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Clara had arrived at Arthur’s mansion only two weeks before that moment in the hallway. A quiet woman from a rural town, she did her work gently and efficiently. The staff barely noticed her, and Arthur hardly noticed her at all—until she stopped in front of that portrait.
He had found her standing there, motionless, her cleaning cloth hanging forgotten at her side. Her eyes were fixed on the painting.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She startled, then swallowed hard. “Sir… that boy. I grew up with him at the orphanage. We called him Daniel.”
Arthur felt the world narrow to a pinpoint.
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