1

COVENT GARDEN, LONDON, 1673

Peter pressed an exquisitely cobbled shoe against the side of the desk drawer and rubbed his aching temples. Despite all the appointments of success?the fine clothes, the freedom to paint when and what he chose, the admiration of a highly appreciative king, row upon row of apprentices at his command, a full waiting room and an even fuller account with his bankers?he felt nothing but despair. Even the fat emerald ring, once such a prize, was a torture, for it reminded him of Ursula and how he had treated her. It had been heartbreaking to live through that part of his life the first time. And now to be asked to live through it again was a sorrow so exquisite he could barely speak.

?Peter,? Mertons said, ?I hope you know how much the Guild appreciates this.?

Peter grunted. The Executive Guild managed the souls passing through the Afterlife, specifically those within the artists? section, and Mertons was the time-jump accountant who had been assigned to this case. Time-jump Accountant was his official title, but Peter knew the unofficial reason the Guild had sent him was to ensure the moody, unreliable painter they?d enlisted managed the mission properly and stayed within the prescribed rules, so perhaps nursemaid would be more appropriate.

?It wasn?t as if I had a choice.? Peter slitted his eyes and let the dying November sun warm his face. The evenings were the hardest. During the day he could lose himself in painting, but at night ? At night, all he had was wine and his memories. How could he have once held success in such esteem?

Mertons shrugged. ?You will get what you want, Peter?a new life as an artist.? The Guild had the p