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“I was not addressing you.”

Lavinia taps her fingers against her saucer, thoughtful. “Le Rêve, Le Rêve...”

Then she turns to Julian. “Do you frequent it as well?”

“I am a married man, my dear. You know that well.”

“We know it,” Elijah retorts, “and we know well how little it interests you.”

“How can you say such a thing?”

I am distracted by Isobel’s gaze, which slides over and glues itself to Dorian.

Richard notices. “Are you well, sister?”

Isobel does not look away.

“I do not understand why one should seek elsewhere that which one has before him.”

I slip my hand from Dorian’s knee, and this time my nails sink into his thigh, higher up. Instead of recoiling, he slowly spreads his legs, granting me space.

“I am not seeking elsewhere,” he says softly. “I have already found what I was looking for.”

I squeeze harder.

What the fuck have you found?

Richard clears his throat. “You know, sister... Lord Dorian contemplates nothing but his own art.”

I lean slightly toward him, speaking in a low voice, my words intended only for him. “It seems you are desired by many.”

His lips curve. He pushes his hips forward with a slowness just enough to make my hand rise by a palm’s breadth. Then, with his free hand, he picks up a spoon. He tastes the dark chocolate mixed with the brandy cream. He swallows and looks at me.

“No ya zheláyu lish odnogo.”

I squeeze his hand once more for an instant, then withdraw it sharply.

“I do not understand you when you speak in that language of yours.”

“You will have other words to search for, then.”

“I shall not spend another moment upon you.” I remove my hand entirely.

The void it leaves is heavier than the contact.

“It is not as you believe,” he says, and for the first time, his voice loses its certainty.

I look away. It is then that I see Elijah seize one of the tartlets from the table, the pastry flies and crashes onto the table in front of Nathaniel, leaving a dark stain on the linen.

Nathaniel closes his hand, his knuckles straining, then turns toward Lavinia.

“I understand that your friend is very young,” he says, “but such intemperance is excessive.”

She runs a hand through her copper hair. “Elijah.”

“Why do you not say it to me?” he retorts, snapping. “Why always speak through an intermediary?”

“Curious. So much venom for one you have always pretended not to notice,” Julian murmurs, then he smiles—that smile that already knows where to sink in.