The mistake made by Wilde’s character, Dorian Gray, would not be his. He was truly sorry. Not for himself but for the way he had treated Orelia and others. His failure in his career—and maybe his books were lousy—and the magic wielded against him had done him a favor and shown him his error.

His envy. His anger. In hindsight, deserved, but then… really? If her success had been from her natural ability and not stolen, was that his business? Was anybody else’s life his concern?

The car slowed and pulled to the curb only twenty yards away. A darkness descended across the landscape, and as the driver climbed out, lightning flashed, silhouetting the figure against the background of the gentle roll of hills filled with headstones and tombs.

A second flash lit the sky. William had a sense that these markers of lives long past were sentinels, observing and grading him on his performance.

Thunder reached his position two seconds later, crashing twice around him. He jumped and felt his heart leap as a hundred butterflies fluttered in his chest. Still, he returned his focus to the approaching figure.

The rain turned into torrents of water as the wind whipped up, buffeting him without mercy. The sound, a fury of whirling pressure beating him, daring him to leave, seek shelter.

His clothes were wet through, but the chill didn’t touch him because he forced his mind to ignore everything except her. Every drop, he told himself, was a bead of energy, feeding focus, keeping his tense muscles warm, his heart brave.

The sky ignited again. It was a hell of a storm, one he would have enjoyed if he was inside safe, looking out. He smiled at that description. A hell of storm was what he’d hoped might arrive and, as if ordered, it had come.

Orelia was nearly here, picking through the graves as if this was an obstacle course, looking down every few steps to check her footing. She at least had prepared for the elements, her umbrella waving left and right as she moved.

She stopped only yards from him on the other side of the grave, so the patch of dirt and headstone separated them. He liked that analogy. It seemed fitting and even poetic. Something he’d write in a novel to show the unspoken chasm which lay between two characters.

He imagined this moment in the short hours he’d given himself to prepare. Each line he would now speak he had practiced as he drove here. So this felt surreal, another make-believe rehearsal. The butterflies beat against his ribs as his eyes met her.

As usual, she dressed in style in a tailored three-quarter length jacket. Despite the inclement weather, her grooming remained impeccable. Perfect pixie-styled, vibrant hair. Rich coral lipstick and mascaraed eyes. She could walk straight on to any stage or television set. He almost expected her to launch into a speech on what it took to write a best seller or succeed in the tough publishing game or—how to destroy innocent lives.