23rd August, 1895 — Magical Portrait Gallery, London
It was unfortunate that Nick had a long list of people he would rather avoid for one reason or another. It felt particularly like a cruel twist of fate to see them (him, in this case; it was Victory King, today) on his days off, when he had come somewhere of his own accord, and had every right to be here and to have a nice time, unencumbered by embarrassment.
He had looked over his shoulder a few too many times, paranoid that the other man might be following him (and not just innocently wandering the gallery in the way most people were here), and hyper-aware of where he was, so that even a nearby portrait had remarked upon his behaviour and accused him of being shifty. He had tried burying himself in the book of poetry he was currently translating in the evenings, having hoped some of these paintings might have sparked some correlating inspiration in his word choices – but his eyes kept wandering, and he could have sworn he’d been spotted.
So he had better look occupied, in some way that did not invite any advances, so he couldn’t just keep standing and looking pensively at a painted landscape. There, however, was someone he knew – not particularly well, but well enough from Society. The redheaded Miss Gambol was not much of a catch (theirs was a family who seemed to be sliding down in the world, and not up), but Nick had danced with her on occasion and didn’t despise her, so she would certainly do for now. She was on a bench, glancing up at a painting from time to time, a sketchbook and charcoal in her hand. “Miss Gambol,” he said lightly, as he took the open space beside her on the bench, trying hard to be pleasant so she would not mind his interruption, “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you have – quite the artistic eye.” He sounded almost surprised; but it was a relief to find that he did not even need to lie through his teeth in order to dredge up an actual compliment for her. She did have talent.
He had looked over his shoulder a few too many times, paranoid that the other man might be following him (and not just innocently wandering the gallery in the way most people were here), and hyper-aware of where he was, so that even a nearby portrait had remarked upon his behaviour and accused him of being shifty. He had tried burying himself in the book of poetry he was currently translating in the evenings, having hoped some of these paintings might have sparked some correlating inspiration in his word choices – but his eyes kept wandering, and he could have sworn he’d been spotted.
So he had better look occupied, in some way that did not invite any advances, so he couldn’t just keep standing and looking pensively at a painted landscape. There, however, was someone he knew – not particularly well, but well enough from Society. The redheaded Miss Gambol was not much of a catch (theirs was a family who seemed to be sliding down in the world, and not up), but Nick had danced with her on occasion and didn’t despise her, so she would certainly do for now. She was on a bench, glancing up at a painting from time to time, a sketchbook and charcoal in her hand. “Miss Gambol,” he said lightly, as he took the open space beside her on the bench, trying hard to be pleasant so she would not mind his interruption, “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you have – quite the artistic eye.” He sounded almost surprised; but it was a relief to find that he did not even need to lie through his teeth in order to dredge up an actual compliment for her. She did have talent.
