Oscar insisted I accompany him to a meeting with one of his publishers this afternoon. I asked why, but he only smiled and said, “Because you are my muse, my young lord — they should see you.”
A muse! I am so much more than that. I am a young poetic man who will become a great poet.
He smiled at me in that way of his that always makes me feel both adored and patronised. “Of course, my dear Bosie,” he said, “there is no doubt of it.” But I saw him glance at the mirror — ever the worshipper of his own reflection.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“O’Malley,” Oscar replied, straightening his tie. “A man with more duty than imagination, but he understands figures and editions, which is sometimes enough.” I smiled, though I already disliked him. I knew the type.
“For your sake, my dear,” I said.
He chuckled softly. “For mine, yes — but think of your own as well,” he whispered. “A publisher who likes you can work wonders, even for a proud young lord who believes the world already lies at his feet.”
“Believes?” I echoed. “I know it, Oscar.” He covered a smile with his hand — as if my confidence amused him more than it impressed him.
“Shall we go then?” I said with a grin.
He put on his hat with a flourish and offered me his arm. “After you, my young Apollo,” he said, and I smiled even more. I thought: if the world had more eyes like his, no one would ever misunderstand me.
We took a carriage — it was rather far. The ride was slow through the grimy London streets. Oscar talked endlessly about ancient statues, about poetry and a new play he was planning, but I mostly thought about how I would appear when we arrived.
After fifteen minutes, we were there.
The house was dull — the sort of suffocating office where even the curtains seem written in prose. An older man with a stern expression greeted us. He looked at Oscar first, respectfully, then at me as though I were a frivolous ornament.
“Good day, you must be Mr. O’Malley.”
He nodded stiffly. “Lord Douglas, I presume?” he said, shaking my hand without looking at me. The air turned colder at once.
“Yes, precisely. I come from an old Scottish noble family,” I said, flashing my most charming smile.
He didn’t return it. “And you write poetry, I hear?”
“Not just poetry,” I said, leaning forward so the light fell on my face. “I write truth — in disguise.”
I removed my coat; it was unbearably warm inside. Oscar smiled, proud. O’Malley frowned. “Forgive me,” I said, brushing a hand through my hair, “I cannot bear confined air.”
“He is an excellent poet,” said Oscar.
O’Malley barely looked up. “I don’t doubt it,” he said — though clearly, he did. I felt something burn inside me — a mix of fury and defiance. He will regret that look, I thought.
“Alfred, won’t you show him one of your poems?” Oscar said.
I slowly drew a folded paper from my pocket. “I wrote this last week,” I said. “It’s about the responsibility of beauty — something not everyone here may be familiar with.”
Oscar smiled. “Read, my dear, let him understand what I already know.”
I read. When I finished, silence fell — heavy, deliberate. O’Malley nodded. “Unusual language. Very emotional,” he said, without warmth.
“Thank you,” I said, proudly smiling.
Oscar placed a hand on my shoulder, almost fatherly. “You see, O’Malley,” he said, “youth and genius can be a dangerous combination — but a delightful one.” Yet the publisher’s eyes were already back on his papers.
I looked at him again. He avoided my gaze. He doesn’t understand at all, I thought. He only sees a boy — too sure of himself, too beautiful.
“Would you like to see more poems? I haven’t brought them today, but perhaps we could meet on Wednesday?”
O’Malley smiled thinly. “That might be difficult,” he said. Oscar tried to laugh it off, but something inside me cracked quietly.
He hesitated, glancing at Oscar, who raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see, Lord Douglas,” he replied at last. I smiled again, though it no longer felt real — only like a mask I hadn’t time to remove.
“What do you mean, we’ll see?” I asked.
His face hardened. “I mean we’ll see if time allows, my lord.”
“Time always allows what one wants enough,” I said softly.
I felt Oscar’s hand on my shoulder — light, warning. Calm, my darling.
“Of course,” I said, forcing a smile. “I understand, Mr. O’Malley.” Inside, I was burning.
“Thank you for seeing us,” said Oscar.
O’Malley stood and shook Oscar’s hand — not mine. When the door closed behind us, I said quietly, “What a dreadfully dull man.”
“He’s simply too old to understand your genius,” said Oscar.
I laughed, bitterly. “Yes, and perhaps too cowardly to admit it.”
We stepped out into the cold air, and I felt suddenly lighter — humiliated, yes, but dangerously alive.
