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“Calm down, Dorian.”

“Fuck—!”

I bring a hand to my head, sighing, palm pressing against my hair to squeeze away the irritation. The wound stings a bit.

Lucien approaches and places a hand on my shoulder.

“You are too tense, little brother. You’ve had much to bear these last few days.”

“In other words, I’m about to go mad.”

“No,” he counters with a smile. “You just need... a diversion.”

I lower my hand and stare at him.

“A diversion?”

“Exactly.” He reaches out and snatches the handkerchief from my fingers.

“What the dev—”

“Whatever this is,” he interrupts, “put it aside for a moment.”

He deposits the handkerchief into one of the desk drawers.

I try to grab it again, but Lucien shakes his head.

“Listen to me, you need a bit of distraction. All this accumulated tension is consuming you.”

I lean back against the chair, my shoulders relaxing grudgingly.

“Let’s go to Le Rêve.”

I shake my head slightly, perplexed, while my thoughts run elsewhere.

“Free the body and the mind will follow,” he insists.

Perhaps he is right.

After all, my own lust has been the detonator for certain... unwanted impulses.

“Ah,” he adds, curiosity in his eyes. “Coming in here, I noticed a sculpture covered by a cloth in your atelier. What are you working on? Miss Wood said you’ve been spending all your nights in there recently.”

I stiffen imperceptibly. “Nothing, Lucien.”

This torment has to end.

I stand up, back straight and chin slightly lifted.

“Le Rêve, then.”

We move through the narrow corridors, smothered by green velvet and heavy curtains that swallow every sound of Le Rêve. The stairs, covered in the same fabric, muffle our footsteps. The smell of fine tobacco, brandy, and absinthe hits me as soon as I enter, mingled with the penetrating scents of jasmine and amber.

Lucien precedes me by half a step, the light is low, red on the glass lamps and yellow on scattered candles. The bar takes up half a wall: framed mirrors, bottles everywhere, glasses shimmering like crystal. The rest is an ordered chaos of velvet sofas, low tables, and bodies that do not care about being watched.

A man with white gloves grips the naked wrist of a boy laughing as if he were immune to shame. A bit further on, a woman in a corset drinks absinthe with an elegance so studied it’s indecent, while two foreign fingers slide up her inner thigh. Behind a slightly parted brocade curtain, a couple moves with no intention of hiding.

Nothing surprises me.