Mangan’s chosen medium is stone. Huge chunks of pale limestone hewn from the quarries at Portland sit heavily on the groaning floorboards. Here and there is evidence of shoring up of the level below, with stout props visible through gaps, installed to reinforce the floor and prevent the stone disappearing into the cellars. Two pieces of natural rock are untouched, a third shows marks and gouges and other signs of the early stages of work. Another has been extensively chiseled to reveal the lumpen, rough form of a reclining woman. At the conservatory end of the studio are several smaller sculptures, all at different stages of development, all bearing Mangan’s distinctive style—angular, bold, with planes that catch the light and hollows which harbor secret shadows. While Mangan revels in showing his new protégé his work, Perry labors away preparing stone and sharpening tools in one of the darker corners of the space. He smiles over at Bram reassuringly.

When does he ever get to do his own work? I wonder. Is everyone so in thrall to Mangan that they allow themselves to be … absorbed by him and by his art? I must not let that happen to me. I must guard against it.

Bram is still weary from scant sleep. After sharing a meal with the family, he retired to his room and set about working on his first painting in his new home. He had started with such high hopes, applying paint to canvas boldly, confidently, joyously. But as the hours progressed, so the image in front of him seemed to slip away. What he saw on the canvas fell woefully short of what he was aiming for. Exasperated, he dipped a rag in turpentine and scrubbed away the failed picture. He took a breath, steadied himself, and began again. Two more hours passed in a futile attempt to make something of the sketches from which he was working, to reproduce the energy and the drama of what he remembered. But to no avail. He worked on, into the night. Discarding and starting over. Again and again. Each time with equal determination but dwindling faith in his own ability.

Now, today, he must start afresh. Renew his belief in himself. He steps forward and touches one of the pieces of stone Mangan has selected for his sculpture. The surface is surprisingly warm beneath his fingers. When he lifts his hand again a fine layer of dust coats his skin. The same gritty film that covers everything, and everyone, in the studio.

“So, Bram from Yorkshire.” Mangan comes to stand beside him, momentarily and unexpectedly still. “What do you think of my work?”

“What do I think?” Bram is taken aback. He is in the presence of genius, here to learn from a master, and he, an inexperienced, unknown painter, is being asked his opinion of the great man’s work.