Basil sat behind his easel, his hand gliding across the canvas with a languid grace, as if each stroke were a whispered secret. He briefly looked up at the beauty that he beheld. Before Basil, just beyond the easel, stood his muse—an embodiment of beauty, still and exquisite, as if sculpted from the very essence of art itself. Now that he’d finally gotten Lord Henry to leave, he could enjoy the secrecy he found solace in. He thought it special to have something beautiful to himself. “Would you be so kind as to turn your head just a fraction?” Basil inquired, his voice a melodic murmur, imbued with a delicate blend of reverence and fervor.