The day after the party, I woke dizzy and weak, exhausted despite not having used my gift. The performance, the shock Deschamps had given me, and the drinks I should not have accepted had all taken their toll.

It was nearly noon before I rose, and I only did so then because the doorbell rang — three times in quick succession, as if the caller knew I was at home.

I threw my dressing robe over my rumpled shirtsleeves and trousers and answered the summons in my house slippers. Paul stood on the stoop, his hat tipped jauntily, twirling an ornamental walking stick. He held a brown paper parcel under one arm.

"There you are, old boy," he said, pushing his way inside without waiting for an invitation. "I was beginning to fear some dreadful accident and summon the police."

"I might have been out," I grumbled.

"You?" He scoffed. "I can barely get you to a party without resorting to subterfuge. You haven't eaten, I'm assuming." He set his walking stick in the corner, then handed me the brown parcel, along with his jacket and hat.

"Not since the party," I admitted as I hung up his things and followed him. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, he crossed my modest living room and entered the kitchen, where he went to the percolator, lifted the lid, and made a face.

"When was this fresh?"

"Yesterday."

He dumped out the contents and grabbed the coffee tin.

"Paul, you don't have to—"

He waved over his shoulder at me. "Shush. And open that package, will you? I stopped at the delicatessen. Corned beef on rye."

Lacking the strength or will to argue, I placed the packet on the table and pulled out a chair.

Paul made himself at home when he visited — which was infrequently, and when he wanted something.

"The séance went well, I thought," he said as he measured out the grounds and filled the pot with water. "Miss Lancaster was certainly impressed. She was sorry she missed the chance to say goodbye."

I smiled. "I only narrowly escaped a dance."

The percolator rattled softly as the water boiled, expelling coffee-scented steam from beneath the top.

"You ought to marry her," Paul said.

I scoffed.

Paul set two cups on the table and poured hot coffee into each.

"I'm serious. Her, or some other girl." He sat across from me and unwrapped the sandwich, handing one triangular half to me and taking the other for himself. "You need someone to take care of you."

I sat back and stared at him. "You know I couldn't."

"Why?" He seemed genuinely perplexed.

I set my sandwich down and rubbed the center of my chest. "My income is unstable, foremost. I couldn't provide for anyone more than myself."

Paul took a bite of his sandwich and spoke around it. "What man has that ever stopped?"

I looked away. "There's my health to consider," I added lightly. "Any woman I married would likely be a widow before very long."

"But that is my very point!" Paul insisted, gesturing with his free hand. "The female touch — three square meals a day and your affairs in order — would do you a world more good than any doctor ever has."

I picked at a spot on the table. "It wouldn't be fair to the girl," I mumbled, unable to look at him.

"Ah, well. Never mind," he said, shelving the topic. "Though I still think you should consider it. We could be neighbors one day."

I snorted. "That is likely."

"I'm serious," Paul insisted. "I could support your art — just until you gain the recognition you deserve. You'll be worth more than I am."

I raised my coffee in a mock toast. "Artists are always worth more once they're dead."

Paul snorted. "You're in a bright mood. Eat your sandwich."

Corned beef was not my favorite, but I complied.

When we'd finished, we returned to the living room. I settled on the sofa while Paul lounged in a chair.

"So," he said, turning the conversation to the real reason for his visit, "what is your impression of Deschamps? What did you glean from him?"

I tugged my dressing robe more tightly around myself and stalled for time. "Are you well acquainted with him?"

"Hardly. We met through the auction circuit and I asked for his opinion on some antiquities I'd acquired. He was no help at all. Kept on about the real value being 'historical.' The only interest I have in history is how much another man will pay for it."

I traced the threadbare patterns on the arm of the couch. "Did you speak to him of me? Or of... Thomas?"

"Certainly not. Why do you ask?" Paul's look of surprise — a rare expression — convinced me better than his words.

I settled against the cushions at my back. "He's invited me to call on him."

"Oh." I'd expected Paul to seize on this as exactly the sort of angle he'd been trying for, but after a moment, he only said, "I see."

"You don't seem surprised."

He arched an eyebrow at me. "That he shares your inclinations?" My inclinations. Not ours, of course. "No. I surmised as much already."

"How?"

"I saw how he watched you at dinner. A man knows when another covets what is his."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Well, isn't that enough to ruin him? What more leverage do you need?"

"It means nothing without proof."

Thinking he meant I should furnish it, I recoiled, horrified. "Paul..."

He laughed. "Relax, Alec. I'm not suggesting you entrap him by seduction. Besides, it would be ungentlemanly to confront him on that point: glass houses, and all that. We must find some other pin to fix him with."

He rose from his seat and settled again at my side, raising his hand to brush a lock of hair from my brow. "And anyway, I would much rather know that you remain mine alone — my unspoiled muse."

He leaned to kiss me, his hand straying to the belt of my robe. My breath caught in my throat, but I held him at bay and turned my head aside.

"Paul, no. I told you the last time there couldn't be another."

"Why not?" he murmured, his lips tickling my ear.

"Rachel, of course."

"What does Rachel have to do with anything?" He sat back, brow furrowed.

I pulled my robe tight again and stood, facing away from him.

Paul rose as well and slid his arms around my waist, holding me from behind. "Are you jealous?" he murmured.

"No."

"Liar."

I shook my head and extracted myself from his grasp. I didn't have to lie; Rachel didn't have Paul's heart any more than I ever would.

"You ought to go," I said.

If he did not, he would wear me down, as he always did, until he got what he wanted.

"What about Deschamps?" he asked.

"What about him?"

"You will go to him?"

I shook my head. "Not today."

"But you will?"

I considered. "Yes. Probably."

If Paul had not told him of Thomas, how Deschamps came by the name remained a mystery.

"Be careful when you do. He's a dangerous man."

"It takes one to know one, I suppose."

Paul grasped me by the upper arms and turned me to face him, not violently but with force enough to show he didn't play.

"I mean it, Alec. I need something to use against him. Don't give him anything to use against you."

"Or you?" I raised my eyebrows at him.

His mouth set in a thin line, and something dark flickered in his eyes. His grip tightened, and for a heartbeat, I was almost afraid. Then he relaxed and smoothed his hands over my arms.

"Just be careful," he said. "And don't trust him. Ring me if you get anything good. And come next Sunday for dinner. Rachel's family is visiting and I'll be riding into battle all alone."

"I'll see what I can do," I answered noncommittally.

Seemingly satisfied, he went to the door, donned his jacket and hat, and retrieved his walking stick.

"Goodbye, Alec," he said, and shot me a wink.

"Take care, Paul," I murmured, and shut the door behind him.

Relieved as I was to have him gone, in his absence, the house fell still. I stood in the silence and marked his leavings: the coffee going cold; the sandwich wrapper, empty and discarded; the warmth that lingered and the ache where he had held me too hard.

I hated that I loved him; hated him for letting me glimpse what would never be mine.

Before I let myself sink too far into the depths of that familiar, dark melancholy, I switched on the radio, set out my brushes and paints, and lost myself in work.