Bram realizes his defenses against the winter weather are inadequate when he finds a small drift of snow on the floor in his room. The wind has dislodged the newspaper and clothing scraps he used to stop up the holes in the roof, and thin, dry flakes have been falling all night. He climbs out of bed, stumbling about in the half light of the December dawn. He has taken to sleeping in his clothes, with a woolen hat jammed onto his head, and two pairs of socks to prevent his toes being numb by morning. Even so, he quickly shrugs on his coat. Rubbing his hands together, he casts about for matches and then stoops to strike one and set it to the wick of the paraffin stove. He has scant fuel left, and is eking it out as best he can. The money from Charlotte’s portrait will not last long, though at least he has an appointment at the end of the week with another prospective client. A Mrs. Wilding has twin daughters who wish to be painted together as a birthday present for their father. They have agreed on a price for the work, and he is to paint them at their home.

At least I shall be warm there, he thinks, even if it means I must trudge across London four times a week until the portrait is finished.

He reaches out and touches the canvas. The paint is still sticky. A freezing space with air damp from the stove is a poor environment in which to attempt to work with oils. The moisture in the air means the painting takes forever to properly dry, so that he has to wait many hours, sometimes days between sessions. The low temperatures mean the paint all but freezes in the tubes and is difficult to mix, but at least his new stove has gone some way to remedying this. He has chosen to depict Lilith using a limited palette of muted browns and blues. The effect is dramatic, if slightly somber. And somehow mysterious.

The thought of not seeing her, of there coming a time when she might disappear out of his life completely, causes him real physical pain.

Footsteps on the stairs shake him from his thoughts. There is a knock at the door and, without waiting for a reply, Gudrun lets herself in. She has two cups coffee on a small tray and a cigarette between her teeth. Bram takes one of the drinks from her, wrapping his fingers around it gratefully, sniffing brandy in the steam.

“I heard you stamping about up here,” she tells him. “It is as if I am living beneath an elephant.”

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”