1
LONDON GRAY
I often catch myself thinking about broken glass.
It’s a violent image, far more than it has any right to be. Such tiny shards, smaller than the eye can see, yet able to shred paper, canvas, or even skin in an instant. Once, it belonged to something ornate, something with purpose, but the second it breaks it becomes a curse. Years of misfortune as a punishment for … what, exactly? Ruining something that never mattered to begin with?
The shard glistens between my thumb and my forefinger, mocking me with its silence. If Grandfather heard the window break, he hasn’t bothered to do anything about it. I wait a little longer, tilting the glass to watch the light dance atop it. A few strands of hair fall over my eye, blocking the top-left corner of my vision. I suppose it’ll be time to cut it soon—or, more likely, it has been for a while now and I simply hadn’t noticed. It’s hard to keep track of when hair moves from fashionably long to something Grandfather might condemn as sloppy and unkempt.
It isn’t until I see the glass stain red that I realize how tightly I’m clutching it.
A stubborn part of my brain insists I should be feeling some kind of sting where the blood flows. It’s an oddly peaceful feeling, staring at the red trickling down my index finger like the creek behind our estate. The waters have mostly been still since the groundskeeper set up some rocks halfway down, silencing the rush that used to sing me to sleep. Grandfather insisted it kept him up at night, so now its lullabies are little more than a pleasant memory. I might miss it, had I not learned long ago that nothing in my life is mine to grow fond of.
My bedroom window looks even smaller now that it’s broken. Jagged shards jut out from its edges, each one a dragon’s tooth trying to keep its hostage locked in. There’s enough space for my body to squeeze through, but I know better than to assume I’ll make my escape without a few cuts and scrapes.
I step one leg out the dragon’s mouth, feeling around with my foot until I find the solidity of the trellis under me. Once I’m confident that my balance is steady, I lift the second leg to bridge the gap. The dragon gets one bite on my neck before I escape its grasp—I take a second to rearrange my hair and cover the cut. My shirt tears a little under its teeth, exposing a glimpse of my lower back to the night sky.
There’s something romantic about climbing out my window in the dead of night. The air smells of rebellion and adventure, the kind of night where something magical might happen if this were a stage play or a novel. I can picture some young ingenue sneaking out this way, desperate to break free and find some great fate of her own. Maybe she’d meet a handsome man from a rival family, or one who’s betrothed to some princess or duchess. Whatever the case, their love would be star-crossed. There’s no point reading any romance where the odds are in their favor. Happiness needs to be earned in the face of impossible odds, or there’s no beauty in it. Even joy becomes ugly when it grows mundane.
The scratch of the trellis on my fingertips is soothing. Looking down and seeing how far I am above the ground exhilarates me. My breath catches in my throat as my brain reminds me, unprovoked, that one missed step might lead to my death.
I picture Grandfather walking out in the morning to find his only heir’s body broken beside the rosebushes. Would he know I fell escaping him, or would his mind fly to a more dramatic conclusion? I wonder for a moment if it might sadden him to lose the last family he has—and to know that, once again, he’s to blame for the loss.
A splinter off the trellis pricks my finger and snaps me back to reason. Grandfather would never walk our gardens. They were Mother’s domain once, and Grandmother’s before that. The great Lord Kelso has no time for such frivolous things as flowers. The news of my death would be well on its way through society gossip networks before it ever reached his ears.
I’m sure the scandal of it all would get some reaction out of him, at least.
The feeling of solid ground beneath me is as disappointing as it is reassuring. My heart quiets down, yet my breathing refuses to follow suit. You’re still in danger, it insists, but if it knows what the threat is, it doesn’t say. Grandfather’s face flashes in my mind, stormy with the look he wears whenever he says my name: as if acknowledging my existence is blasphemy in and of itself.
Overhead, the moon shines bright and full, its pale light washing any life or color from my skin. An observer might mistake me for a ghost haunting the estate, some reminder of shame and tragedy tainting the Kelso name. On nights like this, it’s hard not to believe such things.
How can I consider myself to be living, knowing any glimpse of a life I might scavenge comes only at nighttime, when there’s nobody around to see me?
* * *
The walk into London proper is crisp and dark but much more flattering than the harsh lights the moon and streetlights provide. Smoke and fog offer cover, even as they fill my nose with their bitter, harrowing smell. It’s as if the city itself is ill, buckling under the weight of all the factories and chimneys that rise as quickly as the pox. Even the streetlights struggle to break through the miasma around me. Each new one flickers in the distance like a near-dead star guiding a sailor as best it can. It’s not much, but I navigate by reflex more than anything now. Papa’s gallery calls to me from across the city, promising its warmth and conversation and ambience; a few moments of life in all its brightness and boldness. No matter where I am, I think I’d be able to find my way there.
Shadows lurk behind every corner, ready to strike the second I pass by them. Grandfather has warned me time and time again that London is a dangerous place at night, full of brigands who’d love nothing more than to attack a lord foolish enough to wander around. But shadows aren’t a threat—even the more ominous ones. They’re part of the backdrop, lending a tone of risk to any secret adventures one might take.
It’s on nights like these I wish I were an artist. I’d turn every wisp of smoke into a series of gray ribbons dancing around London, each shadow into a figure, each light into a glowworm. The buildings would form groves of towering tree stumps, silent and unforgiving. But as much as I may have the vision and the taste, I’ve always lacked the skill. I remember begging Grandfather to hire tutors when I was younger, but he’d insisted it was a waste of time. I had enough on my plate learning “proper subjects” without wasting my time studying anything as frivolous as Beauty.
I doubt studying art would be any different from my Latin lessons, anyway—I see it everywhere, and I understand it just fine, but I lack the language to express it. Despite my best efforts, I can’t translate my thoughts into it, at least not in a way other people can understand.
Maybe the fault is with my thoughts, then. It’s possible that I am the one who doesn’t make sense, that no language could translate the things I see. It’d take a fool to feel misunderstood so often without wondering if I might be the problem after all.
Papa’s gallery helps with that, at least somewhat. It’s full of such fascinating people—eccentrics, Grandfather would call them in the same tone he says my name—and I understand them. They sit and talk about new styles and movements and all these ways strangers are experimenting with form and beauty as concepts, and it makes me want to join in. They might appreciate the mystique of a black night or the exhilaration of shadows if I could express it to them.
What is destruction, I long to ask them, if not a way to create? What is absence if not a presence to be felt?
Entering the gallery never feels like making an entrance. Chaos already pulses in every direction, ebbing and flowing in perfect harmony with the conversation. Paintings line the wall with shades I’ve never seen, warm yellows and bright pinks that have no business together but somehow work amidst the madness. The chatter is much louder than is proper, each conversation drowning out the other until the rise and fall of voices feels like a melody I don’t know. A smile eases onto my face as I look around, as utterly lost as I always am here. Drowning has never seemed a more pleasant concept than it does now, letting wave after wave of life crash over me. There’s nobody I have to be, no impression to consider, when to most of these people I’m little more than a fly buzzing on the wall.
“Dorian!”
Papa’s voice manages to be loud and booming without ever being brash. Instead, it has all the sudden charm of someone bursting into song, guided by the gentle lilting of his Parisian accent. He breaks free from the crowd and pulls me into a hug. He smells like fresh paint and red wine, overpowering in its sweetness but welcoming in its warmth. We sit in the hug for a while, taking in each other’s presence like it’s a luxury vintage stored in the cellar for only the most special occasions.
“It’s been too long since I last saw you, soleil,” Papa says as he pulls away. “Your hair’s getting long.”
I run my hand behind my neck, shrinking under his words. There’s no coldness or judgment in his tone, but I’ve heard the phrase leave Grandfather’s mouth too often not to apologize on reflex. Papa winces at my defensiveness—perhaps it would be kinder of me to keep my distance and spare him the pain of seeing Grandfather raise me in the exact way he and my mother risked so much to protect me from.
“I’ll cut it soon,” I promise.
Papa shrugs. “It’s quite fashionable these days, you know. I’ll never understand why the English feel obliged to be so traditional at all times.”
“Grandfather says—”
“It makes you look like your mother. Even your grandfather should be able to appreciate that.”
I open my mouth to tell him we both know why Grandfather wouldn’t care to hear his point, then close it. I don’t see Papa enough to waste my time arguing with him about a man he has every reason to despise. I spend enough time dwelling on what Grandfather thinks of me as is; this should be one of the few places I can leave him behind and think only about what I want for myself.
“Don’t listen to him,” a second voice calls from behind Papa. “You’ve got so much of your father in you. He’d see it too if he could look past the hair for two seconds.”
And so the dance reaches its last step. Grandfather insists I look like him, but softer; Papa compares me to my mother, and then Fabián decides I’m my father’s son after all. Between the three of them, I wonder if I take on whatever appearance people want to see—like a blank canvas, or a mirror that reflects the expectations of whoever’s in front of it.
What would it mean to look like Dorian instead of someone else’s reflection? I can’t picture it. My features come to mind easily enough—hair caught between copper and gold, eyes slightly too big for my face, a mouth overpowered into a pout by my bottom lip—but they feel disjointed. Like items on a list rather than parts of a whole. There must be something I’m missing, some piece that ties me together. There’s little I wouldn’t give to know what it might be, but the few places I’ve been able to look haven’t offered any answer.
I watch Papa and Fabián bicker back and forth, fading in and out of focus as they go on. It seems strange for business partners to disagree as much as they do, but there’s no denying Papa’s much happier now that he doesn’t have to run the gallery alone. Besides, selling Fabián’s frames has done wonders for the business; each one of them is a work of art on its own merit.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
I turn to find a young man I’ve never met, broken free from the crowd chattering behind him. The bags under his eyes have the heaviness of someone who’s spent months away from their bed, and his smile wears the tired ease of someone who’s content to sit and watch the world turn without them. Splatters of green paint decorate his lightly calloused hands, though that’s not unusual for Papa’s clientele. Artists have a way of wearing their work. If anything, the fact that he has managed to keep the stains to just his skin is an achievement.
The painter’s eyes do not bounce off me like others do. They bump into me, halt, and then pierce as easily as if I were made of water. His gaze burns, but it isn’t unpleasant. It reminds me of the sun on a hot day, when I’ve been out too long but can’t pull myself from the gardens: Staying in the warmth too long will hurt later, but I can’t bring myself to go back inside quite yet.
Is this how it feels to be seen?
“I think I ought to be the one apologizing,” I answer, pointing to the crowd behind us. Their conversation has halted as if this painter’s presence were the only thing keeping it afloat. While I may not know who he is, this man has obviously captured the attention of tonight’s gathered crowd. “It seems I’ve pulled you away from your audience.”
“Perhaps I should thank you, then. I never intended to have an audience today, but I suppose I should have known better than to show my face after years of absence and expect not to gather some attention.”
I hold the painter’s gaze for a fraction of a moment before turning away. As warm as it may be, something about the familiarity in his eyes puts me on edge. I don’t know what this young man thinks he recognizes in me, but there’s nothing to see. Grandfather spent years teaching me to keep my face illegible. If a man’s mind were meant to be public, it would not be hidden away inside him.
“Basil, dear boy!” Papa breaks away from Fabián and claps the painter—Basil, apparently—on the back. “I didn’t expect you to grace one of my salons after your prolonged absence. Where have you been these last few years?”
“Away, of course. I hope you haven’t spent all this time looking for me, Étienne. An artist needs adventure to find inspiration. You should know that better than anyone.”
Papa nods. “Do you mean to imply you have new paintings to exhibit? Simply say the word and I’ll get invitations ready. Our patrons have been asking for nearly a year now when you’ll have more work ready to show.”
“They’ll have to wait a little longer, I’m afraid.” Basil’s eyes dart to me just as I was starting to think I’d faded away from their conversation. “It turns out adventure doesn’t agree with me. Sometimes, the best part of coming back home is the things we see in a new light.”
I turn my eyes from Basil to Papa and then back. This stranger has a quality to him I can’t put my finger on, but it beckons me forward just as well. I’ve read in novels that some people are meant to leave marks on each other’s lives before they’ve even met, but the concept has always seemed too fanciful even for me.
That doesn’t stop the nagging instinct telling me I want to know him. I take a breath and steady myself, shutting out the chaos and distraction of the gallery until my mind is clear and my posture is perfect.
“It appears my father has forgotten to introduce us,” I say, sticking out my hand for him to shake. “I’m Dorian Gray, Lord Kelso’s grandson. And you are?”
His smile has an earnest surprise to it that I wouldn’t have expected from a man who’s spent the last few years traveling, even if he doesn’t seem much older than myself. “Nobody in particular, but you may call me Basil if you’d like. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Gray.”
The title sends a shiver down my spine, much like it always does. It seems too early, too proper, too much like a coat impeccably tailored for someone else. Grandfather would say I haven’t earned it yet, but that doesn’t ring true, either. Nobody earns such a title, at least not these days. Families hoard them and hand them down like the trinkets left behind in their wills.
“Please, call me Dorian.”
“You’re being too modest, Basil,” Papa corrects before turning back to me. “Mr. Hallward here is something of a prodigy. He exhibited his first series of paintings to mass acclaim at fourteen, then vanished for … two years, was it?”
“Three.”
“Three years! And still no new collection to show. You wound me, dear boy.”
“I expect you won’t be waiting much longer,” Basil promises. “I’ve spent much of my absence learning about portraiture. Faces have such an honesty to them, don’t you think?”
The question is aimed at Papa, but Basil’s eyes lock onto mine. I don’t hear my father’s answer, and I sense that Basil doesn’t, either. Whatever pull that tenses between us is a potent one. It frightens me, and yet the thrills it seems to promise are beyond my wildest imaginings.
“Has anyone ever painted your portrait?” Basil asks me.
“I’m afraid the opportunity has never presented itself, no.”
“You must grant me the honor of your first one, then. I’m sure every painter in London will be lining up to paint the future Lord Kelso before long.”
His voice is husky in a way that doesn’t detract from its smoothness. I think back to the Greek poems my first tutor used to read me, and the sirens that awaited Odysseus on his journey. Basil’s words lure me in, beckoning me in directions I never would have thought to travel. I can see nothing but rocks ahead of us, waiting to wreck my ship and leave me at the mercy of the waves—but if destruction is little more than potential, why should I fear it? If I can’t make art of my own, perhaps I can be its medium. Would it be enough to become a beautiful thing, rather than to create one?
I smile at Basil, and the gravity between us pulls even tighter.
“The honor would be all mine, Mr. Hallward.”
2 CANVAS WHITE
The first time Basil invited me to sit for him, I thought it was a poor attempt at a joke. The second time must’ve been pity, designed to pad my ego and reassure me I hadn’t been as awful a model as I’d fancied myself. But this being the third time, it’s easier to believe Basil Hallward might genuinely enjoy spending time with me.
I haven’t figured out why yet—it can’t be that he enjoys painting me. Whenever I sit for him, my eyes wander to every corner of the room. I kick my ankles side to side and hope he doesn’t notice. I rattle on endlessly about books he probably couldn’t care less about and art he must already know far better than I. My cheeks flush red anytime I catch him looking up from his canvas, throwing off any semblance of an even complexion I could have. Sometimes I even find myself watching him as he paints, losing myself in the gentle ease with which his hand guides his paintbrush along as though leading it in a strange yet beautiful dance.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a model who can sit for you patiently?” I ask when Basil guides me toward his sitting room. “It must be easier to work with people who know how to hold a pose. All I do is cause you trouble.”
“Perhaps I don’t want someone who knows how to pose. If I wanted a still life, I’m sure a bowl of fruits would be much easier to work with than you are.”
If I’ve learned one thing about artists from visiting Papa’s gallery, it’s that whatever logic they operate on is entirely their own. These last few sessions with Basil have taught me he’s no exception. Often, when he looks at me, it feels as though he’s in a different world entirely, processing thoughts that don’t or even can’t exist in the room. He’ll say one of them, unprompted, and I’ll be left even more unsure which fraction of his mind I’ve glimpsed into. Wherever he goes when he paints, I imagine it must be a place more wondrous than any London could offer.
“I thought we might picture you differently today,” Basil says, somehow warm and detached at the same time. “An imagined scene, drawn from the Greeks.”
“What scene is that?”
“I was hoping to paint you as Hyacinthus, if you’ll allow me.”
A frown grows on my face as I try to remember the name from my lessons. I dig through my mind as I change into the toga Basil gave me. It’s colder than I’d expected, and I can’t help but be aware of how much of my shoulder is uncovered. It feels strong and vulnerable at the same time.
Text copyright © 2026 by Arielle Kersey
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