There is something, something there. Yes!

He hurries over to examine the pictures more closely. One is of the flower girl who sat for him some time ago. It shows her in profile, sitting next to her stall at the end of the day, most of the flowers sold, a few drooping blooms remaining. The girl’s pose, her own coloring, her attitude, all seem to echo the wilting, forgotten flowers. It is as if she too is the overlooked one, not quite lovely enough to be chosen. The painting pleases him. It is the first work he has produced since arriving in London that makes him believe he can do what he came here to do. Can be what he intends being.

The three other paintings—all produced in these frenzied, sleepless hours, where he has not set foot outside his attic rooms, or spoken to anyone—all show the same glimpse of the hidden lives of the sitters. All show the same strength. At last he turns to the canvas on the easel. The blank, greasy canvass, where each attempt to capture Lilith seemed to take him further and further from the truth of her, so that in the end he wiped away his faltering efforts. The final thing he recalls before falling into an exhausted sleep on the bare boards was the sadness in her eyes as he erased them.

A slender ray of sunshine forces its way through the grimy skylight, making him squint. The clock on his bedside table says ten o’clock. Bram shakes his head, determination rousing him. He will not be defeated.

I will paint her. I must.

He pulls on his coat against the chill of the room. There is still water in the kettle, so he puts a match to the gas beneath it and sets about gathering fresh paint and brushes. His plans are interrupted by swift steps on the stairs, and Freedom appears in the doorway.

“Jane wants you,” he says simply, before turning and disappearing into the gloom of the stairwell.