I stood in front of the draped shape, recognizing the skeletal outline of a massive wooden easel beneath the sheet.
This was the exact spot where the original Irene had spent her happiest hours before her father brutally shut down her dreams to turn her into a transactional noble pawn. My chest tightened with a strange, lingering echo of the original owner's grief, but I forced the emotion down.
I had to focus.
With a deep breath, I used my uninjured left hand to yank the dusty white sheet away. A thick cloud of gray dust erupted into the air, making me pinch my nose to avoid a sneeze.
As the haze cleared, my eyes fell upon a giant, half-finished oil painting resting on the easel.
It was a landscape of a sprawling garden, painted with vibrant, chaotic brushstrokes that screamed of a girl desperately trying to express herself before the cage closed in on her, but what caught my attention wasn't the art.
