['Play me a nocturne.' Dorian covers his ears with his hands. He can hear it so perfectly. 'But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play' . . . Harry's voice is so beautiful, so like a song, and these melancholy notes are never going to get out of his head.]

Yes. [Eyes shut, Dorian swallows as quietly as he can.] It's finely crafted, I'm sure she'll accept it. Anyone would.

['We must always be friends.']

[Dorian exhales. Though his voice is light and pretty now, where Harry's is deep and rich, when Dorian speaks, there is an echo of the song that Harry is playing.] Come to me before you do. We'll have dinner. I have a piano—let me play you something first.