Rain had been worrying the city since dawn. It slicked the cobbles along Tanner Gate and ran black with soot past the bookbinder's lane where Adrian rented his upstairs room. He stood by the narrow window, watching carriage wheels toss water against stone, then returned to the table where his papers lay spread beneath the weak glow of an oil lamp.
At the top of the page, inked in the tidy hand of the St. Aldwych School of Art & Design, was the line that had ruined his sleep:
"For this term, your subject is the intimacy of man and woman; examine the nature of affection between man and woman, not in its vulgar forms, but as it has been exalted in art; the union that has inspired poets to song, painters to canvas, and sometimes, men to ruin. Portray it not as fantasy, but as a truth: fragile, consuming, and utterly human.
Candidates may respond in any approved medium: oil, charcoal series, lyric verse, or combined exhibition. Compulsory for admission to the school. Deadline: submitted before summer."
A year. To impress men who painted saints in gold leaf and women who declared brushstrokes immoral if they dripped.
He stared at the paper for a while before he gave a quiet, tired sigh as he rubbed his face with the heels of his hand.
The mirror beside the oil lamp reflected a lean but not frail figure back at him.
Adrian pushed a loose strand of brown hair back into his bun; charcoal dust clung to his pale skin, damp hair tied back in a careless knot. Beneath the smudges, his grey eyes ringed with exhaustion lingered on the half-finished sketch.
"How did it come to this?" he muttered under his breath. The thought dragged him three weeks back, to when the acceptance letter had arrived. He had celebrated, thinking the hard part was done. He laughed now at that naïve boy who toasted himself on cheap wine, not realizing that the conditional entrance submission would be the real battle. He had already tried arguing with the academy, saying that 'love' was not something he could capture truthfully; 'a fantasy, not a subject.' He had even tried copying the romantic flourishes of older works, only to have them rejected for being hollow.
Adrian exhaled again, a heavy sigh that seemed to dim the flame of the lamp.
He picked up a rag from the table; one that had been used too many times.Leaning close to the mirror,he wiped away the charcoal marks on his cheeks. His skin looked tired beneath the smear of black.
After wiping his face clean and resolute, he stepped into the narrow bathroom, splashed cold water on his face as he made up his mind; he would go to the academy's counselor; to plead, argue, or perhaps beg for a different theme.
Five minutes later, he quickly got dressed. He adjusted his bowtie until it was passable, slipped into his brown coat, and set his flat cap over his neatly combed hair.
Crouching beside his bed, he fetched his favorite polished black leather shoes, sliding them on with practiced haste. Standing again, he paused to check his reflection. Not quite a gentleman; but presentable.
He grabbed the old umbrella-its wooden handle worn smooth from years of use-as he stepped out the door.
The rain greeted him with a chill bite, tapping on the umbrella like restless fingers. The cobblestones gleamed black beneath the lantern light, carriages rolling by with the groan of wet wheels and the sharp clop of horse hooves.
Crossing the street, he narrowly dodged a bicycle and waved down a passing cab.
The driver, a gruff man in a long oilskin coat, reined in his horse and peered down from under his wide-brimmed hat.
"St. Aldwych School, sir?" Adrian called.
The driver nodded. He held two fingers indicating two shillings while using his left hand to hold the rope for the horse.
Adrian nodded; he climbed in, settling onto the worn leather seat as the cab lurched forward. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the city into watery smears; gaslights glowing like halos in the dark. He watched them. His mind a whirl of thoughts, while the wheels splashed through the puddles with a sound like tearing paper.