Page 150 of Ashen Torment

“Lord Vasiliev Ashford awaits you.”

Laurence steps aside and indicates with a gesture that we should follow him. The pace of all three becomes more composed as we traverse a corridor where the portraits seem to watch us pass.

No one speaks, it is a silence that even Richard does not dare break.

The valet opens a side door and invites us to enter.

The room is devoid of any decoration, only the sculptures occupy the space: a bust without ears, a polished torso with veins that seem to pulse beneath the marble, female figures imprisoned in stone, contorted as if the surface refused to let them go.

Some works gleam with a recent polish, others look like open wounds, raw, incomplete. It is the atelier of a man who does not fear showing the darkness before the form.

Isobel catches her breath, lost in observing the marble figures. I lift my gaze toward the high window, the gray sky filters a milky light that falls precisely upon a pedestal.

A finished sculpture: a male face, impeccable, but with eyes that forgive nothing. Richard wets his lips, Isobel retreats half a step, almost brushing my shoulder.

And then I see him.

At the center of the room, leaning against a marble column, stands he. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt reveal tense forearms; his hair, still damp, falls lighter than usual.

He does not speak.

He does not move.

But everything in this place seems to bend to his will.

I have penetrated his refuge.

Lord Dorian detaches himself from the column with a slow movement and approaches us.

“Finally, you have arrived. I feared you had lost your way.”

He bows slightly and kisses Isobel’s hand.

The contact lasts a moment longer than necessary, yet his gaze does not stray from mine. He nods to Richard, then turns a sardonic smile toward me.

“Viscount, it is a pleasure to be able to host you.”

Instinctively, I take a step to the side to withdraw from his attention.

He advances a few more steps, narrowing his eyes.

“So, do you believe me now?” he says, indicating the sculptures with a theatrical movement of his fingers.

Isobel leans toward him.

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“The Viscount here present,” his unsolicited attention returns to me, “deemed it impossible for me to create such art.”

Isobel feigns a shocked look.

“But your sculptures are stupendous. How could one ever doubt?”

She talks as if I had committed some outrageous crime.

I barely look away.

“I did not say it was impossible.”