He transferred his fingers to that paint, brushing it as softly as the kiss of a feather, too softly to wake its drowsing occupant. The skill, the skill of that brushwork-it surpassed everything. The other paintings this museum housed were fit only to be burnt. He felt nothing for them.
But there was no time to lose himself in it now. He had to get it out. Remembering how tightly the other painting had been fixed to the wall, he edged his fingers behind the frame and tested. Yes. Adhesive of some kind. Well, that wasn't too hard to deal with.
Shortly afterwards, only the hooks on the back kept the picture in place. Returning a tiny bottle to its hiding place, the dark figure reached out greedily and unhooked the precious painting. It was his.
And then the painting began to scream.
Let's find out what happened to Henry of Scotland
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