I first heard of the hidden portrait of Sir Isaac Whitmore during my earlier years.

At the time I was living at our ancestral family home of Dustwall Manor, located in the tender Welsh countryside.

It was my grandfather, my only living relative, who related the story to me.

Not much is known about our family's fame, but supposedly, deep within Dustwall Manor, a room exists,

the study of Sir Isaac Whitmore, and in it hangs the sole existing portrait of the man.

I never learned of the authenticity of this story, this rumor,

for I was never able to roam

the seamlessly endless halls of dust-wall manor unsupervised. Too big was the chance for a young

child to get lost in its winding labyrinthian hallways. My grandfather was a studious man, a scholar,

but also a hermit, who chose to spend his remaining

years at Dustwall Manor.

After my mother's death and childbirth, he'd taken my upbringing and early education

upon himself.

He instructed me on such subjects as history, mythology, and philosophy, but also hinted

at other more secretive studies he partook in.

Yet, he had also share many a tale relating to our family and, of course, the story of Sir

Isaac's portrait. Once I was of suitable age, he sent me off to the Grand City of London,

where I first attended a prestigious boarding school and eventually the King's College, London,

all paid for by our family's lavish fortune.

My first field of choice was that of history, an interest brought forth by my grandfather's

many tales. After only a few semesters, however, I moved on to the study of contemporary

politics, driven by an ever-growing, almost unconscious need to understand the workings

...