I tried not to shiver as Dr. Katz's cold stethoscope contacted my skin, pressing, lifting, and pressing again as he listened to my heart.

He breathed carefully, his weathered face set in concentration, the dense hairs in his nostrils quivering softly and his dark eyes fixed on a spot over my right shoulder as I lay on the settee.

After several minutes of this, he removed the ear tips and draped the stethoscope around his neck.

He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Well, Aleksander. What have you to say for yourself?"

"That bad, is it?" I aimed for levity and missed. My voice trembled.

His face crinkled in a smile, and he patted my arm with fatherly affection. "Don't worry, dear boy. It's only the usual. Not better, not worse. Still, something made you call me, eh? You haven't had a fainting spell in years."

Dr. Abraham Katz had been my physician since I was a boy, and he was a brilliant young graduate from the teaching hospital. He might have gone on to Boston or Munich, but prejudice had closed most doors to him. He'd gone into private practice, and the loss to his profession was my gain, for I could not have hoped for a better doctor.

I sat up and buttoned my shirt.

"I had a trying day, is all."

To put it mildly. I didn't remember fainting, but I'd woken on the attic floor, stiff with cold, the portrait and its damning evidence still staring back at me.

Dr. Katz rested his hands on his knees and frowned. "The sudden shock and the strain of exertion are your enemies. With care — and a bit of luck — you may expect to live as long as any man. But if you abuse yourself, that expectation shortens considerably. Understand?"

I said I did; it wasn't as if I hadn't heard as much before.

He left me with his usual advice: light exercise, plenty of rest, no surprises — two out of the three of which I could manage.

***

I did my best to follow the good doctor's orders — canceling my tutoring sessions through the end of the week and devoting the next two days to leisurely pursuits. I completed a landscape I'd been working on for months, and sent a note to Paul excusing myself from his invitation to Sunday dinner.

And yet, despite my efforts, the portrait in the attic intruded on my thoughts, and weighed upon me like a presence.

Part of me wished that I could drop Paul for good, ignore Henri Deschamps, and forget Thomas. The better part knew that I could not.

As much as I hated to admit it, I owed Paul a great deal. There was no shortage of artists in the city, and I would not have had half as much work without his influence. As for Deschamps, confronted with the proof of his vision, I could not discount the possibility that Thomas had some secret yet to tell.

Monday morning, I sent a note asking to see him. I received an answer by the same day's evening post, though all it said was Saturday.

Not knowing what this brusqueness signaled — a disinclination to see me? A native style? — I wondered if I ought to write back and clarify.

I even considered using the telephone. One was expected to have the wretched contraption in one's home these days, but I abhorred using it, and Dr. Katz would not have liked the fright I got every time the damned thing rang.

In the end, I neither wrote nor called, but spent the week stewing in uncertainty instead, and on Saturday, found myself again at Henri Deschamps's door.

He answered it himself, the same as before, though with less elegance of style. He wore a plain white shirt without a tie or collar, and his densely curled black hair stood in disarray. Scandalously, he looked as if he'd just come from bed, and I wondered if he had been ill.

"Forgive me, Mr. Deschamps," I said, retreating a step. "I don't wish to intrude."

He shook his head and crooked a finger at me. "Inside."

Hesitantly, I obeyed.

He shut the door at my back and set off down the hall. This time, he led me past the living room and up a curving staircase to the second floor. He kept one hand on the rail, favoring his left leg as he had done at Paul's. As the steps creaked beneath our feet, I sought something to say, but grasped at straws.

Bright light from a tall window bathed the landing, and I admired a view of the street and a glimpse of Washington Square, but Deschamps waved impatiently and entered a room with the door already ajar.

"My private study," he announced. "Please sit."

Without waiting for me to do so, he flopped onto a chaise lounge, leaned back and shut his eyes.

Gingerly, I lowered myself onto an upholstered chair, trying not to let my gaze stray to his open collar and the skin of his throat.

"Mr. Deschamps—"

"Please, Henri."

I coughed lightly. To call him by his given name when he lay exposed and vulnerable stretched the bounds of propriety, but his tone brooked no protest. "Henri. I do hope—"

"I'm not ill," he said, interrupting me again. "And you are neither unwelcome nor intruding. In fact, I am glad you came."

He said all this without moving, with his eyes still closed. I lapsed into unsettled silence, and as he seemed determined not to let me waste words, waited for him to break it. In the interval, I observed my surroundings.

Like the living room, the study showcased a classical, old-world taste anchored in historic quality. Every piece, from the side tables to the bookshelves and desk, stood on its own with ample space, avoiding the crowded atmosphere that often accompanied antiques. Without a speck of dust in sight, and every surface polished to a shine, the setting matched the person I had met at Paul's party. The one before me, disheveled and careless of even basic courtesy, seemed another man entirely.

"So. Lilies meant something, then, I presume," he said, with his long forearm draped across his eyes.

"Yes."

"What?"

My heart quickened and I swallowed thickly. "It is... a confidence."

"With a dead man who wants you to reveal it."

"I can't."

Henri sat up abruptly. His eyes shone with an almost manic light.

"You must, Alec. Please. You understand we are alike, non? Both with gifts, the same, but different. I will explain in more detail, I promise, just tell me I am not mistaken."

Paul's words echoed in my memory: He's a dangerous man... Don't give him anything to use against you.

If he had greeted me as he had done before, with the manner of a continental gentleman, a tad eccentric but respectable, I would have easily complied, but his present behavior unnerved me. He seemed exactly as Paul had claimed — dangerous and unpredictable.

I rose from my seat. "I think you are unwell, Mr. Deschamps," I said, a little stiffly. "I will return another time, when you are feeling more yourself. Please excuse me."

As I made my way towards the door, I heard him sigh. "You are always fleeing," he said. "I did not take you for a coward."

The accusation stung, struck deep at buried fears, and aroused both pride and anger. I stopped, but did not turn to face him.

"I am not a coward. Neither am I a fool. Yes, the lilies meant something to me, and yes, I wish to learn more of what you have to tell. But you are a stranger to me, Mr. Deschamps, and you have given me no reason to trust you."

"You and he were lovers, no? You, and Thomas."

The words, spoken so softly, so gently, slipped like blades through my defenses.

The edges of my vision blackened, and I realized I had stopped breathing. I reeled and caught myself against a table, knocking some papers to the floor. Deschamps's arm encircled me. I would have fought him off, had I any strength. My heart faltered and my pulse fluttered at the base of my throat. Dr. Katz would be quite displeased.

"Be calm, Alec. It is not an accusation," Deschamps said soothingly. "Forgive me. I did not intend to shock you, only to show you have nothing to fear."

He led — half carried — me to the chaise and encouraged me to recline upon it. I hated to show such weakness, but it would be worse if I fainted and a doctor had to be called.

"Nothing to fear!" I scoffed.

He perched on the edge of the seat at my side and, to my great surprise, took my hand and held it tenderly.

"Yes. You had guessed already, no? We are the same in more ways than one. You are safe with me."

I gazed up at him, still half stunned, but I saw nothing malicious in his face. His dark eyes shone with something softer than sympathy — with compassion — and his features showed gentle concern. There was strain as well, as I had noted earlier, in the lines around his mouth and between his brows, and it suddenly made sense to me.

"Your gift," I breathed. "Does it cost you as mine costs me?"

He nodded. "Yes, though not as badly, I imagine, and only with overuse. Then I suffer headaches and fatigue. A touch of irritability, at times," he added, showing the hint of an apologetic smile. He released my hand and withdrew. "I will fetch you some water. Rest here a moment."

I did as instructed and lay listening to my heart recover its calm until he returned, a pitcher of water and two glasses in hand, which I accepted gratefully.

With my thirst quenched and my nerves in hand once more, Henri — whom I felt had earned the use of his name by nearly killing me — turned to the subject of Thomas once more.

"Tell me about him," he said, sitting across from me in the chair I had at first occupied. "What was his connection to antiquities?"

I studied the pattern in the Persian carpet at my feet, as if I might discover the answers there. "I don't know. We met at the Academy of Fine Arts here in the city. He never had the talent or interest for original work, but he was brilliant at reproductions."

Henri arched a brow. "How brilliant?"

"Enough that only someone with training could tell the difference," I said. "He was in high demand with museums and private collectors."

"Did he do restorations?"

I frowned. "I don't know. Maybe. We had... drifted apart in the year before he died."

"Tell me about that." Henri settled back in his chair, his fingers steepled in thought.

"Thomas enlisted the same year as my brother," I said, shifting my gaze to the window, where bright light filtered through the glass and spilled across the room. "He returned decorated, one of the lucky few to escape injury. At least, that's how it seemed. He carried wounds of a different kind. Wounds of the mind. He was never the same afterward."

Henri sighed. "Shell shock. I am all too familiar, I fear."

I nodded. "He had... spells. It was as if he turned to stone, almost, under a weight of despair. I'd thought he was improving, actually, but then that autumn, he took a turn for the worse. It was at Christmas, during one of these episodes — temporary insanity, they called it — that he went to the bridge."

Silence lapsed. Henri appeared lost in thought, and my mind strayed to memories laid to rest long ago. The sounds of autos and streetcars rumbling by, horns blaring faintly, the occasional human voice raised in a shout, and the tick of the clock filled the void with quiet ambiance.

Finally, Henri shifted and broke the spell. "Are you well enough to walk?"

I suppressed a scowl. "Yes. I'm fine with mild exercise. If you can avoid shocking me too badly, I might even survive."

"Good." He rose. "Because there is something I'd like you to see, and it isn't here."