“One drink only?” Perry sighs. “What a pity not to be able to spend longer in such delightful company,” he adds, looking wistfully in the direction of Charlotte.

“Can’t be helped,” says Bram, ordering the drinks from the aproned barman. “We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

They rejoin their companions, who have undone their coats but, sensibly, given the patchy heat supplied by the fire, elected to keep them on. Perry sits as close to Charlotte as good manners will allow and engages her in a discussion about the dancer, Isadora Duncan, who has recently taken Paris society by storm. Bram takes the low wooden chair opposite Lilith, setting the drinks down on the small table between them. He uses the opportunity to study her fine profile as she turns to watch the leaping flames of the burning coals in the hearth.

“How I long to paint you.” The words are out of his mouth before he has had time to consider the wisdom of speaking them aloud. The statement sounds far more personal, more revealing of himself than it should be, somehow. Lilith looks at him thoughtfully.

“How would you depict me?” she asks. “As Mr. Mangan has chosen to portray Charlotte—a Grecian goddess, perhaps?”

“Good Lord, no!” The gulp of brandy is already dissolving his reserve.

“Oh? Don’t you like the way he is sculpting her?”

“I’m sure he will produce a perfectly stunning piece of work, in his singular way, of how he sees her. But such a pose, such a style, well…”

“It is not your style.”

He shakes its head. “Nor would it suit you.”

“Oh? Please tell me, what do you consider would suit me? How is it that you see me?”

He hesitates, uncertain still as to how much he should speak what is in his heart. How much of himself, and of his regard for her, he should reveal. But then the images he carries in his mind of how he would paint her, of how he imagines he could immortalize her, these images are so vivid he cannot resist attempting to share them with her.