I sat up, my mind shifting abruptly from my dream to the harsh reality of the night. Pulling myself from my bed, I didn’t even bother lighting a candle before making my way to the gallery that night. I knew the way by heart now. Slowly, as I went, something began to churn inside of me.
Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps just general discontent at my situation. I didn’t know what it was, but by the time I stood facing Lord Marcus’ portrait, it had become straight out anger.
Now, it was rare that I ever became angry. On the whole, I have to say that I’m a very even-tempered individual. Generally happy. Almost never given to bursts of pique.
“Why must you do this every night?” I shouted at the painting. “Why must you wake me and everyone else in this house with your moaning and groaning? I
