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and dry brushes. She pulled out a long knife with a thin blade of lithe steel.
    With a stifled sob, Dorian leaped from the couch and, rushing over to Rosemary, tore the knife out of her hand, and flung it to the other end of the studio. “Don’t, Rosemary,” he said, regaining his composure. “That would be murder.”
    â€œI’m glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said Rosemary in a hurt tone. “I never thought you would.”
    â€œAppreciate it?” said Dorian. “I am in love with it, Rosemary. It is part of myself. I feel that.”
    â€œWell, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished and framed and sent home,” said Rosemary. She wiped her hands on the rag that hung on her easel. “Then you can do what you like with yourself.”
    Helen, relishing the drama, jumped to her feet and clapped.
    â€œBravo!” she cried, ecstatically. Dorian smiled sheepishly at Helen, much recovered from the moment’s theatrics.
    â€œHelen, please,” said Rosemary. “I’m exhausted now. I think it’s best that I just retire early. Painting this intensely, for so long, always drains me.” She turned to Dorian with a look of sadness in her eyes that perplexed Helen. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I hope you shall soon excuse me to lie down.”
    â€œWe shall,” answered Helen. “We’re going to the theater.”
    â€œThe theater?” said Dorian and Rosemary in unison. Dorian laughed and shook his head as if he couldn’t keep up with this Helen Wotton, but thought it was a fun chase. Rosemary looked as if she could retrieve the knife.
    â€œI entreat you,” Helen said to him.
    Dorian hesitated and looked over at Rosemary, who was watching with a mournful look from beside the canvas.
    â€œI must go with Helen,” he said.
    â€œVery well,” said Rosemary.
    â€œThank you,” he said, and went to her with his hand extended. With apparent reluctance, she gave him hers. He granted it a quick kiss.
    â€œShe won’t like you the better for going,” said Rosemary suddenly. Then, she urged him in a whisper that was loud enough for Helen to hear: “I beg you not to go.”
    Dorian only nodded politely. “Get some rest, dear,” he said and headed for the door. Helen followed. Just as she was exiting, Rosemary ran to her and grabbed her by the shoulder.
    â€œI trust you,” she whispered. Her lovely blue eyes were wild with worry.
    Helen wrapped her arms around Rosemary. “I wish I could trust myself,” she whispered into Rosemary’s ear, then leaned down and gave her a lingering kiss on the lips, nudging her tongue gently to part them what little way they’d go.

CHAPTER IV
    H elen’s driver, Edgar, was a small man with a weathered, alcoholic complexion and permanently chapped lips. He’d started his work with the Wottons as the driver of Helen’s husband, Lord Henry Wotton, but was fired after he drunkenly careened the carriage into a tree with Lord Wotton inside. Lord Wotton had not been alone, and the whore—whose mouth was hard at work in his lap at the time of the accident—was thrown out of the cab and left with a broken jaw and the end of a career.
    Helen, feeling that Edgar was of some use (he was, after all, loyal, and did, after all, have a tireless tongue that could fleck her cunt for hours), hired him as her own driver. He was in love with her in that worshipful, self-ruining way that gets people killed long before they muster their last breath. He couldn’t bear to look her guests in the eye for he knew that, like her husband, Helen took full advantage of her company in the bouncing carriage.
    The beautiful Dorian, with the piercing gray eyes and the strong, tall build, must have been a painful sight for the dwarfish driver. He hurried to settle the two inside, then ran around to reclaim his post on the back of the hansom. The horses