It was Wednesday morning, three days after Paul's visit, before my thoughts turned to Henri Deschamps again. I had completed a bridal portrait for a relative of the late Mr. Wanamaker, of department store fame, and having ensured the paint had set, wrapped it in paper and prepared to deliver it in person.

A good impression being half of what got an artist work, and hoping to be thus employed again, I dressed in my better suit and found Deschamps's card still in the jacket pocket.

His address was close to my destination, in the neighborhood of Society Hill. I decided I would call on him, but not call ahead. If he was home, so be it; if not (and I rather hoped he was not), I could at least tell Paul, in good conscience, that I had tried.

Not wanting to risk the painting with a crowded streetcar, I took a cab, and gazed out the window as the driver took me over the Schuylkill River by Market Street, past the tall spire of City Hall, and on to Washington Square.

Once I had delivered the portrait and received both praise and payment for it, my mood lightened considerably.

It had been an unusually lucrative commission, and while it wouldn't make me rich, it would see me through several months in modest comfort. As I walked south and then east along Spruce Street, past elegant brick-faced houses nestled close to the tree-lined thoroughfare, I did calculations in my head.

I could afford fresh paints and canvases; perhaps some new clothes and a few books, if I was careful.

Very careful, I amended.

If I had four or five such commissions in a year, I'd be in fine shape. Sadly, they were rare, and the dry spells in between could stretch for months. Tutoring and smaller jobs got me through, but not always easily.

Lost in such thoughts, I walked right past Deschamps's address and had to double back, retracing my steps to where a white lintel encased a stylish black door. I approached, steeled myself, rang the bell, and began a silent count in my head.

At twenty, I exhaled in relief, pulled a calling card from my pocket, turned down one corner to show that I had come in person, and bent to slip it through the mail slot.

It was at that moment that the door swung inward, revealing Henri Deschamps himself on the other side. He wore slim trousers and suspenders over a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing smooth skin and muscular forearms.

"Mr. Deschamps!" I exclaimed, straightening quickly from my awkward position, card in hand. "I thought no one was at home."

He bowed slightly. "I was in the kitchen. Please, come in."

He moved aside. I stepped into the foyer and removed my hat. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all."

He led the way, moving with confidence down a long, narrow hall. I followed, clutching my hat.

We entered his living room, the furnishings of which appeared Victorian — dark and heavy — but elegant rather than stifling, and he invited me to sit with a wave of his hand. I chose the center cushion of a long sofa, upholstered in red velvet.

"I've just made tea," he said, indicating a silver service on a small table. "Will you join me?"

I accepted automatically. "Thank you, yes."

"Sugar?"

"Just milk."

He served and handed me a cup, then served another for himself. As he settled across from me on an ebony-framed chair and crossed one leg over the other, I couldn't help admiring the length of his graceful limbs. Even his hands were long-boned, something a pianist would envy.

I would like to paint him.

The thought arose unbidden, and I looked away quickly, as if he might divine it from my glance.

"Haven't you a housemaid?" I asked, surprised that he made and served his own tea.

He regarded me knowingly. "I do. I gave my staff the day off. The weather is pleasant, and I thought... you might prefer privacy."

"You knew I was coming?" Startled, I wondered how he could.

A slight smile curled his lips, as if he guessed my thoughts. "I hoped."

Discomfited, I made a study of the room. One thing became clear to me: unlike Paul, Deschamps had true taste in art, with a particular fondness for the French Impressionists. I recognized the styles of Renoir, Monet, and d'Espagnat, and only a closer inspection would tell me if the pieces were reproductions or originals.

"Thomas disliked the French school, did he not? He thought it was too fussy and... effete?"

I turned sharply towards Deschamps and scowled. "How could you know a thing like that?"

One shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. "The same way I know you are in danger — or at least that Thomas believes you are. He told me so."

My teacup rattled as my hands shook, and I set it down gingerly. "Or Paul told you so, and this is some elaborate trick to show me up."

"Paul Barrington?" Deschamps laughed. The sound was surprisingly musical and made me want to hear it again. "The less one has to do with that man, the better. I am interested neither in deception nor in profit. I ask nothing — not even your belief — in return. I ask only that you listen, so the dead may rest."

Though uncertain why, this speech convinced me, and I settled back in my seat again, though my heart fluttered with nerves.

"Alright then. What is it 'Thomas' wants to say? I assume you've something more concrete than a vague threat of danger."

To my surprise, Deschamps shook his head. "Very little, really. I do not receive sentences, or even words. It is through feelings the dead communicate — with me, at least. Perhaps a better medium could decipher more. With my gift, all I can discern is that Thomas fears for you — fears, specifically, that you will share his fate."

I sat back, somewhat relieved. "That isn't possible."

Deschamps arched a brow. "Why not?"

I sat in silence, deliberating on my reply. At last, I said, "Because Thomas died by his own hand, and I'm in no danger of that."

"No one who treads that path sets out to take it," Deschamps replied.

I shook my head. "I've lived in death's shadow most of my life. I don't fear it, but I don't seek it, either."

He regarded me thoughtfully. "You are certain of Thomas' case?"

I took a breath and looked away. "Yes. He jumped from Strawberry Mansion Bridge in the dead of winter. If the fall to the ice hadn't killed him, drowning certainly would."

"He feels otherwise."

Unable to conceal the emotion that had set its claws in me, I rose abruptly.

"I ought to be going," I declared. "I've taken up enough of your time, and you of mine. Thank you for the warning, Mr. Deschamps."

"Wait."

The command in his tone brought me to a halt. I wished I could ignore it, but some part of me remained curious and wished to hear what he would say.

"Let me tell you a secret of mine," he said, "and then you can decide if you would like to hear another of Thomas's." He gestured at the sofa, inviting my return.

Knowing this might be the only chance I would have to deliver what Paul wanted without resorting to the use of my gift, I obeyed reluctantly.

"I am a scholar of antiquities," he said. "I studied at the Sorbonne." He took a breath and examined his nails. "My gift has been a boon in my field. It has also occasionally led me into the less romantic realm of criminal mystery."

Readjusting his position, he leaned towards me. "I am here in pursuit of some especially valuable pieces, Mr. Monroe, which were looted in the war, and which I believe to be in the hands of someone within this city. It was in the course of my search that I encountered Thomas's echo."

I blinked. "Echo?"

He nodded.

"I do not believe I speak directly with the dead. Rather, with the impressions they have left upon the world, and upon those they have left behind."

I shook my head. "Let's say I accept all that. Why do you care? Why go to the trouble of warning me at all, when you know I'm not receptive and you despise my false illusions?"

"Because I think you are receptive. Very much so. I believe you share my gift, and that perhaps yours is the stronger between us."

My head swam, and bile stung the back of my throat. No one had ever confronted me so directly, and I found my tongue leaden in my mouth, unable to form a single word. Finally, I extracted my handkerchief and coughed into it, turning away as I convulsed.

I rose unsteadily. "Forgive me. I should go."

Deschamps stood. "I will not keep you, but I hope you will call on me again. I feel we have much more to discuss."

"I will think on it," I allowed.

He escorted me to his front door, and only spoke again once we had reached it.

"Before you go," he said, resting his hand lightly on my arm. "Thomas has shown me one thing consistently — or insistently, I should say. Lilies. Does that mean anything to you?"

The blood drained from my face. I swayed.

Deschamps steadied me. "Are you well?"

I brushed him off and forced myself to breathe. "Yes. Yes, perfectly. Thank you for the tea, Mr. Deschamps. Good day."

"You will call me Henri."

Taken aback, I gaped at him rather oafishly.

He shut his eyes, clucked his tongue, and corrected himself.

"Non. You may call me Henri. I have spoken English nearly my entire life, and yet still it confuses, at times."

"Oh! Oh, yes, of course... Please call me Alec."

His eyes warmed with a hint of pleasure. "Alec. Then I will say au revoir."

He bowed. My breath hitched. I mumbled a reply and took my leave. Outside, I stood on the sidewalk as though utterly lost. The blaring horn of a passing motorist broke the spell, and I hastened away and caught a streetcar home.

There, I fumbled the key and dropped it twice, so badly did my hands shake. Once inside, I ran up three flights of stairs, heedless of my heart's labor, to the attic. I crossed the room, the floor tilting beneath my feet, and ripped the dust cloth from the canvas in the corner, which had been covered since the day I'd learned of Thomas's death.

Beneath, my younger self stared back at me with the insouciant gaze of Manet's Olympia.

And just as Thomas had requested, and as no one but Thomas had known, I lay surrounded by heaps of white lilies.