The oldest portrait in this castle hung in the Master’s bedchamber. I know because I was the one who placed it there back when his great great grandfather, Eustice Saint George of the Outer Moors, asked me to.
Managing to out live one’s Master three times was unheard of. Before I came along servants would take their own life at the same moment their Master died, out of love and respect. Such fools. I had neither the time nor desire to love or respect the Saint George lineage. I did, however, want to live.
The portrait I mentioned was rather hideous. It became this way, long ago, when it was mistakenly placed too close to an open flame. The paint melted, creating the grotesque figure you see before you.
Suddenly, a mystery presented itself. Who was the subject of this painting? I pretended to know the answer, but I could only divulge the information upon the eightieth birthday of the Master? Why? Because the curse placed upon it stated if I revealed the answer too soon it would bring about the Master’s death. I was sworn to never even whisper the answer.
I knew no Saint George ever managed to live past sixty-five in their entire family history. I thought I was safe, until Little Marnie Saint George, the current Master’s daughter, thought it would be funny to start a fire near me while I slept. Now I really know who that portrait is supposed to be.