Whitmore said smoothly, folding his bony, white hands. “I am only a collector, nothing more.” I considered, regarding the elderly man. The request was not the type I usually accepted, but Edmund Whitmore was a wealthy man and his initial offer had been more than enough to catch my attention. “Alright,” I said, sighing inwardly. “Tell me about the job.” “Lucifer’s Rise was painted in 1693 by a woman called Penelope Smythe with no previous painting experience,” Whitmore told me, steepling his skeletal fingers. “It was the only thing she ever painted. She was put on trial for witchcraft and executed shortly after its completion. The painting vanished during the trial and has not been seen since.” “And you think I can find it? I’m not a magician, Whitmore,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t expect you to be. I have a lead in Istanbul,” Whitmore told him. “Word on the grapevine is a woman by the name of Heather Roman found the painting amidst her late grandfather’s possessions.
