Before she could stop it, she’d darted a glaring line along the edge of Declan’s neck on the canvas. With annoyance, she’d gone in with a rag, but the paint beneath was still too wet to let her completely wipe away her mistake. The edge had been left glowing. But as she turned her head to the side, trying to imagine the fewest steps required to restore the edge, she realized the glow actually looked good. It did not look like reality. It felt like reality. The way the light played against the dark tricked her eye in the same way a real object’s edges did. The dissonance was right.

Instead of repairing it, she emphasized it as much as she dared.

The next sitting, she was even braver. She pushed the effect further, past the point of comfort. Until it was more real than reality. She didn’t know if the effect would work, because she was no longer copying. This was unknown road.

Had it felt different to make it? Of course it had felt different. It felt terrifying. It felt thrilling. She wanted people to admire it. She was afraid they’d hate it.

A Jordan Hennessy original.

“It’s bonkers, really,” Jordan remarked. “The whole thing. A sweetmetal. Everyone’s going mad trying to get one, they’re so rare, it’s impossible. And here I am, thinking, oh, right, well, I’ll just make one, then. I never thought of myself as an egotist, but I really must have quite a pair on me.”

Declan smiled at this, turning his face away as he did, as always. “I’m just surprised you’ve never considered yourself an egotist.”

“That’s very sweet.”

He asked, “Can I see it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the biggest art snob I know, which is saying a lot, and you’re a capital-L Liar and I don’t think I could take it if you didn’t like it and I also don’t think I could take you lying to me about it if you didn’t.”

With some curiosity, Declan asked, “Do you think I could still lie convincingly to you?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Do you think I would?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“After all this?”

“After all what?” she said, but in a mocking tone. “Just because I stole your car.”

They were quiet then for a space. Declan looked out the window at the dark, more pensive than his portrait. Both Real Declan and Portrait Declan held their hands the same way, fingers unevenly laced, something about them suggesting power at rest, but Portrait Declan depicted the Declan of just a few minutes before, his head turned quickly to hide that secret smile, that private self. Portrait Declan’s eyes were half-lidded, looking away, his expression one of intimate, mannered amusement. Real Declan’s were wide open, mirthless.