“Yes, yes, yes, exactly what art critics have been saying about my pieces for years. But how does it affect you? You are an artist—what does it make you feel?”

Bram has never been asked such a question. His mother might guess at any inner turmoil her son was experiencing, but she would not expect him to speak of it. And his father would place no importance whatsoever on feelings.

It frightens me, his work. I find it disturbing. But how can I tell him that? And why does it make me feel that way? I believe it has to do with a fear of my own ungovernable desire to produce art, and that it might lead me to become as wild as he. Would that matter? What would I sacrifice?

“It makes me feel … insignificant,” he offers.

He can tell at once that his answer disappoints. Mangan sighs and turns away.

“Never mind,” he says. “You are new here. It was not fair of me, perhaps…”

What was he expecting? What was he looking for? I am being stupid—if I want his approval surely the way to find it is through my own work.

“I hope you will be brutally honest when you assess what I produce,” he says.

“You have begun?” Mangan asks. “You have something to show me?”

“Only sketches.” He feels panic at the thought of revealing such unformed, unfinished jottings, which are all that remain of his abortive efforts to make something of the funeral drawings. “I had hoped to present you with a finished work. Indeed,” he adds, a little more brightly than he intended, “I have my canvas waiting. I mean to start this very afternoon.”

“Excellent! And who is to be your model?”

“Ah. I…” He knows that nothing but working from life will satisfy the great man. Inspiration strikes. “I was hoping to ask Gudrun if she would sit for me,” he says.

“Gudrun? Not possible, I fear. She has taken her boy to have his teeth attended to.”

“Oh.” Now I feel ridiculous. A portrait painter with no one to paint.

“My advice to you is to take yourself out into this seething city, my friend. Put yourself among the people. There you will find something that moves you.”

“You think so?”

“I do not doubt it. A true artist—for such I intend to consider you to be, unless or until you prove me wrong, Bram from Yorkshire, which I sincerely hope you do not—a true artist sees with a different eye to other mortals. You will find the gems among the rubble. Something will speak to you.” He pauses, then adds with a shrug, “A muse may take a little longer to unearth.”

Or it may be I have already found her. Found and lost again in the same few days. I will search for her, that beauty possessed of such strange strength. I will find her. I must.

*   *   *