Lorenzo inquired, "And your reasoning, young man?"

  "Because... because of that line of text. The tiny script on the rim of the silver platter... it... it's a contract. It says, 'With the eye as price, with blood as pact.'"

  The hall fell silent for a moment before erupting in derisive laughter.

  "Contract text? In a painting?"

  "Is the lad drunk?"

  "I see no words on the platter. Nothing at all."

  "They're there!" the young man exclaimed, pointing agitatedly at the painting. "On the rim! Look closely, with a magnifying glass!"

  Anger pretended to step closer. Indeed, there were fine engravings on the platter's rim, but the characters were minuscule. Normal eyesight couldn't possibly discern the content, let alone identify the language.

  Unless this young man's vision is exceptional.

  Lorenzo walked over and stopped before him, smiling. "What is your name?"

  "Eliot Green."

  "Mr. Green. You said you could read part of it. Have you studied ancient contractual scripts, then?"

  "I've researched some," the young man replied, his voice losing some of its earlier fervour, aware this was the host's exhibition. "From notes my father left behind. I've seen similar symbols."

  "I see," Lorenzo nodded. "A fascinating observation. But I'm afraid it cannot serve as a basis for authentication. The engravings on the platter's rim are indeed decorative—common inscriptions mimicked from medieval silverware styles. They are not actual text. Furthermore, from an art history perspective, the technique, pigments, and canvas of this painting all align with the characteristics of its purported period. Therefore—"

  "It is fake!" Eliot Green's face flushed. "I can prove it! The painting... it's glowing. There's an aura around it."

  This statement plunged the hall into complete silence. This time, there were no laughs.

  Lorenzo Bellatus stared at Eliot Green for several seconds before smiling again.

  "Mr. Green, you've proposed a most singular perspective. But art appreciation is a rational endeavour. We require verifiable evidence, not subjective sensations. You say the painting glows—that could be an illusion caused by light reflection. You say there is contractual text on the platter—that could be an overinterpretation of decorative patterns."

  He turned back to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us continue. We have twenty minutes remaining. Please make your judgments."

  The crowd gradually dispersed, but the atmosphere had shifted subtly. Most attention was no longer fully on the paintings, but kept straying towards Eliot Green and No. 4.

  Only the young man remained in place, trembling slightly.

  Anger continued his charade of appreciation, his observation of Lorenzo uninterrupted.

  Later, another person made a judgment: the light and shadow angles in No. 2, the rustic wedding, contained a physical error. Her analysis was exceedingly professional, citing optical principles and solar angle calculations, and was convincing.

  Now, five of the eight paintings had been declared forgeries: Nos. 3, 7, 5, 1, and 2. Only Nos. 4, 6, and 8 remained unchallenged. According to the rules, four should be genuine and four forgeries. Therefore, among the remaining three, at least one must be genuine and two forgeries.

  Eliot Green still stood before No. 4.

  "Time is nearly up, everyone. Five minutes remain, after which we will cease accepting new judgments," Lorenzo announced. "Currently, three paintings remain undiscussed: No. 4, Salome; No. 6, Blond Boy; and No. 8, Londinium Dusk. Does anyone wish to comment on these three?"

  No one had stepped forward earlier; now, even fewer were inclined to do so. Unless one was absolutely certain, stepping forward would serve no purpose beyond the preservation of one's own dignity — a mere social nicety.

  The attendees exchanged glances, discussing in low tones.

  The uneasy Eliot Green suddenly stirred again. He took a step forward, turned to Lorenzo, and stared directly at him.

  "I... I wish to make another declaration."

  Even the low murmurs in the hall ceased. All eyes were on Eliot.

  "No. 4 is a forgery. Not just because of the text. Because this painting... breathes. I see the canvas undulating. The pigment has a pulse. Can't you see? It's moving. It's moving."

  Lorenzo's smile vanished.

  "Mr. Green, you are proposing claims that no one else can verify. In the realm of art appreciation, this typically means one of two things: either you are a onceinacentury genius possessing perception beyond the ordinary, or you understand nothing of art and are merely guessing wildly, attempting to attract attention with sensational statements."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "I am not—"

  "You are," Lorenzo's voice turned sharp. "Your father was Elliot Green, correct? The man plagued by mental instability, riddled with delusions and hallucinations. It seems you have inherited that particular... trait."

  The words landed like a stinging slap across the young man's face. He staggered back half a step, lips trembling, unable to utter a word in retort.

  He couldn't refute it. Yet what he saw was also true. Why would no one believe him?

  "Ladies and gentlemen, please forgive this little spot of bother. Let us continue." He paused, surveying the room. "Does anyone else wish to make a judgment regarding paintings number four, six, or eight?"

  No one responded. The atmosphere became rather awkward. He swept his gaze across the assembly once more. Seeing that no one else intended to step forward, he continued, "Since there are no further judgments, we shall now reveal the answers. Attendants, please unveil the authentication labels on the backs of the paintings."

  Four attendants stepped forward, each moving to stand before paintings number three, four, six, and eight. Number three had already been clearly declared a forgery.

  The attendants carefully peeled away the sealing strips on the backs of the frames, revealing small cards beneath. They then read aloud in turn:

  "Painting number three, Spring in a Vase: Forgery."

  "Painting number four, Salome: Authentic."

  "Painting number six, Blond Boy: Authentic."

  "Painting number eight, Londinium Dusk: Forgery."

  A wave of surprised and admiring murmurs rippled through the hall. "The participants tonight successfully identified three of the four forgeries. That is, numbers three, five, seven, and eight. Only number four, Salome, was incorrectly judged a forgery, while it is, in fact, authentic."

  "And the only person who declared number four a forgery was... Eliot Green."

  "Congratulations, everyone," Lorenzo said, leading the room in a round of applause. "The accuracy of judgment tonight is remarkably high, proving that all present are true connoisseurs. According to our rules, the three most accurate judges will receive a prize. They are: Mr. Howard, Lady Marjorie, and... let me see the register... Ah, Mr. White. Would the three of you please come forward?"

  The three named individuals stepped up with pleased smiles. Lorenzo gestured, and attendants brought forth three small trays draped with velvet cloth. He lifted the cloths one by one, revealing three exquisitely framed sketches that did indeed appear to be 19thcentury works.

  The award presentation lasted a few minutes.

  Anger, seizing the moment while all attention was focused ahead, leaned towards Eliot and said in a low, urgent tone, "Leave. Now."

  The young man was still dazed.

  "If you don't wish to end up like your father, get out of here immediately."

  Eliot Green had no choice but to quietly retreat, melting back into the crowd and disappearing.

  "Let's go," Anger said, just calling Hendrick over. He had not seen Edwin Lyle at the forgery exhibition. Not even a single soul who seemed to be there gathering information. It was likely Lyle had received some advance warning and ultimately decided against sending anyone.

  "Please wait a moment, Mr. Harrington."

  Lorenzo's voice rang out just then.

  Anger stopped. Lorenzo knew him. His entry in disguise was likely permitted by Lorenzo's own instruction; otherwise, he wouldn't have been allowed to remain undisturbed until the very end.

  "Mr. Harrington, I would like to show you something in private. A most unusual item. I believe it might pique your interest."

  ******

  Many eyes followed them, for it was rather odd how warmly Lorenzo was treating a stranger. Anger, of course, had no reason to refuse. "Lead the way," he agreed directly.

  Lorenzo gestured graciously. "This way, please." Anger glanced back at Hendrick, giving a slight shake of his head to signal the young man should not follow.

  He followed Lorenzo upstairs into a small, private alcove.

  "Anger Hastings. Inspector," Lorenzo said with a smile once they were inside.

  "Mr. Bellatus," Anger replied calmly.

  "What did you think of tonight's little game?"

  Anger did not immediately answer the question about the game. Instead, he posed his own. "Will you cause trouble for Eliot Green?"

  Lorenzo seemed momentarily taken aback. "Why ever would we, Inspector? This is a perfectly legal exhibition, not some den of iniquity. Bishop Morris himself signed the activity permit—you must have seen the Parish seal at the registration desk."

  "You collaborate with the Parish," Anger stated, finishing Lorenzo's unspoken point.

  "A mutually beneficial arrangement. A sublime work of art allows the world to appreciate the Church's glory and the splendour of art. A winwin, wouldn't you say?"

  "Although, personally, I believe that number four is a forgery."

  Lorenzo gave a polite chuckle. "Inspector Hastings, it is but a game. Authentication, sharing perspectives, exchanging insights... it's like chess or cards. Games have rules. You win a prize, you lose, no matter. But some words... should be chosen with care."

  "Chosen with care? It's merely standing by one's reasoned conviction. What is there to be careful about? It's just a painting. Unless... speaking the truth carries a cost. Like Eliot Green's father, who ended up... mentally unwell."

  Lorenzo fell silent. Anger expected him to grow angry, to summon security and have him removed. But he did not.

  A sudden realization dawned on Anger: Lorenzo Bellatus knew number four was a forgery. Not only knew, but allowed—no, orchestrated—its presence. He had masterminded tonight's entire authentication game.

  That painting, the one that showed Eliot contract text and a halo... was likely a trap.

  Judging by Lorenzo's reaction, he didn't seem surprised that Eliot Green had identified it as fake. Perhaps that was the intended outcome from the very beginning.

  Professor Croft's words echoed in his mind. While the professor's understanding of the Edicts might not be entirely accurate, it wasn't worthless. Edicts like Debt, like Silence... if such things were bound to these artworks, then Eliot Green might indeed pay a price.

  They exhibit a forgery—a vessel for an Edict disguised as art—then publicly declare it authentic. The one who questions it must pay the price. The purpose of this "Gallery of Fakes" was now clear.

  But Edwin Lyle was supposed to appear, and didn't. The variable... was himself. Anger Hastings. Wasn't it precisely his sudden appearance at the exhibition that caused Edwin Lyle to stay away? And because of that, Eliot Green hadn't paid a price... or at least, not one exacted on the spot.

  "Mr. Bellatus," Anger said, breaking the silence. "A painting that breathes. A forgery defined as a masterpiece. It's no more bizarre than the cases I handle. You know my background. I don't believe in such things."

  Lorenzo looked at Anger, his expression growing complex. "Inspector Hastings, you are as stubborn as rumoured. But since you insist, I cannot refute your viewpoint."

  "Let me show you a painting personally. One not on tonight's list. Perhaps it will help you understand what truly warrants... careful words. And the reason you were initially warned to stay away from Lord Arthur Vinter."

  "Please." This time, it was Anger who felt a spark of interest. He did not refuse. He wanted to see what exactly Lorenzo Bellatus had up his sleeve.