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the architect to let him do it, and to choose the other artists who were to join him. They were only being paid housing and expenses, but Morris and Burne-Jones were young and inexperienced and saw it as a great opportunity to have their work on display.
    Rossetti carried his well-worn copy of Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur with him everywhere and knew the story by heart, and his favorite part was the quest for the Holy Grail. He knew what scenes he wanted to paint—Launcelot’s vision of the Holy Grail, the knights Galahad, Bors, and Percival receiving the Holy Grail, and Sir Launcelot in the queen’s chamber. He had begun to sketch the first two already, but it was the third scene for which he needed Jane.
    “I wish I could paint Launcelot and Guinevere in the chamber bed together,” said Rossetti, “but of course that’s impossible. The union would never allow it and it would be a horrible scandal.” Jane blushed when she thought of modeling for such a picture, and was glad that Rossetti had thought better of it.
    “So it is to be afterward, when Launcelot and Guinevere were besieged by Mordred and his men. Launcelot of course has been caught unawares and has no armor, and they are both sure that they are going to be slain, that this is the end. What an anguished moment! The difficulty is how to portray all of the emotion, especially of the queen.”
    Jane must have looked worried, for Rossetti laughed and touched her arm in a way that was meant to be reassuring. Instead it shocked all the breath from her body. She tried not to gape like a fish.
    “It’s all in how I organize the composition,” he said. “You won’t have to do anything but pose how I tell you, and if I’ve set things up right, the tension will all be there.”
    They had come to Rossetti’s work space, where he had taped sketches of the first mural painting to the walls. Each showed a knight asleep in the right-hand corner of the paper and a statuesque woman leaning over him with an upraised arm. Jane could not see any difference between the sketches and she wondered why he had to do so many.
    Rossetti watched her looking at the drawings. “Now that you’re here, I may rework the messenger. I’m not quite satisfied with her proportions. Miss Lipscombe is not the stunner you are. Yes, I think I will redo it.”
    Then Rossetti led her around the room and introduced her to each young man. Mr. Dixon, Mr. Price, Mr. Faulkner, Mr. Prinsep. Their names and faces were a blur. They looked much like the undergraduates she had passed in the courtyard—young, blond, prosperous looking.
    Morris appeared to be the youngest, the shortest, and the most unkempt. He had changed into his regular clothes, but when he took her hand Jane could not help but remember how thick his legs had looked in hose. Her face grew hot at the memory. Perhaps he realized what she was thinking because he gave her the briefest of glances before turning away.
    “Topsy is shy,” whispered Rossetti to her. “But I assure you he is first-rate. Not quite an artist yet—he’s just started. But he works tremendously hard. He’s my most promising protégé.” Morris had turned back to his table and was running his hands through his hair as he stared at the paper he had taped to his easel.
    “Don’t let his appearance alarm you,” Rossetti said. “He pays no attention to his grooming when he’s working.” Jane nodded and hoped he could not hear them.
    “How long do you think you will need me?” she asked bashfully. “Altogether, I mean?”
    Rossetti gazed at his drawings and thought for a moment.
    “A few weeks at least. Perhaps months. It will take some time to finish the entire series of sketches. When the time comes to paint, we’ll cover up the windows and whitewash the walls and the ceiling. Then we’ll paint directly onto it as the Italian masters did. When I’m actually painting the frescoes, I won’t need you unless I’ve made a mistake that I need to