"By hiring someone skilled in the production of wax models," he says, a teasing glint in his eye. The thrill of all this -- and the dark of the room, which obscures Watson's face -- is doing much for his nerves; he can almost pretend there's nothing wrong here, can almost pretend that they are as they were. Watson's astonishment is a welcome sound, and he revels in it.

"Convincing, isn't it? I confess it was a bit complicated, considering we couldn't get an exact mold of you without alerting you to something strange. My brother is a odd man, but if he'd come asking to have a bust made of you, I imagine you would be a little curious as to why."

He turns back to Watson and realizes he's still touching his back. He can't regret it; in this moment, he can't regret anything so wonderful as touching Watson's back again. He even presses his palm flatter against him before he draws it away.

"Would you like to be rid of that makeup now?" he asks, voice more gentle than it had been, without the edge of his excitement.