Adept as I was in the rarefied fields of Greco-Roman and Egyptian history and artwork authentication, my demeanour of professional scepticism did nothing to thwart his enthusiasm. I clutched my reservations as we slithered through the spectral warren of his dark manor; woe betides this pathetic art-lover who, as if a somnambulate captive of a fever dream, is drawn to the veiled secrets of bygone epochs!

However, when he tugged at the slit in a curtained-off section of his collection, I immediately fell prey to the same spell of bafflement. Through the vegetal dimness I spied twin portraits of inestimable value, one taloned and bird-like, another sinuous and feline. Speaking at once to unforetold futures and age-old mystery, the pair depicted the likeness of hybrid creatures with androgyne heads, whose monstrosity and mythic beauty commanded in me a supreme yet visceral awe. Though they transmitted a story written with a faultlessly wisen technique – in hundreds of layers of thin oil paint – my expertise protested that they were not created by the labour of ancient hands. But how likely was it that such remarkable objects should for so long go unnoticed? Beholding this overripe enigma that from nowhere had sprung, I noted a feeble sweat gathering at my hairline from under the fog of an opalescent enchantment.

When we withdrew from the curtain, I dared not asked how they came into his possession for fear of revealing newfound envy, over-investment or mutinous passion. But I knew then they would be mine at any cost. As he led me to the sitting room, I was plagued by the dangerous certitude of my destiny that was to follow the paintings’ bidding: to serve a cocktail of misfortunes tailored to the perfection of my collector’s taste. For what does the love of art demand if not to barter one’s purchase on reality… to commit a crime against reason, to submit to the delusion that the sane call obsession…