At his invitation, I took breakfast with Henri at a small cafe several days after our meeting. He appeared once more the picture of pristine elegance, the embodiment of the American romance with old-world aristocracy, and drew curious gazes from the other diners and from passersby as we enjoyed a meal of eggs Benedict, fruit salad, and toast.

It did not occur to me that the attention sprang from anything other than his good looks and obvious money, until he remarked on it himself.

"You see why I must keep the highest of sartorial standards," he said, after a woman walking past stared quite openly at him. "I think if I had a single thread loose, they would not serve me here."

"Because you are French?" I asked.

He gave me a pointed look. "Because of my African blood. My family history mirrors that of the great Dumas himself: my grandmother was enslaved on the island of Martinique. My grandfather married her and brought her back to France. Things are different there. Of course there are prejudices, but they are not the same."

"I had not thought of that," I admitted. "Of course Paul told me you were..."

"A mulatto?" he supplied, and sipped his café au lait.

"Yes. But... I suppose it did not occur to me to consider you as anything but a scholar and a gentleman."

"Well, I am those things," he said, with a faint, wry smile. "And other things, as well. In fact, that is what I think you should tell Barrington."

I paused with a strawberry halfway to my lips. "I don't follow."

"Are you familiar with Marcus Garvey?" he asked.

"Vaguely, from the papers. He was imprisoned for mail fraud, wasn't he?"

"Yes, though there are some who believe he was targeted for his founding and involvement with the Universal Negro Improvement Association. He is, in the words of your government, an 'undesirable alien.' I could easily become such as well, were I to involve myself with that cause."

I tossed a bit of toast to a small bird looking for crumbs between the tables. "Isn't that... rather risky, though?"

"Certainly — if true. And in fact I am involved, though only financially. But the grain of truth makes the lie, and it should be enough to satisfy Barrington."

"Even a grain of truth can be dangerous," I said under my breath.

"Don't worry about me," he said, spearing a last piece of melon on his fork. "I wouldn't suggest it if the benefit did not outweigh the risk. Now, let's get you dressed to fit the part."

He flagged down a passing waiter and paid the check, covering my share without giving me the chance to protest. He then took me on to Chestnut Street, to be fitted for a tuxedo at Jacob Reed's Sons, the iconic arched entryway of which I had passed many times before, but had never dared to enter.

As the tailor took my measurements, Henri admired several styles on display and placed orders for himself as well, earning the admiration of the clerk.

"How are you for shoes?" Henri asked as I gave the tailor my address.

I told him honestly: I had only two pairs, both plain.

"On to Wanamaker's, then," he said, and cast me an ironic glance as he twirled his walking stick. Unlike Paul's, his was not merely for show, but assisted him when his leg caused him pain.

We proceeded to the grand department store on Market Street, where he procured for me a pair of fine black leather oxfords and — though I had not asked for it — a bottle of cologne, which smelled of bergamot and lavender.

The shopping left me drained, but we capped the day with coffee and lunch, and he dropped me in front of my door along with an armload of packages.

Strangely, he did all of this without once letting me feel as if he put me in his debt. I could not imagine Paul doing so; even when he brought me a cheap sandwich, he made me feel as if he expected my soul in return. Henri inspired nothing but the quiet warmth of gratitude — which, I reflected, might be the more dangerous exchange.

***

The tuxedo, delivered in a luxurious black box and wrapped in tissue paper, arrived at my door a few days later. As I unpacked it and laid it out alongside the shoes, I felt rather like Cinderella before the ball, and laughed at the thought.

I sobered quickly; I had never owned anything so fine, and wondered if I would appear out of place among the city's elite. Paul had drawn me into his circle, it was true; but he belonged to three clubs and had invited me only to the least exclusive. My appearance at the auction would shock him, without a doubt.

Unless...

I deliberated, wrestled with my better angels, but at last wrote out a note and sent it along.

Paul's invitation came promptly, and with only one night to go before the auction, I found myself again his guest at the Rittenhouse Club.

"So, old boy, what have you got for me?" he asked, ensconced in a leather throne before the fireplace in the communal lounge.

The hour grew late, and we were almost alone, save for a few older gentlemen engaged in a lengthy game of chess, which might outlast their lifetimes, at the rate they played.

"I've been to see Deschamps," I said, avoiding his liquor-glazed eyes. "He's taken me into his confidence."

"Oh?" Paul leaned towards me, the dregs of his drink sloshing in his glass. "And?"

"He's... Engaged in radical politics. That back-to-Africa business."

Although I said so at Henri's request, and in both our interests, I hated myself more acutely than I had in years.

Paul grinned like a shark scenting blood.

"Is he now? Well, that is interesting. You got that by..." He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"By listening, yes," I said, and swallowed the rest. "Anyway, he's invited me to the auction at the Bellevue this weekend. As his guest."

Paul stared at me, and for a moment, I wondered if he understood. Then he let his head fall back and brayed a laugh that startled the old men from their game.

"Oh dear — oh dear, oh dear!" He gasped. "This is too good. I shall easily ensnare him. Yes, yes, Monroe — you have outdone yourself."

He cackled; I cringed.

Bridges and rivers rose in my mind; without Henri's blessing, I would have judged myself as Thomas had judged himself, and passed as harsh a sentence.

Paul's mood turned jovial. He ordered a bottle of champagne and, with his inhibitions slack, made allusions to private rooms and to having me his guest for the night. Bile stung my throat, and I waited for an opening to excuse myself, not having to pretend the nausea that roiled in my gut.

I walked half the way home, letting the night air cool my skin and clear my mind, but I couldn't shake the sense I had committed a terrible transgression. More importantly, a new danger had awakened in my mind; one which I had not until now foreseen.

As soon as I arrived at home, I wrote to Henri, begging him to come, and dropped the letter in the box before I could dissuade myself from doing so.

Tormented by anxiety and guilt, I lay awake until dawn. Then I rose and paced with restless agitation until my visitor announced himself with a ring of the bell.

At the sight of me, Henri's expression of mild curiosity turned to concern, and I at once spilled forth my confession.

Henri frowned. "But this is what we agreed upon, no?" he said. "It sounds to me like a success."

"Too much so," I said, almost wringing my hands in distress. "He seemed far too pleased. I am afraid that he will use it — that he will lay some trap for you — and if you should come to harm by it, I will not forgive myself."

"Alec, be calm," he said, and took hold of my shoulders. "Paul Barrington has no power over me. Yes, I have given some money to the causes of racial equality and social progress, but I have done nothing that would stain my reputation. I am quite safe."

"But I am not," I whispered, trembling in his grasp. Terror threatened to destroy what remained of my resolve, but I held my course: I needed him to see. "There is something I must show you."

Still frowning, he nodded slowly. "Very well."

I led him up the stairs. They creaked beneath our weight. With fresh eyes, I noticed how faded the wallpaper had become, and how dust had accumulated in the places I had not taken care to sweep.

Breathless, I pushed on with the ascent, until we reached the attic.

There, I crossed the room and stood before the covered canvas where it leaned against the farthest wall.

"Paul doesn't need leverage against you," I said. "He has more than enough against me. He has not seen this, but he does not need to. He knows its origin."

I pulled the cloth aside, letting it fall to the floor, and revealed the painting beneath. Shaking too badly to stand, I sank to my knees in front of it.

"I... should have destroyed it," I gasped. "I should have... years ago... but I could never bring myself to do it."

Henri's hand settled lightly on my shoulder. "I am glad you did not."

For a moment, I saw the painting through his eyes: the pale figure reclined upon a block of black marble draped in silk, the white lilies in languid heaps surrounding him; his gaze, direct and unashamed, inviting the viewer to make of him what he would.

"I painted it for Thomas," I said hollowly. "It was his idea; the subject, and the composition. He never knew I'd done it. I meant to show him, one day. And then it was too late. You are the first to lay eyes on it."

"It is a portrait of death," Henri murmured. "Death, and beauty, and honesty, and life."

Surprised by his insight, I looked up at him.

"It's dangerous. You understand, don't you? It is me."

He helped me to my feet and held me gently.

"It is beautiful," he said, though he was no longer looking at the portrait. "And it is safe, Alec. It is safe with me."

I nodded, unable to speak for threat of tears, as something within me — something that I thought had died — came back to life, as a hint of green after a long winter.