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It is a question I find myself asking frequently of late.

Cursed Viscount.

I approach the dark wood sideboard, take a crystal glass, and fill it without heed for the amount, the liquid gurgles until it is full. I raise it to my lips and drain it in a single gulp, feeling the fire descend straight into my stomach.

My shoes annoy me. I kick them away, and they bounce against the floor before falling into a corner. I collapse onto the cool sheets, bringing my hand over my eyes to shield myself from any light and the tumult shaking me within.

But the discomfort does not vanish.

The restlessness slithering beneath my skin shows no sign of dissolving.

I slowly lift my hand from my face and leave it suspended in the air, observing it by the flickering light of the candle beside the bed.

After a few moments, my hand drops, fingers drumming lightly on my abdomen, my thumb brushing the waistband of my trousers while my mind reprocesses that painting: the Viscount, the chill of that dead flesh...

I sit up abruptly, the cold stone floor scrapes the soles of my bare feet.

“It is death...” I mumble through clenched teeth.

I do not take the time to dress, the shirt and waistcoat remain abandoned, and the cold brushes against me, penetrating beneath my pores as I advance along the corridor.

I reach my atelier, the scent of wood and clay greets me, the familiarity of the sculptures offering relief. My gaze settles on every unfinished form, and I feel the tension coagulate in muscles ready to mold the matter.

“I must shape something alive.”

I approach the white marble bust, unfinished, faceless. The smooth surface sends a shiver down my bare arms. I seize the mallet and the pointed chisel, the weight of both restores a sense of control. My fingers splay across the marble as if they wanted to tear the stone away with bare hands. The chisel vibrates under my blows, the sound explodes in the room.

Sharp, obsessive, bouncing off the dark walls.

I begin to hack away large shards of marble; the surface that emerges is rough, every chip that brushes me cutting the skin. Blood mixes with the white dust.

The marble becomes rage, desire, torment.

Where does this anger stirring within me come from?

The marble vibrates beneath my hands, yet it soothes nothing.

Like a flash piercing the fog, the triton and the angel resurface in my mind, intertwined, lost in the ecstasy of their embrace.

I grab a smaller chisel, light yet sharp, and continue to carve the stone.

They are just two bodies.

Two bodies losing themselves in one another.

The rhythm of the blows accelerates as my thoughts return to those gazes, those impossible embraces, the taut skin, the arched muscles.

That boy there, before that painting, his eyes fixed, attentive, curious. I feel the fabric of my trousers suddenly grow too tight.

“Do you not believe a male body can be just as delightful as the rest?”

Julian does nothing but spread absurdities.

A male body cannot be delightful.

Not in this way.

I look at the face I am sculpting. Ambiguous features, an expression I cannot decipher.