Fic - Weiss Kreuz - Art Nouveau

[daegaer]

Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Theme: Ch-Ch-Changes
Title: Art Nouveau
Author: daegaer
Warnings: worksafe
Pairing(s): Crawford/Schuldig
Notes: In 1920s London, Crawford is a young artist drawn to an irascible model. Part of an ongoing AU.



My new rooms are, I think in satisfaction, better suited to my needs than either of my old ones. I have two whole rooms to myself, an extravagance that Schuldig mocks me for when he sees it. Neither is very large, but together I have more space than I had in Mrs Ames's house, and I have the convenience of not needing to travel to my work. The bigger of the rooms contains a sink, some cupboards and a small cooker. For furniture, it has a table and four upright chairs, none of which wobble in the slightest. The second room has a bed and large wardrobe. It takes some effort, but at last the bed is moved into the larger room, giving me plenty of space. The room is a little crowded, but I don't mind in the slightest. The wardrobe will have to stay where it is, but I have my studio. I buy a settee to go in it - longer and less lumpy than the one in my previous workspace - and am both amused and horrified to find that Schuldig wants a party to celebrate my new accommodation.

"You have to," he says in wicked victory, "I've already invited everyone."

"You can't simply invite people to other people's homes," I say in annoyance.

He laughs at me. "You'd better let me buy the drink. Give me some money, Crawford."

I do, though I can't explain to myself why, and two nights later I find my rooms full of people, eating and drinking at my expense. They are loud, convivial and, I fear, are making my new neighbours hate me already.

"What is this?" I mutter, picking up a slice of meat from a dish. I nibble it gingerly, relieved to find the smoky flavour is pleasant.

"It's a sausage," Miss Lin says, holding out a glass of clear liquid.

Gin? Vodka? I think, taking it. I sip cautiously and manage not to cough. "And this?" I say, my voice sounding a little weak.

"Schnapps," she says, and it's clear she is laughing at me. "Schuldig said you let him do the shopping. I suppose he's making a point, as well as showing you off."

"Showing me off?" I repeat, confused. I sip at the schnapps again, and decide the point that Schuldig is making is that he hates us all and wishes to poison us.

Her smile is conspiratorial as she leans in to me, putting a hand on my arm. "Why, Mr Crawford, don't you know that he is fond of you? He has been able to speak of little else recently than how pleased he is that you have found such a nice home."

"He didn't like the other room, that's true," I say. "He was always complaining about how cold it was."

"Let's ask him his opinion," she says, the laughter coming back to her voice, as she pulls me about. "Now, where is he -"

Her voice dies away, and her hand tightens briefly on my arm before she takes it away and calmly lights a cigarette. Across the room, I see Schuldig talking with a tall, fair-haired man who stands ram-rod straight, as if on parade. He seems a little contemptuous of Schuldig's conversation, interjecting now and then with something that garners an energetic and no doubt profane response. I cannot hear what it is they are saying, nor can I discern anything at all when I attempt to lip read.

"Who is that?" I say, "I don't think I know him." I wonder what he is saying that is making Schuldig look so animated in his conversation, and decide to go a little closer to be able to hear.

"His name is Rudolf," Miss Lin says, looking around the room as if she has lost something, or perhaps as if she is looking to escape. "I didn't know that Schuldig had asked him to come."

Rudolf? I think. "He's German as well?"

"Austrian," Miss Lin says shortly, and turns her back to them both.

You fool, I think. No wonder you couldn't make anything out, they're speaking in German. This man isn't like Schuldig, too young to have fought - I picture him in an officer's uniform, looking coolly down at one of his young soldiers. I become aware that Miss Lin has said my name more than once. She looks up at me and picks up her glass.

"Show me what you have been working on, Mr Crawford," she says. "Your canvasses are in the other room?"

I'm glad she has taken pity on me and gratefully go to show her all that I have painted recently. The other room is not as crowded, which gives me an unfortunately excellent view of Plekhanov paying all too close attention to two Russian girls on the settee. I've seen him with them before, though it took me a little while to realise there were in fact two of them, as they are twins, neither of whom speaks English, as far as I can tell. Perhaps they are just not interested in speaking with me.

"You haven't finished this," Miss Lin says, looking at the canvas that depicts Schuldig as a creature of the deep. I am very glad I have made his victim look far less like me than I did in the original sketches. "Why not?"

"It was just a fancy - " I start.

"It's good. Finish it. Shouldn't he finish it, Sergei?"

"He should free himself from the tyranny of representational art," Plekhanov says cheerfully, adding. "Finish it, man! Don't leave things undone." He murmurs something in Russian to his identical friends and they giggle. I very much hope he will leave things undone on my settee, and wish I had thought to cover it with a rug.

"We should hold another exhibition," Miss Lin says firmly. "It brought you to us last time, who knows what new treasures it might unearth? It would do us good. Mr Crawford, you must finish any works you have half-done, Sergei will get his new piece ready, as will I. We should discuss this - Mr Crawford, do go and fetch in a bottle of something for us, won't you?"

I do as I'm bid, snatching up a couple of half-full bottles from the table along with all that remains of the smoked sausage. Schuldig is now talking to a barefoot, dark-eyed girl whose blue-black hair is in a long braid. Try as I might, I cannot catch his eye, so I go back to the others, and spend the rest of the evening planning how and when we might best astonish the city with our art.

* * *

Once I have settled in, my days find their own pleasant pace quickly enough. I rise, usually none too early, and after I have made myself presentable I either wander the city, finding something that catches my interest enough to sketch, or wait for Schuldig to arrive and spend the time working with him. I break for lunch, which I always eat out, then work on the sea-creature painting until dinner, after which I read, or drink with the others of the Rosenkreuz group, if Schuldig insists. As my time is my own, if I am not inspired to work I visit galleries and museums, and buy myself the supplies I always found myself in need of, back in America. There is no one here to tell me I am frittering my money away on foolish things, or that I should use every last scrap of paper before I buy another sketchbook.

When I am working, however, it is as if I cannot stop. I cover the pages with study after study of Schuldig, of course, but also with sketches of people and things I come across during the day; a small child, hunkered down to poke at something in the gutter with a stick; a cat on a wall meeting Schuldig's eyes with the same wicked insouciance; Plekhanov's lady friends, giddy with wine and attention, en pointe and pirouetting on the table as everyone else snatches up their drinks. I am happier than I have been in years.

Shortly before the Rosenkreuz group's exhibition, my parents put a stop to my allowance.

My time in London has been more than enough, my father's letter says, to get the foolishness of becoming an artist out of my head. He has even made sure to stop the payments from my inheritance, although it is my own money and I am of legal age. Should I wish to discuss this, his letter says, I have but to write asking for my fare home and all will be sorted out within a day of my arrival. I crumple the letter into a ball and fling it into a corner.

This is very difficult - I have never has to think about money since I arrived, and since I took my new rooms, I have been spending very freely. Every night I have eaten in a restaurant, I have bought more and more art supplies on the slightest whim - if I sketched from morning to night I couldn't fill up all the books I bought recently. And, I reluctantly admit to myself, I have spent more than necessary on Schuldig. I'm sure that other people might treat their models to lunch or dinner occasionally as a kindness, but surely not so often. And while it is very pleasant to have him actually pay attention to what I say when I show him pigments, or demonstrate shading while sketching, I could have bought him a far cheaper set of materials to practice with. Or just given him some of my own, old half-used things. I sigh in frustration. I will have to stop such profligacy. Right then there is a loud knock on the door, and I try to assume a more cheerful expression.

"Who the fuck died?" Schuldig says, taking one look at me as he tosses his cap onto a chair.

"It's nothing," I say. "I'm a bit late in getting started, let me think what I need - "

"Are all Americans such bad liars?" he says. "You may as well tell me now, and we both know it."

He's insufferable, I think. He's a rude, foul-mouthed boy who should respect his elders, even if I am only a few years older than him. He's also sitting down and looking, if not sympathetic, at least like the next person he will swear about will be my father and I am, I discover, disrespectfully eager to hear such language directed my father's way.

"My parents are trying to force me to leave London," I say. "They've been asking me to come back to America for months, now my father has cut off all my money, even the money my great-aunt left me. That's mine, he shouldn't have touched that." I am, I know, a moment away from bewailing the unfairness of life, like a child, so I fall into a depressed and dignified silence.

"Oh," Schuldig says.

It is, as a response, inadequate. Perhaps he doesn't care.

"I'm afraid we won't be able to go out for lunch today," I say, thinking that he will at least care about that.

He nods. "You'll save money if you eat at home - you'll have to learn to cut bread properly though, throwing slices out because you've cut them strangely is just waste."

"Of course, I'll make sure I can pay you until the end of this month," I say, hearing the bitterness in my tone.

He cocks his head. "Did I say anything about my wages?"

"I'm glad you are taking this so calmly," I say, deciding that I will strangle him. "I should not have wished other people to have been alarmed by the news."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snaps. "If I got angry and cursed at your father all you'd do is sneer at me for using profanities, and then you'd feel like you'd have to defend him. Everyone fucking thinks they want their friends to talk about how terrible their parents are until it happens, believe me."

"Actually," I say, blinking at his sudden rage, "I would quite like you to be angry."

He jumps up, and kicks his chair across the room, yelling a loud and furious stream of German. The chair hits the wall and bounces back, one of the legs showing a distinct crack. I wonder if I will have to pay for it, or if I can claim it was already damaged when I moved in. Schuldig stands, suddenly deflated, refusing to look at me.

"Will you really have to go?"

"I don't want to."

He spins around, his face hopeful. "You can sell the paintings, can't you? At the show? If you sold them all you'd never have to go back."

"No one was interested last time."

"But that was the first time you showed your paintings! Silvia said it took time before she sold anything! This time it will be different. You'll sell the water-monster one, she likes it, she thinks you can sell it."

I smile at him as cheerfully as I can. "Yes, let's hope so. I want to stay here - art is what I want, it's what I've always wanted. I don't want to creep back and be told I was just a silly boy." I don't say that here I feel more real, more alive than I did in my parents' house, that I feel I am doing something worthwhile, in case he laughs and tells me I am just daubing paint on canvas, and one day soon he must grow up and find a real job. He looks at me as if he is listening to the things I am not saying and crouches before me, looking up into my face.

"I don't want you to go," he says. "Promise you won't."

"I'll do my best."

He smiles, a wicked and sharp smile. "I'm going to get you your money. You're not going to slink off with your tail between your legs. You wait and see, I know just what to do."

* * *

The exhibition takes us longer to set up, this time. More artists wish to show their work, and Plekhanov says no to none of them, merely shrugging and saying, "Art is for all the people," when asked if there will be enough space. I stake my claim to a spot early and admire the effect of the good light on the water-creature painting, how it makes the blues and greens shine. Beside it I place the first painting I did of Schuldig, rendering him into a forest creature. I really should display only newer work, I know, but if there is a chance that someone might actually buy one of them - I sigh, wishing yet again that my parents weren't such philistines. On a whim I also hang a watercolour showing boys jumping into a canal - Schuldig doesn't know I've painted this scene, and I have mentally fortified myself for the expression he is sure to turn upon me when he sees it. Of Schuldig himself there is no sign even though his help would be useful.

I am closest to Plekhanov when disaster almost strikes - the men helping to bring in his sculpture are not careful, and overbalance it when moving it from the large, sturdy trolley. Plekhanov and I jump forward at the same time to brace it, belatedly joined by one of the workmen. Its weight bears down on us as we awkwardly ease it onto its spot, where it settles with a heavy final thump. The second workman, who did not lift a finger to help, shakes his head contemptuously.

"Ugly thing, that," he says. "Being on its side wouldn't make no difference to it."

Plekhanov turns on him, pale with fury, his light eyes so dilated that there is only the thinnest ring of grey around the iris. In a flash I see the violence of his work made flesh - he is a big man, made strong by wielding hammer and chisel against stone and the next moments seem dreadfully clear to me. I seize his arm and hang on, a dead weight.

"Plekhanov. Plekhanov. Don't. We have work to do."

He stops, though he quivers as if he will explode, and says something vicious-sounding in Russian. I think he's too angry to remember how to speak English, but then he forces out a deep breath and pulls money from his pocket.

"As agreed," he says to the workmen, who have backed up in some alarm.

They take their pay and make as dignified a retreat as they can, loudly agreeing that there are far too many foreigners in London these days.

"They didn't mean to do that," I say meekly.

Plekhanov shoots me an irritated glance and starts examining his work for damage. I surreptitiously stretch my back and shoulders; the sculpture is taller than a man and its weight was considerable. I touch the stone gingerly, admiring the raw power of the lines. I feel that it is a crouching beast that will leap upon me, or a tightly bound sheaf of blades, waiting to burst apart and scythe throughout the room. My presence seems to annoy Plekhanov, so I finally retreat and go to help Miss Lin finish hanging her paintings. I am not, I tell myself, hiding behind her.

"That was good of you, Mr Crawford," she says, half distracted. She steps up onto a chair and pokes at the plaster, selecting her spot for the next painting. "Sergei is so sensitive and easily upset where his art is concerned."

I say nothing, smiling modestly. Sensitive, I think. It's not the precise word I would associate with the man. I peer at her work, admiring the unwholesome quality she has captured of a mould growing on a wall, creeping also onto a child's face. Another shows a glimpse of a fruit market, and yes, there is Schuldig casually eating something red and shiny that on second glance is not an apple. I follow the faint trail of droplets back and see the hint of a woman's leg just visible on the ground of a dim laneway. Miss Lin turns from hammering a nail into the wall and grins at me, impishly.

"Do you like it?"

"Of course."

"Hand me up the third, could you? Thanks." She positions the painting carefully. I'm surprised to see it's a still life, then I see the fruit is rotting, that there are flies and maggots crawling over everything, and feel strangely reassured. "Why are you showing the watercolour?" she asks suddenly, and I blush.

"It's a little embarrassing. I mean, please don't tell anyone, Miss Lin, but - well, when I first came to London I only used watercolour, and I did sell a few. Only to friends of my landlady, but they did buy them, and well - I need the money, so I thought -"

I run down, utterly ashamed. When I dare to look at her, she is patiently waiting for me to get myself under control, and at least her expression is not unkind. She steps down from the chair, not waiting for me to offer her my hand.

"Do you know what I used to do when I really needed money and no one would buy the paintings I wanted to paint, Mr Crawford?" she says.

I shake my head, fearing some dreadful revelation. She seizes up some rough paper and a half stick of charcoal lying on the floor and in a few swift strokes produces a spare image - more a mere impression - of pine trees and mountains.

"How calm," she says, in an exaggeratedly bourgeois manner, "What an unchanging artistic tradition!" She drops the paper. "What rubbish. I produced sentimental nonsense to decorate the homes of sentimental fools who wanted something pretty, but it kept me fed until my own paintings sold. So I do hope all yours sell, Mr Crawford, really, I do."

"Thank you, Miss Lin," I say, touched. I pick up the paper. "Could I keep this?"

She looks at me suspiciously, as if I am one of those sentimental fools. "That? Why? It's a scrawl."

"To remind me not to be an idiot and that artists need to work to eat," I say, and she relaxes.

"Then, yes, you can keep it," she says. "Now, let me wash my hands and we'll go out and have some lunch, and you can tell me what you'll work on next."

By the time we return there is little to do, and most people have made their escape to seek out their own lunches, or to sleep until the exhibition opens. Plekhanov smiles at us both in what seems a determinedly better humour.

"The wanderers have returned! We've saved sweeping the floor for you - your brooms, comrades."

Miss Lin dusts off a chair and sits, crossing her legs. "It strikes me it would be a far more revolutionary act for such a typical piece of woman's work to be voluntarily taken on by a man." She smiles, and doesn't move a muscle until he looks at me in resignation.

"Oh, well. I tried, Crawford. I tried."

We sweep the entire room under her direction. She proves to have a sharp eye for piles of dust left unswept, and a critical view of male standards of housekeeping. Finally we are done, and the room is ready. I have just enough time to hurry home and put on clean clothes before we open our doors in the late afternoon. I long for the days when I could have taken a taxi-cab and not worried about the fare, but for now I content myself with the bus and a fifteen minute walk at the other end. I wash and shave quickly, change into fresh clothes and run back out the door. I skid to a stop on the landing and sprint back up for my forgotten hat, then, scarcely stopping to lock my door, I speed as fast as I can back to the street and up to the bus stop.

I enter the exhibition at a calm stroll, looking around casually at the other artists and the few members of the public who have come in. There is so far no sign of Miss Lin or Plekhanov, and certainly none of Schuldig. However, I see one of Plekhanov's lady friends has been drafted in to help and is currently neatly pouring glass after glass of cheap wine. I go over, glad of a familiar face.

"Good evening, Tanya Andreyevna," I say, greeting her as I have often heard Plekhanov speak to her, and belatedly realising I have never heard him say his friends' surname.

She flicks a glance up at me and back to her task. "Masha, Bradley," she says. "Masha."

"I do apologise," I say, trying not to cringe too visibly. Her sister comes over, carrying more bottles; she looks at me with some curiosity as I blush and make my excuses. How does he tell them apart? I wonder, then think that perhaps that is part of the attraction. What a mystery, never to know whose head was on the pillow beside one! I imagine voicing such a thought to my father and am immensely satisfied in picturing his expression of disgust. (You will think such thoughts immature and petty. I fully agree, and can only repeat: I am satisfied in their pettiness).

As the working day draws to a close more people come in, drawn equally by the prospect of wine as by art, and finally Schuldig makes an appearance, appearing by my elbow as if summoned from my thoughts. He looks as pleased with himself as ever as he inspects his own image in my works.

"Where have you been?" I ask, trying not to sound too peevish. "There was a lot of work you could have helped with earlier."

He shrugs, infuriatingly careless of the fact that he has done nothing all day. "I was working. Anyway, it's done, isn't it?"

My retort remains unspoken as I catch sight of a bruise running down under his collar. "What have you been up to? Were you fighting?" I put a hand out to touch it and he jerks back, suddenly skittish.

"Leave it. I'm all right. Fuck it, Crawford, no." He tugs his collar higher and glares at me. "You're like an old woman. I'm all right, I told you." He takes a deep breath and looks back at the paintings. I'm ready for his ribald comment about the naked boys in the watercolour, but he just looks at the bright summer scene, an odd half-smile on his face, his eyes on the figure jumping from the lock. Its features aren't distinct, but its hair is clearly red. He looks around then, his gaze going on something I don't see, and he grins at me, as if we're co-conspirators. He puts a hand on my shoulder, pulling me down so he can murmur in my ear, "You won't have to go back to America," and then he's gone, vanished among the people.

I stand, confused, and when I see him again he seems transformed but not into a creature of myth. He is with a man some twenty years older than me and a young man a few years older than himself. He is chattering away to the older man as if he hasn't a care in the world, nor, I think rather unkindly as I hear snippets of conversation, a thought in his head. It's all how pleased he is to see this older friend of his, and how worried he was that the man wouldn't come, even though he promised, and it wouldn't have been nice to break a promise, would it? The young man is regarding him with a particularly poisonous look, so I can only imagine that he finds this as cloying as I. Schuldig eagerly pulls his friend over to me.

"Mr Williamson, this is Mr Bradley Crawford, the artist I was telling you about. Mr Crawford, this is Mr James Williamson."

We smile and murmur polite greetings as Williamson casually looks at my work. He pauses and looks a little closer.

"You have an interesting vision," he says.

"Isn't it everything I said?" Schuldig says, before I can reply.

"It's certainly got promise, Fr-"

"Mr Crawford knows me as Schuldig," he says, and giggles - coquettishly, I think, blinking in surprise. The young man's gaze darkens considerably.

"Does he indeed? And what does that mean, hmm?" Williamson says in an indulgent tone, smiling at Schuldig as if he's a charming puppy. Schuldig whispers something in his ear and he laughs. "Very appropriate!" He looks back at my paintings and nods once, decisively. "I must go. A pleasure to meet you, Crawford."

"Likewise," I say, and, as Williamson simply turns and leaves, Schuldig with him, am moved to quickly add to their companion, "I'm so sorry, we weren't introduced?"

"Oh, no matter, apparently I'm no one today," the young man says bitterly, and follows them.

I stand there, alone in their wake, then resolve to spend the rest of the evening drinking the abominable wine and staring at the Russian sisters until either I can finally tell them apart or Plekhanov punches me. Either option seems appealing to me right then, though I cannot tell why.

Schuldig reappears two days later, knocking on my door until I reluctantly let him in. I feel rather the worse for wear, having spent the previous evening discussing art and politics with the Rosenkreuz group, and am in no mood to do any other than sleep. Schuldig looks at my crumpled state and casually goes over to put the kettle on, as if it is his own home.

"Did you forget I was coming?" he says. "How hungover are you, anyway?"

"I do not have a hangover," I say with fragile, dishonest dignity. "I am just a little tired."

He laughs at me, and rummages around in the cupboards near the cooker until he makes a satisfied noise. "Tea or coffee?"

"Oh, God, coffee," I say, letting my head sink onto the table. I open one eye and watch him - he seems to need a lot of pots as he heats the coffee and milk, then pours them in twin streams into first one cup, then a second. He leaves the pots in the sink for me, I note. I regard the steaming, milky coffee with suspicion - I'm used to drinking it black. Schuldig spoons sugar into it with enthusiasm, handing me a cup of what I fear will be more suited to a girl's dessert than to breakfast. I drink it anyway, and feel markedly more awake afterwards.

"Where have you been?" I ask, finding my jacket and discovering with pleasure that I did not smoke all my cigarettes the previous night. "I suppose you were too busy with your other friends?"

Schuldig raises an eyebrow at me and steals one of my cigarettes. "I told you, I knew how to get you money. I had to be nice to Williamson, I wanted him to come and see your paintings, so stop looking so jealous."

"Oh, you can spend your time as you wish, why should I be jealous?" I say, and, as my mind catches up with the important fact, "Do you think he might buy one?"

Schuldig pauses, and looks into his coffee as if he wishes it to give him advice on how to proceed. "I think he might," he says, "if he stays pleased with us both. He does want to buy a painting from you, just - not one of the ones you've already done. Not yet." He looks up, half pleased, half worried. "I've got you a commission, Crawford." He holds up a hand before I can say anything. "It's - well, it's a speciality work."

"What sort of speciality?" I ask - in all innocence, as if I am facing the most normal of youths.

"He wants you to paint me and his friend, the one who was with him at the exhibition," Schuldig says. "I told him it would be more for two boys, especially if he wanted to watch, so -"

"What?" I say, feeling the conversation is going a little away from me.

" - he said he'd just give me a photograph, and you could work from that, if you can remember Danny's height and so on."

He reaches into his pocket and produces a photograph in a cardboard cover. The image is of Williamson's young friend - Danny, I assume - reclining nude on a bed. His face is pensive, his eyes fixed directly on the camera. It's not a very good composition.

"So - Williamson wants a nude of you and his friend?" I say, still innocent.

"Yes, only, well, you know -" Schuldig seems strangely inarticulate today. He takes a mouthful of coffee and then grins widely at me, as if he has put on wickedness like armour. "Fucking each other."

I sit there in silence, watching my cigarette burn down. He's serious. He actually means it. When the ash has almost reached my fingers I say, quite evenly, "Get. Out."

"Oh, don't be such a fucking prude," Schuldig says. "It's a guaranteed sale, Crawford. You don't even have to tell anyone you've done it, you just have to take the money - money you told me you fucking well needed." He looks at the table and runs his finger through a drop of coffee. "Anyway, you have to do it, I told him you would and he's already given me half the price."

"Give it back! Honestly, Schuldig, do you really think I'm going to produce pornographic images on demand? Especially that - that sort of image?"

"I was trying to help," he says, more meekly than I'm expecting.

"My God! Thank you, but no." I pause. "Out of interest, how much did he give you?"

Schuldig makes a helpless gesture, "I don't know what paintings cost, not really. I told him you were a really good artist, that he'd have the first painting you'd do of this sort - he likes being the first to have things - that you're worldly because you're from New York -"

"I'm from Boston," I interject.

He shrugs as if it's all the same to him. "I just told him you were the right sort of person to do this, and well, sometimes he likes me, and he likes art so - well I told him it would be eighty pounds."

After some seconds, I remember to close my mouth. "Eighty pounds?" It would pay my rent and bills for months, and let me buy all the art supplies I want.

"I knew I should have asked for more," Schuldig says.

"Why did he agree to pay that much?" I say in wonder. "For an unknown artist?"

"He doesn't think things are worthwhile if they don't cost money," Schuldig says. "And you can't just buy this sort of painting at an exhibition, can you?" He pulls out a battered wallet, and counts out four ten-pound notes, crisp and white, onto the table. "Are you sure you want me to give this back? Come on, Crawford, do it. So what if you think it's disgusting? That's just what you've been told by society, but you think lots of society's ideas are bloody stupid, or you'd be working in a nice, respectable office. Paint it - it'd be one in the eye for your father, wouldn't it?"

"Do you think Williamson will buy one of my other paintings?" I say, and Schuldig grins in victory.

"I really think he will," he says.

I won't have to go home. I can stay here and keep doing what I love. I think of Miss Lin, having to draw for sentimental fools until she needed to do so no longer. I can use classical nudes for inspiration, and leave as much to the imagination as possible.

"We do this once," I say, and Schuldig's grin widens, his pleasure lighting up his face. "You don't tell anybody, do you hear me?"

"No one," he promises. "It's our secret, just you and me."

I nod, and pick up the money. One painting, that's all. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a means to an end, and then I can get back to normality.

It's just one painting.