..., and the dreadful, spine-chilling sound of ripping canvas. Lady Jennifer's high, terrified scream was abruptly cut off-and the silence returned.

More scared than he had ever been in his three-and-a-half centuries of painted life, Henry of Scotland gripped his claymore in a hand that shook uncontrollably and strained his smudged brown eyes (they had been sharp once, but spending fifty years in a damp cellar had blurred them) across the corridor. What he saw made him jerk backwards in sheer horror.

Right across Lady Jennifer's painting were three broad slashes, executed with such strength that the wall behind the canvas and backing frame was visible in several places.  Forlorn tatters hung miserably down almost to the floor, and Lady Jennifer herself had been sliced into three exactly equal pieces. Her face was obscured, but Henry didn't need to see it to imagine the pain and fear that would be twisting its gentle features.

There was no sign of the culprit.