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“Curious choice to leave the face unfinished. Bold,” Richard says, immersed in observation.

He basks in the compliment.

“The unsaid is more powerful than any sculpted face.”

I pass beside him, our arms barely grazing.

“Or more convenient. That way no one can accuse you of having failed the features.”

His fists clench.

“A curious observation,” he says. “Today you seem more gracious than usual.”

“Only when someone thinks themselves more interesting than they truly are.”

He diverts his gaze toward the bust but immediately returns to Isobel.

“What do you think of this choice of non-finito? Does it inspire or annoy you?”

She blushes.

“It fascinates me. There is something alive in this imperfection, it seems the sculpture could change at any moment.”

Richard nods.

“Then,” Dorian intervenes, “can we say that art is never entirely innocent?”

Isobel smiles, her gaze jumping from me to Richard.

“Absolutely. Every choice tells something... even that which is unfinished.”

We spend the afternoon among various sculptures, tea, and sweets, discussing proportions, limits, and virtues. Isobel does not stop praising every gesture and detail.

The chime of a clock in the next room surprises us. Richard stops abruptly, pulls out his pocket watch, and looks at the hands.

“We must return, other business awaits us.”

Isobel knits her brow, displeased.

Lord Presumption crosses the room.

“There will be other occasions.”

Richard turns and looks at me. “Are you coming as well?”

“I shall remain a while longer.”

Lord Dorian stops and looks at me, his irides growing darker.

“If Lord Dorian does not mind,” I add.

“I do not mind.”

Richard passes beside me.

“Then, a good evening to you, gentlemen.”

Isobel, instead, approaches Dorian, her palm stroking his arm.