#here they are: My paints my tools my hands fail me! My dear Icarus was the embrace of the sun worth the fall?

[nessypanda-art]

I very much relate to Basil falling in love with his muse, Dorian, because how can you not? There's a whole conversation about obsession but like, there's a certain amount of love that goes into painting a muse. You sit there staring at them for hours on end. How can you not gently caress each and every part of them in a loving embrace as you translate them into colors and shapes? Does your heart not sing as vague lines start to form a living breathing thing? The divine has reached out to me and allowed me to capture a hair's breathe of their essence! And I curse myself, for how can a human capture the sun?

[0bfvscate]

Halloway’s Night Out

Fanfiction for @nothwell‘s sequel to Mr. Warren’s Profession, Throw His Heart Over.

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Alcohol use, mild sexual content, references to violence and drug use

Summary: John Halloway celebrates selling his most recent, and most controversial painting, The Fall of Icarus, with dinner and wine, but true to form, neither Halloway nor his dear friend Cyril Graves manage to do anything in a quiet or orderly way.

The reception to the painting was mixed. Some called it a masterful use of technique, others an aesthetic triumph. Others called it a debasement of ancient myth, a clear excuse to indulge in homosexual tendencies, and an affront to good taste. Halloway heard people call him both a genius and a monster for displaying the vaunted Icarus as a scarred and beaten man, and felt a bit thrilled to invoke such strong reaction.

Until he saw Warren in the crowd. Warren was a quiet man with quiet habits who preferred his privacy. Warren’s eyes darted around the room as he squeezed through the crowd toward the painting, trying to reach it without making any sign that he was there. Halloway came to the sudden realization he’d brought a very private friend to an event celebrating his naked, painted form. Halloway could see him struggling to be invisible, squirming in his suit when he bumped in to someone, apologized, and saw their eyes flicker over his scars.

Halloway jumped through the crowd. “Warren!”

His voice did not have its intended effect. Instead of being a life raft thrown into open water, it seemed to act like a bullet at a hart.

“Come here,” Halloway called, struggling with the tools at his disposal for some anchor to ground his model. “Let me shake your hand—find you a glass—no? Very well, as you wish—but do allow me to introduce you to my friend—Mr Talbot—the proprietor of this fine establishment.”

—and reached behind himself to extract one Mr. Edward Talbot, art patron, critic and former tailor. He’d inherited a strong business sense, an eye for color, and a tailor’s shop from his father, which he then liquidated and converted into a gallery for the sake of art.

“How do you do.” said Mr Talbot.

Aubrey replied in kind, but with mounting meekness as Talbot’s eyes widened with recognition. Talbots’ customary congratulations to the model froze on his lips and a yawning silence stretched in its place.

“Mr Warren,” said Halloway, clapping his free hand upon Aubrey’s shoulder, “is the celebrated model.”

“Indeed,” said Mr Talbot. “I thank you, sir, for making such a splendid work possible. Your visage is a most inspiring one. Forgive me for abandoning you so soon, but I’m afraid business calls me elsewhere. Good evening, Mr Warren. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon.”

He gave them each a nod and vanished into the crowd as easily as a ghost, where his absence was filled with Halloway’s annoyance. Talbot failed to offer Warren any comfort, and left him still and fragile and unsteady as a newborn fawn. If only Warren drank, Halloway would have given him some liquid courage.

“Talbot thinks we might have an offer on the painting this very night,” Halloway blurted out.

“That’s good,” Aubrey replied, though his uncertainty turned the remark into a question.

“It’s very good,” Halloway confirmed. “Better than I’d hoped—though no less than I feel it deserves, if I may be honest at the risk of being arrogant. Have you seen it yet?”

When Aubrey admitted he’d not yet glimpsed the painting hanging in the gallery, Halloway bid him follow, and carved a path through the crowd to the wall. Every wall in the gallery bore artworks from floor to ceiling, but Icarus Fallen seemed to have a glow all its own. Or did Halloway imagine it? Did it draw his eye for the piece of himself he recognized within it, or was there something universal in its composition? Did it have that unmistakable spark of beauty that every artist chased, or was it just a nice painting that he was proud of?

Aubrey craned his neck upward towards the painting, and for a moment, he seemed at peace.

“What do you think?” Halloway asked.

“It’s… impressive,” Aubrey said at last.

Halloway smiled, but before he could say more, a hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Halloway,” the man said. “Tell me more about this recent painting. Tell me where you found the nerve.”

And with that, the crowd drew him back in, where he was in his element.

By ten the gallery was shut up, the champagne was gone, and Richard Talbot was using Halloway’s coat and hat as a lion tamer used a chair.

“You ought to apologize to my friend Warren,” Halloway said. Graves had his fingers in the back of his jacket and was trying to pull him toward the exit. “He’s a very handsome man, you know. Very kind, very gentle. He’s sort of like a deer.”

“For God’s sake, John,” Graves grumbled. “The event is over and we’re starving. If we stay here any longer the party will end.”

“I know, I’m coming. And I’m not upset with you, I’m just a bit protective of the poor chap. He’s like a deer.”

“I understand completely.” Mr. Talbot said, advancing on him with the coat and hat.

“He saved an entire factory. That’s why he’s got those scars. Have I told you that?”

“Yes.” Talbot said.

“You’re drunk.” Graves said.

“You’re drunk.”

“I think you’d both do well to have a hot dinner and a nice cup of coffee.” Mr. Talbot said, taking another step forward with the hat and coat.

“Oh, yes. Splendid.” Graves answered.

“I just want you to know—“

“I know, John,” Mr. Talbot said, finally saddling Halloway with his own coat and hat and giving him a gentle pat. “I know.”

And then they were out in the street, unsteadily climbing into the hansom. They collapsed on top of one another and awoke some twenty minutes later feeling like watersodden logs, but after food, coffee, and yet more liquor, they both felt as fresh as spring rain.

“To Icarus!” Graves cried. “To a man who died a noble death, in the pursuit of absolute, ideal beauty. A man who stretched out his hand to touch the sun and felt its fire burning. Here’s to a man who flew out of prison and fell to the sea.”

“Now I’m not arguing against the technical skill,” said Hainsley, the editor and founder of his own magazine. “It is clearly a beautifully painted piece. What I am arguing against is the choice to mutilate Icarus.”

“He fell out of the sky and smashed on the rocky earth,” Halloway argued. “If I wanted to mutilate him, I would have done much worse then a bruising.”

“Exactly. That’s my point. You can’t argue for realism, since true realism would reduce the painting to an unrecognizable, pornographic mess. If Icarus Fallen were pure veritism it would hardly be a painting at all. Your choices were weighed accordingly, which is every artist’s right, but I respectfully disagree with your decisions.”

“Well, sir, I respectfully disagree with yours. Icarus has been portrayed in art for thousands of years, and I for one am tired of seeing unending galleries full of heroes in unblemished death throes.”

“God, are we going to sit at this table forever?” Asked Forsyth from the other end. “I’ve been stuffed in this jacket all day.”

Next they went to the Catullus club, descending on it like a flock of bats if bats waddled on foot after too much food and wine. The club was a relatively sedate place at that time of night, except for a few private parties bursting with exclamations and loud thuds from behind locked doors. They took the main room and filled it with noise and smoke as the company and the alcohol brought them all a new burst of energy. The staff, noticing the celebratory nature of their party, circled them like moths.

Halloway had a very pretty toff sitting on the arm of his chair while Graves proudly recounted his triumphs. The toff was a bit too pretty for Halloway, incessantly barring eyelashes he’d enhanced with kohl and cheeks darkened with rouge. Hainsley was sitting on the other side of the chair and salivating up at the pretty toff. Halloway, eventually, retrieved his arm from the toff and used it to wrap around Graves.

“Couldn’t we move the pronouncements to a private room?” He asked.

Graves, frozen in the act of giving a speech, took his time to arrive at John’s point. “I’m not averse, if you don’t mind leaving you adoring entourage.”

“I’d prefer it.” He admitted quietly.

Graves raised his eyebrows, but got out of his chair without comment. “Very well. Excuse us, gentlemen.”

The orderly at the welcome desk gave them a key to a room on the second floor. By the time they arrived, towels, lubricant and a clean water basin were laid out for them by the bed.

“Didn’t that pretty young gentlemen interest you at all?” Graves asked, pulling off his shoes.

“God, no,” Halloway answered. “Although if you’ve a fancy—“

“Hmm. Do I? Well, I’d certainly give it a try. But why not? He seemed very partial to you.”

“Shame I’m not much for willowy boys.” Halloway grumbled.

Graves laughed. “So it’s another question for aesthetics! Tell me, John, what disinterests you so in beauty?”

“‘Beauty’ isn’t a predetermined factor,” Halloway declared, giving up on untying his tie and just pulling it apart. “If it were, the Asthetes wouldn’t have anything to talk about.”

“Isn’t it? A truth doesn’t become less true for having facets, nor are gems less expensive for them. If beauty were in the eye of the holder, a painting could not be celebrated. As an artist, you must admit that beauty is generally agreed upon.”

“As an artist, I can tell you now that beauty is a trend that comes and goes,” he struggled to pull off his socks and eventually let himself fall forward, onto the bed. “No one today would paint a Rueben.”

“But there is still something enduring about their beauty.” Graves mused. He was stretched out in his chair, waistcoat unbuttoned and only one sock off. He seemed to have forgotten he was unbuttoning his pants.

Halloway jumped up on the bed and flipped over to work on his pants. “Alright, let’s you and I discuss the female form.”

“My, you are in a rare mood.” Graves mumbled.

“Exactly— Exactly!” Halloway cried, triumphant, standing on the bed in his johns and shirt. “We’d never deny a woman her beauty, but would you take one to bed?”

Graves made a few noncommittal noises.

“What about the most beautiful woman at the opera? What if I were to introduce you to Miss Virginia Stendhal, who sat for my celebrated painting of Persephone?”

“Oh but that brings us back to the point, my dear, which is that people find Ms. Stendhal beautiful but pity her for the sitting!”

“No, my point is that she’s beautiful, but neither of us would fuck her.”

“You put the poor woman in an unhappy marriage,” Graves pouted. “Persephone, the goddess of spring, the personification of the bloom of youth, staring at Hades as if wishing she could put him in his own pit. What a waste!”

“But why?” Halloway cried. “Why can’t I? I haven’t done anything wrong. I love those stories just as much as anyone else, and you can’t argue that no one sees them as I do, because people have told me they do!”

Graves was laughing, shaking his chair with quiet mirth. “You see, John, this is why I admire your work. You’ll do what you like and stamp your foot when people tell you they don’t like it.”

“Oh, you’re just mocking me.” Halloway said. He wobbled, fell to his knees, then landed face down on the bed. The darkness there was warm, soft and inviting, and he was in the process of exploring deeper when Graves pulled him upright. He sat on the edge of wakefulness, judging the benefits of each side of consciousness, when Graves tipped the scale. He kissed him, cupping the back of Halloway’s head in his hands. He was so warm that Halloway let him carry him fully into wakefulness, pressing his tongue against Graves’ lips until they opened and let him explore. When they’d gotten all their clothes off he pressed his chest to Graves’ and felt his heart beating on the other side. The rasp of skin and short, dark hairs tingling over his body made him flush with heat, but when he reached between Graves’ legs he found his cock still soft.

“Give me a minute.” Graves promised, pushing John onto his back. His lips tickled his skin as he kissed down Halloway’s collarbone and into the sensitive skin between his thighs, but though desire pumped through his blood his little soldier was too drunk for a full salute.

They tried a few more times, and sometime before three Halloway was startled awake by a sudden knocking on the door.

“Halloway! Graves!” Someone shouted. Halloway waited for them to announce themselves or explain what they wanted, but there was just silence on the other side. There was shuffling, then quiet, disappointed muttering and an embarrassed retreat.

“Who was that?” Graves mumbled, lifting his head up. He made a face and scraped a hair off his tongue, then slowly lifted a bit farther off the bed and took in their surrounded. “Where are we? And, good god— what are these hideous statues?”

“I think,” Halloway said, careful not to make any concrete proclamations in light of his irrational condition. “That we have abandoned our party.”

“Nonesense. We’ve only been gone a few minutes.”

Halloway searched the room for a clock, and was relieved to find a small one on the mantle. He got up and squinted at it, but although he could see both hands, neither figure shared information with him.

“I think we’ve been gone a bit longer then that.” He said tentatively.

Now it was Graves’ turn to stop and think, churning through the butter that was once his brain for all the pieces of the night to lay out in order.

“No,” he said, but that was just a reflex, come from the certainty that Cyril Graves did not abandon a party. As it dawned on him that that was indeed what he had done, the finger resting on his chin migrated north and pushed nervously into his upper lip. “Oh.”

“I think we abandoned the party, Cyril.”

“Oh,” Graves said, then got to work collecting his clothes. “Well, let’s resolve that.”

They abandoned their futile efforts to put the room back together and stopped by the front desk to drop off their key. But when they reached the sitting room, it was empty. Nothing remained of their party except for crystal cups with rings of liquid, and one cigar still smoking in an ashtray. As they stared at the ribbon of smoke rising up, they heard a giggle behind them. Glancing over their shoulder, they saw the pretty toff from before wrapped in a curtain, trying to hide but shaking with mirth.

He explained when they approached; “When you two disappeared, the others went to look for you, and that became a game of hide and seek. Right now it’s Hainsley seeking, and he’s terrific. He gets so angry when he can’t find anyone.”

To prove it, the toff encouraged them to hide behind a large potted plant. Within minutes Hainsley came in and began to turn the sitting room over, cursing the whole time. The toff was helpless with laughter, covering his mouth with both hands to smother the hiccups and gasps that escaped. Hainsley caught the echo of a cough and lifted his head with alertness, as dogs did during hunts. Slowly he inched forward, and pounced on a couch at the edge of the sitting room. He paused, as if checking his success, then threw the pillows aside and cursed again.

The toff was helpless with laughter.

Halloway straightened up and stride towards the editor. “Hainsley!”

The man jumped. “Halloway! There you are! We’ve been looking for you for ages. Don’t tell me you lost Graves on your way back from Fairyland.”

“Of course not,”Graves said, leaning against the potted plant with an air of ennui. “But what are you doing to that poor couch?”

“The bastards all thought it’d be funny to hide after you went missing.”

“Or perhaps they are the ones whisked off the Fairyland.” Graves mused.

“Anyways, all the servants have gone to bed and I need another drink.”

“Perhaps we could use another drink.” Halloway agreed. His poor, pickled brain was trying to shut up for the night, but like a bicycle with the breaks cut he could only keep moving.

As they were making up their minds of where to go and how they could get another drink so late at night, members of their party popped one by one out of doorways and down the stairs.

“Hainsley, you spoilsport!”

“Are we getting a night-cap?”

“Do you know of a place that will still be open?”

“No,” Graves said. “Regrettably, we’ll have to go home for hospitality.”

It was no longer the blackest night, but the blackest morning. Halloway was speculating on the change in atmosphere that seperated morning from night in the wee hours. Was it the dew in the air that changed the texture of the darkness, or simply the knowledge that dawn was approaching? Or was it instead the weight of his body on his mind, dragging just a step behind his alert consciousness, like a cranky child?

“Here we are. At last,” Cyril said, banging on the front door. “Open up! Come on, we don’t have all night.”

But the door did not open. Soon the whole party took up a chorus of the demand and chanted it like a drinking song.

“Open up! We don’t have all night!”

Lights glowed behind the drawn curtains and the door was abruptly opened. The party poured into the foyer, still chanting.

“Open up! We don’t have all night!”

Someone clipped John’s nose in their clumsy effort to remove their jacket, and another fell on his back as they were trying to untie shoes.

“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Demanded a voice.

Graves was trying to reason with the sober individual. “Now, listen, would you turn away an old friend for celebrating the triumph of an artistic master? This is a triumph. Triumphant. We are triumphant!”

“For god’s sake, sit down before you fall down.” Answered the sober tyrant, and orders for bedclothes and water were answered with the drumming of feet which seemed to circle Halloway before entering his skull and stamping around the dome.

“This is not a triumph,” said a second sober voice. “This is tragedy. You look like a platoon of wounded soldiers limping home.”

“Oh, come, have a nightcap with us.” Hainsley slurred.

“You’ve finished off the night, there’s nothing to cap.”

“A toast to our host!” Shouted a different voice, and when John turned to identify it, discovered the toff from the club had come out with them.

“You need to go to bed. You’ll all feel like death in the morning.”     “Oh, thank god. A piano! At last, we’ll have music!” Forsyth had made it into another room, plopped down on to the piano bench, and begun playing a waltz as slurred as his speech, alone, in the dark.

“No-- no! Absolutely not!”

“Gentlemen!” Cried a voice. John turned towards it and beheld a women on the stairs. At first, he mistook her slender, loosely-draped silhouette for Grecian garb, and the woman at her elbow as some Olympian attendant. But then the weights and pulleys in his brain settled into balance and he recognized it as a nightgown. “Welcome! And congratulations!”

The whole party gave out a cheer.

“You all look like you’ve had a fabulous night!”

Another rousing cheer.

“I propose a toast!”

Their party lost their minds. There was applause and stamping of feet.

“One last toast to the hero of tonight, Mr. John Halloway!”

She was like a priest, and they her feverish followers. John felt tears prick his eyes. A servant appeared and put a glass in his hand, with something cool and sweet. It tasted like a fruit juice, and for the life of him he could not settle on the flavor of the alcohol. It was very delicate, and mixed perfectly with the cocktail’s foundation.

“We drink to Artemis, and she brings us ambrosia!” He cried.

“Fine lady, I’d say you should sit for Halloway, but not a soul here can predict how the results will look!” Hainsley brayed, and everyone fell over themselves laughing.

She bowed graciously. “Gentlemen, my house is yours. I place my servants at your disposal. If any of you should need anything, you need only let them know. I beg you to forgive me of my absence.”

The party made a loud, collective noise, but the tone of their response was impossible to decipher. Not even Halloway could tell if he was disappointed that she was leaving them or begging her to do as she saw fit. She, her attendant, and the two masters of the house left them in the sitting room, among the pillows and blankets that were brought down when they first arrived. The toff was fast asleep, curled around a folded blanket like a child. Hainsley, after sitting down and having some of whatever substance was in his glass, was frozen in place, his mouth hanging open.

“What fine people,” Graves said. He was still upright, still smiling his knowing smile, but there was something off-balance about his posture. “What a wonderful night. Where’s Forsyth?”     They discovered Forsyth asleep on the piano.

“They act like they’ve never had a drink before.” Graves muttered.

“Let’s leave them and have another drink,” Halloway said. “That cocktail she gave us was wonderful. What did you think of it?”     “Something with apple.” Graves said pensively.

“She said we could ask for another. Didn’t she leave some of her people with us?”

They checked the rooms and the hallway around the sitting room, but everywhere was dark and empty.

“I can’t see a thing. Where’s a candle?”

“I can’t find any,” Graves said, slapping countertops along the wall for something to light. There was a clang and a bump and a series of heavy metal objects fell to the floor as Graves cursed. “How the devil did they get the lights on and off so fast? I can’t even smell the candle smoke.”

“Perhaps it’s electric?”

“Where are the lamps?”

Halloway tripped on a lurking ottoman and sprawled across the rug. Graves made a show of disgust as he pulled him up.

“John, please.”

“As if I chose to fall!”

Abruptly they found themselves back in the piano room with Forsyth, still peacefully asleep on the bench.

“Witchcraft!” Halloway cried. “She plans to turn us into pigs!”

Graves scoffed. “We must have gone the full circuit of the house. The staff must be asleep.”

“What do they expect us to do?” Halloway cried.

“Sleep, I’d expect,” Graves said. He put his hand between the curtains and lifted up a corner. “The sun is coming up.”

“No.”

Graves stepped back from the window to offer his view. True to his word, there were the pink clouds rising in the east, the red light of dawn coloring the pale sky. They  pushed back the curtains and stood in the early dawn light as the sun rose. The air under the curtain had the same chill as the outdoors, whereas behind it, in the sitting room, was still warm and dark and full of the even sounds of sleep.

“We should get to bed.” Halloway said. They joined the rest of their party on the floor of the sitting room, sober enough to spread out the cushions and blankets to make their bed. Without their shoes, coats or shirts they had a very comfortable bed, and Halloway drifted quickly off to sleep.

Halloway woke up with a headache as fierce as if he’d been beaten. His tongue was so dry it felt swollen in his mouth. He could barely open his eyes. As consciousness overtook him, and pain overtook his body, all he could manage was a helpless groan.

“I thought you’d say as much,” said a familiar voice. “Sit up, we brought you breakfast.”

Sitting up was a tall order to fulfill. Halloway only managed to roll over, and when he did was blinded with a flash of sunlight bright enough to pierce straight through his eyelids.

“Come on.” Coaxed the voice.

Now on his back, he had both arms at his disposal to lift him up, and he managed to struggle himself into a sitting position. Warren and Althorp were standing before him, to Halloway’s relief looking more indulgent than furious. The others from their party were sitting up around him, their collars and hair askew and each looking as glassy and tired as Halloway felt. The ground seemed to be tilting beneath him.

Three trays were placed on the ground of the sitting room, in easy grabbing distance to the drunkards. On each tray was a pile of toast, peppermint tea, butter and a little cold chicken, shredded into easy bites.

“How did we get here?” Halloway asked.

“You would have to tell us.” Althorp said.

“Why did we…” Halloway began, but trailed off as his train of thought left him, evaporating like water in the sun.

“Who was the woman?” Hainsley asked. “Who are you? Where are we?”

“This is my good friend Sir Lindsey Althorp.” Graves said, leaning forward to take a dry piece of toast. “The two women were his wife and sister, Lady Emmeline Althorp and Lady Rowena Althorp.”

“Where are we?” The toff asked.

“Halloway, what happened last night? What brought you here?”

“I can’t for the life of me remember,” Halloway admitted. “We were going to have one last drink and go to bed.”

“We’re glad to help, but don’t do that again.” Warren said.

Halloway grimaced and gave them a toast with his peppermint tea.

“Wonder where my hansom is.” Graves muttered.

“London, I’d expect.” Althorp said.

“Naturally.” Graves responded bitterly.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Very carefully, Halloway put his fears into words.

“Where is London?”

“England?” Althorp answered tentatively.

“Not here,” Warren said. “You’re in Manchester.”

“What!?” Halloway cried. “How in the world did we coordinate a train ride!?”

“That’s what we wondered, as well.” Warren remarked.

“You said they had space for all of us.” Hainsley said.

“This is the beauty of the intoxicated mind,” Graves said serenely. “We are capable of so much, without our inhibitions to hold us back. Gautier wrote extensively on the visions he saw while under the influence of hashish--”     “I hope you weren’t smoking that, last night.” Althorp said with all the sternness of a disapproving parent.

“I hope you don’t need to get that drunk again to find your way back.” Warren said.

“I suppose I could impose on your hospitality a bit longer for a hansom back to my lodgings.” Halloway said. He still couldn’t remember getting on a train with Graves or the others, but it was becoming easier to see why he would argue the party move to Manchester while he was at his drunkest. Despite all the travelling he did, Manchester was still home. Manchester had all the comforting amenities a drunken Halloway would crave, and a drunken Halloway could wax poetic on their benefits until an equally drunken group of men were happy to follow him across the country.

In fact, of all of them, the toff was the only one with any difficulty getting home.

“My mother will be worried.” He said.

“Tell her you were out with friends.”     “I think she’ll expect that. She’ll say not to worry about her, but she does for me, and I do for her.”

As Halloway was putting himself together, smoothing down his hair with a little of Althorp’s pomade, Warren approached him.

“I’ve never seen you like that before last night,” he said quietly. “Do you drink yourself into that condition often?”

“No, not often. Last night was a celebration.”

“I didn’t like to see you that way, Halloway,” Warren admitted. “You weren’t the man I respected.”

Halloway gave him a hard look, drying up any temperance speech that might be forthcoming. “Warren, until my drunken behavior overtakes my life, I’ll thank you not to proselytize.”

“I’m not proselytizing. I’m pointing out to you that you bought a train ticket in a state of total unconsciousness. That you’re safe and sound in our house this morning is pure luck. I’m telling you, as your friend, that drinking yourself unconscious isn’t a habit to make!”

Halloway sighed. It was unfair to treat Warren like a nagging puritan in the wake of troubling behavior. Even Halloway had to admit that last night could have taken a turn for the worst at any point, and he was in Warren and Althorp’s debt for providing them with a safe place to sleep for the night. If they’d forced them to sleep in the horse stables, no one would have blamed them-- not even Halloway.

“You’re right, of course. I was a bit out of control, and I can’t dismiss my behavior just by saying that I don’t do it often. I ought to be more careful in future,” Halloway said. A smile slowly overtook his face. “But it was quite a night.”

Warren gave him a smile in return.

He walked Halloway to the front door, where Graves was waiting to drive with him into town.

“Halloway, I have a final question about art,” Warren said. “Do you ever miss your paintings after they’ve gone?”

“No.” Halloway said.

Warren seemed taken aback by his certainty. “Never?”

“I have better paintings to make.”

Warren was quiet for a moment, and then slowly a genuinely cheerful smile spread across his face.

“Naturally.”

Halloway gave him a warm handshake. “We’ll meet in town, shall we? I’ll send a card around.”

“I’d like that.”