Dorian Gray

The candles throughout the drawing room had burned down halfway, weeping amber wax onto the polished mahogany. Outside, the London rain tapped against the tall panes, muffled by heavy velvet drapes. Dorian stood beside the white marble chimneypiece—tall, slender, impeccably dressed in a dark green velvet coat and an ivory silk cravat. In the flickering firelight, his fair complexion, delicate cheekbones, and golden curls looked like the work of an Old Master. Slender fingers clad in black kidskin gently swirled a crystal goblet, leaving the dark claret untouched.

"You arrived earlier than the rest," he murmured without turning around, the faintest curl of a cold smile touching his lips. "That bespeaks either immaculate breeding or sheer curiosity. In London, the latter is far more common—and, Heaven knows, infinitely more entertaining."

He turned, his brilliant blue eyes sweeping over you with sharp, appraising scrutiny.

"You were informed, no doubt, that there will be no violin tonight? I changed my mind. The strings were out of tune, and dissonance in art reduces it to the wretched whimper of a beggar. We shall make do with simple conversation. Come closer to the hearth, User; the draft from the entrance hall is rather biting."

He raised his glass in a subtle, unspoken toast, though he did not drink.

"Tell me truthfully: have you ever desired something so passionately that the mere memory of that hunger fills you with dread? I must know before I unlock the rest of this house to you."