He knows how these things work. He knows how society ladies like to amuse themselves with artists who are the talk of the town. And those artists are rarely too proud to undertake their commissions. Poverty has a way of taking the edge off principles. Hunger can blunt them altogether. Mangan is no different from the many creative men who have been required to bend their talents to suit the whim of a patron. Charlotte Pilkington-Adams’s parents will pay handsomely for the sculpture. Bram will strive to produce a portrait of her in the hope they will decide to purchase it, too. The young woman would enjoy the thrill of being a muse for a short while, and then the dalliance would be over. Perhaps Lady Lilith would accompany her, if only to make certain her friend is not led into some nefarious habits. She would no doubt be polite and take a modest interest in the process. But then the artwork would be completed, and the acquaintance would be at an end.

And our paths would be unlikely ever to cross again.

The thought causes an unexpected tightness in his chest, which in turn makes him feel annoyed at his own foolishness. He snatches up a rag and dips it in turpentine. He hesitates for a moment, his hand hovering above the surface of the canvas. The acrid smell of the turpentine brings him to his senses. With mounting irritation he rubs at the canvas, watching with some morbid satisfaction as the image blurs, the colors melt, and the shapes lose their definition as he works to erase the dismal painting.

*   *   *

The heat of summer fades and the year falls quietly into autumn. I find my grief for my father is also undergoing subtle transformations. The disbelief at his passing, the numbness of the early days, the gnawing ache as I adjust to life without him—all these phases come and go in such a short space of time I am only able to see them clearly with the crystal vision of hindsight. Now, just a few months after his death, and after so many mutations, my grieving has settled into a constant undertow of sadness that tugs at my mood and my thoughts seemingly without respite. The sorrow wearies me.

What must it be like for poor Mama? I am young enough to have a future to travel toward, whereas she is propelled only by her past now. Nor does she have the comfort of knowing, as I do, that dear Father is never far from us.