Seeing Mrs. Charles freeze up, I smiled and raised an eyebrow. “If you’re unwilling to part with one, that’s fine too.”

“No,” Mrs. Charles said bitterly. “Take whichever you like.”

“Then I’ll take my time choosing.”

I walked into the studio, Charles and Sun supporting Mrs. Charles behind me.

I scanned the walls and stopped in front of a portrait of a young girl. She wore a white wedding dress, eyes closed, face expressionless. Her makeup was perfect, but she looked lifeless, as if her soul had fled.

She held a bouquet of withered roses. Her finger was pricked by a thorn—a tiny wound, but impossible to miss.

She looked...