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Says the man who pressed me against his erection while I was punching him in the mud.
The brother-in-law coughs, then intervenes with clumsy enthusiasm. “But you must admit, sir, that the beauty is indisputable.”
Lord Dorian tightens his jaw slightly.
“If you find beauty in a male body, gentlemen, that is exclusively your affair.”
Julian raises an eyebrow, amused. “Do you not believe a male body can be just as delightful as the rest?”
I back away two steps, their dispute becomes a perfect curtain behind which to vanish.
Count Nádasdy emerges from the back of the room, a silver candelabra held at chest height. The flames flicker as he advances, casting shadows over his hollowed face.
“Gentlemen... ladies.”
His voice slides over the murmur.
“The exhibition is ready. I shall not hide my impatience to present the new works of Monsieur Cendre d’Enfer. Please, follow me.”
He tilts his head slightly and makes a sweeping motion with his other hand. Two waiters, already waiting, move in unison.
The heavy black velvet curtains are drawn back. The fabric slides with a soft rustle, revealing an opening I hadn’t noticed before.
A dark passage, slowly brightened by the candles in the room beyond.
The people around me move, drawn like moths to a dangerous flame, masks, feathers, jewels.
I remain still for a moment, my sight captured by the opening as if it were an eye watching me.
I feel a brush against my elbow—someone passing too close, impatient—and that slight pressure sets me in motion.
I reach the entrance of the adjoining room. Inside, the paintings of Cendre d’Enfer await us.
The light, colder now, draws sharp outlines on the still-covered canvases. And I realize that whatever is about to show itself, it will not be simple art.
It will be something else.
Something that claims to look inside the one who looks.
11
Piété Profane
Evander
Deep red damask surrounds me completely, appearing to pulse beneath the light of the candelabras.
I take a few steps into the hall, the further I venture, the more the black motifs on the walls seem to move like slithering snakes.
The murmur of the masked guests enters my ears, every word deforming and bouncing off the walls. Count Nádasdy places himself at the center of the room, looking at his guests as he raises a black-gloved hand. The men from before, wearing white crow masks, advance toward the paintings. In an instant, the dark purple velvet veils fall in unison, sliding to the floor with a dull thud. A light cloud of dust rises.
My heartbeat quickens, I hold my breath so as not to betray myself, but... I cannot tear my eyes away from the painting before me. On the easel beside it rests a card with red ink so intense it stings the eyes.
L’Extase du Martyre
I advance hesitantly, the skin of my fingertips prickling slightly at the sight of the young martyr curving before me, bound, suspended in an anguish that vibrates between pleasure and pain.
His arms, open and arched, defy all decency; his pale skin reflects the candelabras, and the blood flows, glossy, the light making it shine as if it were liquid gold.
