe. “We shall.”

The two of us comb through the stack of books, spreading them out on the floor of the magistrate’s office, then putting them back as we finish. Some are journals, others are account books detailing his expenditures on art and food and wine. The numbers are astronomically high. How the man hasn’t developed severe gout at this point is a mystery.