"Sorry, but I feel like I'm tied up in knots!"

Faraday threw his charcoal into the wooden bowl at his elbow and sat back, brow wrinkled in frustration. "I thought you said you could sit still."

"I have been sitting still - for hours," Dorian complained. Breaking his pose, he stretched his long denim-clad legs out and tugged at the collar of the worn shirt he was wearing. "I'm not used to this. How do models stand it for hours on end?"

Sighing loudly, Faraday stood up. "It's all right, lad. I know you haven't done this before. Professional models learn how to relax and stay still. You just haven't got the knack yet. Go on, get up and walk around for a while."

Glad to be able to move freely, Dorian stood up and stretched elaborately. "Can I see what you're drawing?"

"Yes, if you like." Faraday walked over to the kitchen nook in the corner of the studio to fill the kettle.

Dorian came around behind the easel. There were some full-length sketches showing him looking awkward and angular, and some that concentrated on his bent knees, or his hands, or the angle of his head and neck.

Faraday watched him take it all in. "You're a different physical type from what I had in mind. I'm having to do some adjusting. Tea?"

"No, thanks." Dorian came over and poured himself a glass of water.

Faraday opened the refrigerator and lifted the milk jug out. "The painting I'm working on's a commissioned piece. It's going to hang in the foyer of a town hall somewhere in the midlands."

Surprise rounded Dorian's eyes. "I didn't think you did commissions."

"How would you know that?"

"I read an interview you did, where you said you hated creating art to order."

"So I do. Sometimes, though, you've got to pay the bills. High ideals can be costly." Faraday poured boiling water on his tea bag. "The concept was interesting, and they gave me free rein with the interpretation. It's a series of panels showing the social impact of the rise and fall of the industrial economy. Right now, you're my model for ‘Disenfranchisement.'" He put the milk back in the fridge. "You're the wrong physical type, though. Disenfranchisement's not supposed to be physically attractive."

Curious to know more, Dorian said, "Do you always work from live models, or do you sometimes paint from your imagination?"

"Varies. Live models help you bring something real to your work."

"Real?"

"Imperfection. The odd quirks of posture or form; their lack of symmetry; the way a model's feelings influence their physical presence. Stops you from drifting into depicting an ideal. People's idiosyncracies are far more interesting than perfection. Working from life makes you capture that in all its irregularity."

Dorian hadn't ever thought about that. The idea appealed to him.

"That's why I'm having trouble with you as a model," Faraday said. "Too graceful for what I need. Still, you're here, and you've agreed to do the job, so I'll make do. Come on, back to work."

For the next hour, Faraday made Dorian shift around into different postures while he sketched, frowning and grumbling. Moving around made the job easier, but Dorian was still glad when they finished up for the morning.

Faraday seemed dissatisfied with his work.

"Not your fault, lad. You're just the wrong choice for what I've been trying to do. I think I'll try some sketches for one of the other panels tomorrow. ‘Aspiration', or ‘Nostalgia', maybe. Your physical type's probably more suited to those." Faraday watched Dorian stretching and bending, pulling the tightness out of his muscles. "So, will you be ready for another three hours of sitting still tomorrow, Dorian Red?"

"Of course. That's what we agreed."

Together, they descended the bare, narrow stairs to the kitchen, where they shared a meal and Dorian questioned Faraday about the work he was creating.

In every interview Dorian had ever read, Faraday had given spiky, cantankerous answers to the interviewers' questions. Now, sitting at his own table, he talked about his work with an enthusiasm and intensity that thrilled Dorian. He talked about his thought processes, how he'd refined his ideas to fit the brief he was given, how he chose or rejected the possible ways he could represent his ideas.

Dorian learned more about Cameron Faraday's work in that hour than he had in all the thousands of words he'd read. That conversation convinced Dorian he'd done the right thing in coming here.