Chapter 2

Kurt ducked behind a tree and stood there for a moment, willing his heartbeat to slow from the rapid tempo it had begun beating out the moment Blaine had introduced himself in the lobby. His breathing came in short bursts and his palms were damp with sweat.

It wasn't rare for Kurt to be intrigued by a person of society; it had happened to him before, but it was unnerving to be so utterly fixated on a person whom he had just met — and a young man at that. What about Blaine Anderson had him so captivated?

Kurt stayed there, hidden in the shadows, watching Blaine for a moment. Even in the dark, he could see that Blaine's eyes lingered on the path where Kurt had retreated, and his posture shrunk ever so slightly once he was alone. As Kurt watched, Blaine tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, hands shoved far down into his pockets. Distance prevented certainty, but to Kurt's gaze it appeared as though a smile of contentment was playing across Blaine's lips.

It made Kurt smile as well. He could still imagine the soft twinkle in Blaine's eyes as they had talked, the moonlight reflected in the sheen of his carefully styled hair. It was new and frightening, but somehow, it was also as if Kurt was truly seeing the world for the first time, his heart unfurling before him.

He simply wanted to stand on the spot and stare at Blaine for as long as his conscience would permit, but Blaine didn't dally for long. Soon his long, confident strides, which made him look taller than his stature should have allowed, were carrying him swiftly in Kurt's direction. Kurt pressed his body tightly against the tree, hoping he would blend further into the shadows and avoid being seen as Blaine made his way back through the carriage way and up the back stairs into the lobby.

When he was sure Blaine had gone, he stepped out from behind the tree and dusted his waistcoat off with his hands, hoping he hadn't stained the white silk.

When he reentered the hotel, the vast lobby looked different somehow, as if the gold shone more brightly and the deep mahogany of the wood had been freshly polished. It was as if everything had changed in the span of twenty minutes, and yet he knew that couldn't be true.

As Kurt made his way back to the fourth floor suite he shared with his father, he took in the distinct beauty of the hotel, winding his way down corridors he hadn't yet used and admiring the craftsmanship of every detail.

He noticed that the lower floors seemed to have more artwork on the walls, and the upper corridors were slightly narrower and the air was more stifling than it was below, but Kurt didn't care. He loved this place. It represented everything he wanted out of life — money, influence, prestige, affluence, power — everything Blaine Anderson had.

Still, he couldn't help but notice that the division of class in the hotel paralleled the inequities of the real world. Such gorgeous artwork and detail, all color and light, was only to be viewed and admired. If one wanted to actually live amid the beauty itself, a higher price must be paid.

Kurt wondered if that was why he had felt so drawn to Blaine, with his dark hair and olive-toned skin and those wide, amber-colored eyes that had twinkled in the glow of the lobby lights earlier. He was a representation, that was all. He was the personification of something that Kurt had desired his entire life, and Blaine was welcoming him into it with open arms. What he was feeling had nothing to do with the way his lips seemed to curl around his cigarette as if he were caressing a lover, and absolutely nothing at all do with the way Kurt couldn't stop picturing it.

He tried to shove his unwanted thoughts into the same dark corner of his mind where he hid the memories of other men's smiles and the stirrings he felt while reading The Portrait of Dorian Gray. He had no desire to embarrass his father by acting on a silly, childish and completely inappropriate impulse. Blaine had simply shown him a kindness, knowing he was new among this crowd, and he should be grateful; not mooning over the man like a besotted schoolgirl. He envied the man's position in society; nothing more.

Besides, there was so much here to occupy his thoughts anyway.

When Kurt had arrived in St. Augustine just three days ago, he had rapidly fallen in love with the lavish lifestyle of the hotel's guests and the simple quaintness of the town and its people. A carriage had met them at the station, and Kurt was elated. It all felt so regal, so unlike everything to which he was accustomed.

Back in New York, he and his father had recently landed themselves just on the cusp of this society thanks to Burt's connections with Mr. Edison's growing company. But they were still outsiders looking in, and Kurt wanted to change that.

Kurt had grown up wanting for nothing of the basics; he had food on the table each night and clothes on his back, but the finer things continued to elude him. He wanted so much more.

And the Ponce, with its gold-leaf murals and ornate wood carvings had him enraptured. He never wanted to leave, especially not now that he had a way in, a person to ease his connections to the more wealthy families. He knew who Blaine Anderson was; he had memorized every name on the New York Social Register almost as soon as he could read. The Anderson home on 38th Street was one of Kurt's favorites. As much as he loved the larger, more lavish mansions of the Carnegies, Vanderbilts and Rockefellers — even Mr. Flagler's home was immense — the slightly smaller homes that lined the streets just off Fifth Avenue were where Kurt aspired to be.

No, this trip was fate. Kurt knew he was meant to be here, and he intended to make the most of it.

He slowly made his way down the second floor corridor and stopped to look at every piece of artwork along the way, trying desperately to soak it all in, memorize every detail.

Lingering on the landing to the third floor, he found himself in front of a large painting of a Grecian woman, draped in pink satin and surrounded by lush topiary. It had quickly become his favorite because the angle of her brow and the soft smile on her lips reminded Kurt of his mother. He longed to climb into the painting and tell her about his good fortune, about the long train ride in an actual Pullman car. He would tell her about all the important connections he was making and how he hoped to design gowns for some of these women next season. She would pet his hair and tell him how proud she was of her talented son, and he would show her his sketches and read passages from their favorite books, and everything would be as it was.

The false memory hurt, and his heart hung heavy in the knowledge of what had transpired to get them here, to this place, to give him the chance to be received in the sitting rooms of New York society — her death.

Kurt was well aware how misfortune had shaped his life, and so he never allowed himself the indulgence of happiness for too long. His mother had represented the last hope he had of becoming more than he had been born to, until this trip. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was sure to come along soon and spoil it all. That was always the way, wasn't it? The instant he had a moment's joy, it was snatched from him like a spiteful sibling stealing his favorite toy.

When he was six, he had just made his first friend in school when his father announced they were leaving Ohio for New York. That was where all the good jobs were for an engineer; so they left. And of course, when Kurt announced he wanted to apprentice with a tailor, his father looked so disappointed that his son didn't want to be a mechanic or inventor, and they never spoke of it directly. Kurt suspected his mother had something to do with Burt's eventual concession, allowing his son to pursue his dream at the expense of his pride. In fact, Kurt had just gotten an apprenticeship with a master tailor when his mother fell ill.

Consumption wasn't rare, but it was had still been unexpected in someone as vivacious as Elizabeth Hummel, and Kurt's father was in denial for much of the time she was bedridden.

Kurt sighed and smiled at the woman in the painting. He resisted the urge to say goodnight to her, and made his way back to his room, taking the last flight of stairs slowly, as he tried to compose himself.

He opened the door to find his father at the desk in the sitting room, writing a letter. Burt Hummel looked more at-ease than he had in months, and Kurt hoped that wouldn't change when they returned to New York.

When Elizabeth had first taken sick, Burt couldn't cope with the looming specter of her failing health, so he had thrown himself into his work, leaving Kurt, himself only 17 years old at the time, to look after his ailing mother. When she passed peacefully in her sleep just nine months ago, Burt fell into a deep depression that forced him only deeper into his work. So Kurt was happy to see him looking like a bit of his old demeanor had returned.

"Good evening, Kurt," his father greeted him. "How was your stroll?"

"It was nice," Kurt replied. "I think I made a business connection."

His father's pen stilled and he glanced up over the edge of his spectacles at his son. "Oh?" he inquired. Removing his reading glasses, Burt waited for his son to elaborate, raising an eyebrow in a manner that Kurt had inherited. If one were to erase the years from Burt's friendly features, there was a strong resemblance between them, and even more so these days given that Burt's usually full face had slowly thinned over the past few months. Even so, he had lost none of his warmth, and he looked genuinely happy to see his son in a good mood.

"Yes, sir. Blaine Anderson," he said. "He invited me sailing tomorrow."

"Dr. Anderson's grandson," Burt said, nodding slowly. "The Barrows were talking about him. I hear he's staying the season to find a young woman to take as a wife."

"He didn't mention that," Kurt said, swallowing heavily. Blaine hadn't said anything of the sort, even when Kurt had revealed his engagement to Rachel, but he wasn't surprised. It wasn't uncommon for a man of Blaine's age and standing to be in search of a match, but it hurt more than Kurt expected. "He is a handsome man, though. I'm sure he'll have his pick of the eligible young ladies here."

"From what I hear, he's a bit of a cad," Burt said. "His mother is having a devil of a time getting him to face responsibility and settle down."

"Maybe he's just picky," Kurt said, repeating Blaine's words from earlier. "He has a right to be." He had no idea why he was defending this man to his father. He barely knew Blaine.

"He should be worried about fulfilling his obligations to his family," Burt said, the words stinging Kurt's heart. He knew his father was disappointed in his career choice, even if he never said it.

"Maybe he wants to marry for love," Kurt wondered aloud.

"The rich don't marry for love," Burt replied, returning to his letter. "I've tried to tell you that."

"I would imagine some do," Kurt said, loosening his tie and walking toward the bedroom. "Mr. Anderson struck me as the romantic type. Maybe he's different than the others."

Kurt hoped it was true. Something about Blaine seemed... special. Like maybe he could set the world spinning with just the warmth of his smile, or perhaps the sparkle in his honeyed eyes could light the night sky like the twinkle of a million stars.

"Maybe he's exactly like the others," Burt said.

Kurt stood in the doorway to the sitting room, his waistcoat only half unbuttoned as he felt his entire body tense up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

His father's face softened.

"I just want you to be careful, Kurt. I know you think being a part of high society will solve all your problems, but I think you'll find for every woe you retire, you will find five more to take its place."

Kurt leaned on the door frame, considering his father's words.

"I'm only going sailing," Kurt said. "I don't think he's the second coming of the Lord Savior."

"Kurt, I won't have you saying such blasphemous things. If your mother, God rest her, knew what-"

"I'm sorry, Father," Kurt said. He wasn't religious himself, but his mother had been, and he wanted to honor her memory. "I only meant that I'm not expecting Blaine Anderson or anyone else to do the work for me. I will find my place in their world, but I'm going to do it on my own merit."

Burt stood up and walked over to his son, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. They both knew how important proper connections could be; when Mr. Ford had learned of Burt's situation, he had encouraged the men to take a trip, offering to set up something for them at a place they could scarcely afford and foot the bill, provided that when they returned both Hummel men would set to work helping him on his inventions.

"I just don't want you to get disappointed if people aren't what you think," Burt said.

"I won't," Kurt promised. "It's just nice to have a friend, and you know as well as I do that you have to make friends with these people if you want to be a part of it all."

He looked down at the buttons of his waistcoat, noting a few threads poking out of one buttonhole. He'd need to mend it before dinner the next night. He had only one suit formal enough for dinner at the Ponce, and it had been a hand-me-down from Rachel's father's closet. He'd had to tailor it extensively just to get it to fit right, and he couldn't afford to have it fall apart now.

"I know you've been lonely since your mother died," Burt said. "And with Rachel back in New York, I'm happy you have someone close to you own age to talk to. Just... be careful, son. Not everyone in this world is as kind-hearted as you."

"You don't think I know that?" Kurt said, the words feeling like poison on his lips. He'd been tormented and teased his entire life, and when he wasn't being attacked by his classmates for his high-pitched voice or his affinity for delicate things, he was looking for a way out — a way to prove them all wrong — and his father knew it.

Burt released a heavy, ragged breath. He knew Kurt was finished discussing the matter, and Kurt was grateful. He gave his father a half-hearted smile as he retreated to his room to resumed undressing, his thoughts wandering back to Blaine.

He wondered if the young bachelor truly was being picky or if he had other reasons for not being married at his age. He was obviously a few years older than Kurt and knew what was expected of him. Perhaps he simply enjoyed being a bachelor. Kurt could understand that; there were times he wished he hadn't proposed marriage to Rachel. Maybe he'd be freer that way, able to travel and see the famous paintings and monuments of Europe. He could easily live off what he made sketching while he tried to make his way through the world, and then maybe one day he could settle down and start his own business designing gowns or working as a personal tailor to someone high up in society.

But he had promised Rachel, and he did love her. He didn't think he could stand watching her lose her place in society if she never married. So they had promised each other and planned. Kurt would marry Rachel and she would use her position to secure him a job with a tailor. Kurt would learn from the best, and as a married woman, Rachel would be allowed to do as she pleased, mostly.

"... letter from Rachel."

Kurt shook his head, realizing he had been daydreaming.

"I beg your pardon?" Kurt called.

He turned to see his father in the doorway.

"I said, you have a letter from Rachel," his father repeated, gesturing over his left shoulder. "It's on the desk. I'm going to retire for the evening."

"Good night," Kurt said, and watched his father cross the dimly lit sitting room. When he heard the door to his father's room click shut, he went to the desk and retrieved Rachel's letter. He held it to his nose, inhaling the faint scent of Rachel's perfume, the familiar sweetness reminding him of her warm brown eyes and bright, cheery smile. She would like Blaine. Maybe she already knew him. Kurt tore into the letter excitedly. He unfolded the thick paper and saw Rachel's familiar looping script.

My Dearest Kurt,

It seems like weeks since I last saw you. Mother says I shouldn't tell you I miss you in my very first letter, but I don't care. I miss you, and I know that you miss me.

Oh that reminds me, I saw a gorgeous watercolor silk yesterday in a shop window and thought of you. I just know you would have a dozen designs for me by midday with hats and gloves to match.

I hope your father is feeling better and the sunshine is bringing some color back to his face. See that he eats his fill of the decadent food, and I promise to help you let out his trousers upon your return.

I look forward to your first letter but will keep writing you each day until I receive it – even if mother chastises me for being too forward. If I can't write my best friend and fiancé, then who can I write?

Yours,
Rachel

He folded the letter and returned it to its jasmine-scented envelope. He was lucky to be marrying his oldest and dearest friend, even if she was a tad dramatic.

When they had moved to New York in Kurt's childhood, he was promised a better life, but Rachel Berry had been the only one to befriend him. Even so, he and Rachel — whose Jewish heritage subjected her family to scrutiny despite being on the social register — were teased mercilessly by their wealthier and more established classmates.

By the time they left school, though, Rachel had become an accomplished young singer who frequently got invited to posh social gatherings in New York. Although it didn't matter to her or Kurt, they both knew Rachel was often invited simply to share her voice with the guests. Her vocal talents were lauded by people who could barely tolerate Rachel otherwise, and she knew it. Kurt admired her for how little it seemed to bother her, and he appreciate that once she and Kurt had become betrothed, he was able to accompany her to the gatherings, designing elaborate gowns for her that were beginning to draw some attention. It wasn't perfect, but it was a foot in the door.

As he turned Rachel's letter over in his hands, Kurt longed to return to New York and set to work dressing her for the spring season. He had so many ideas inspired by his trip to Florida.

He pulled out a sheet of ivory paper and took the lid off the ink, dipping the tip of his pen in the well.

My Darling,

I miss you as well. Tell your mother I was not at all scandalized by your forwardness, and I'll still have your hand.

Florida is surprisingly hot for early January. You'd love the smell of the orange blossoms in the evening, and the night-blooming jasmine – ah Heaven! My only regret is that you are not here to share it with me, my love. The gowns are exquisite, but I could design better, and you would put the hotel's soloist to shame.

I'm going sailing tomorrow with Mr. Blaine Anderson (son of Dr. Anderson on 38th). Do you know him? He could be a good connection — his grandfather is Mr. Flagler's dear friend. I'll find out all I can and share the details. I'm sure I'll receive another letter from you before you receive this, but know I'm thinking of you always and will write as often as I can.

Yours affectionately,
Kurt

Kurt folded the letter and placed it on the table to post in the morning before checking the fire to make sure it was low enough to leave unattended and retreating to his room.

That night, he slept fitfully, his mind a torrent of thoughts of amber and honey beneath rolling waves of ebony curls scented with the soft breeze between the orange trees. By next morning at breakfast, Kurt's mind was spinning, wondering if he had imagined it all.

"What do you know of Blaine Anderson?" Kurt asked Mrs. Barrow, hoping he sounded casual even as he felt a keen anticipation tightening in his chest. He took a deep breath and smiled at her pleasantly as he waited for her response.

"I hear his mother sent him here to find a wife. I suspect he'll be engaged before the season's over," she said.

"That quickly?"

"Oh, a handsome man like that?" she said, laughing at Kurt's question. "I'm surprised he's lasted this long. He was all the young ladies could talk about last night after dinner."

"I heard he's exceedingly picky," Kurt said.

"I think perhaps he's a bit Bohemian," Mr. Barrow sneered.

That piqued Kurt's interest. "How so?"

"That's not appropriate discussion in front of the ladies," Mr. Barrow replied, spearing a bite of ham on his fork.

Kurt tried to hide his frustration behind his coffee cup as he sipped. His belly felt like an upset beehive on the inside, and black coffee was the only thing he could stomach.

"I hear his grandfather is a close, personal friend of Mr. Flagler," Mrs. Barrow offered.

"He is," Mr. Barrow replied. "Andrew Anderson used to own the very land this hotel is standing on."

"And I heard," Mrs. Barrow gushed, gripping Kurt's sleeve dramatically, "that our young Mr. Anderson might be considering Lucy Fabray. Can't you just imagine the gorgeous hazel-green eyes on their babies?" She clapped a hand to her chest and sighed.

"Emily!"

"Oh, I'm finished, John," she said to her husband. "I'll stop scandalizing the table with talk of such horrible things as eye color."

Emily Barrow had that keen knack for using her words to cut through her husband without compromising her ladylike poise or her gentle smile. Kurt resisted the urge to laugh and instead whispered conspiratorially, "I am meeting 'our young Mr. Anderson' for sailing later. I shall unearth all the good gossip for you, my dear Mrs. Barrow."

Kurt could hear Burt's low chuckle over Mr. Barrow's disapproving grumbles. He knew his father didn't care about gossip, but he genuinely enjoyed seeing John Barrow squirm. The two had never gotten along, Mr. Barrow making it clear he was unhappy about being seated with the Hummels for the entirety of the season, but Kurt could tell from looking around the dining room on a regular basis that there wasn't much rhyme or reason to the seating arrangements at the tables in their section. It was clear that this was merely where they placed all the guests who had the less expensive rooms. John Barrow was fooling no one. Everyone knew he had lost most of his fortune in the stock market two years ago, but he liked to pretend he still had the same place among high society he had always held.

The conversation waned after that, Mr. Barrow tossing sharp looks at his wife every few minutes while she prattled on about the comings and goings of various guests. Kurt pretended to listen, but his eyes roved the dining room for a glimpse of Blaine. He knew that the Andersons were playing golf, and with Dr. Anderson living next door, it was unlikely that they would take their breakfast at the hotel, but that didn't stop him from hoping.

The string quartet playing in the balcony started a new song that drew Kurt's attention immediately. It felt jubilant and optimistic, and it perfectly mimicked his mood. The soaring notes danced around in his head as he sipped his coffee. It was as if that morning were a fresh beginning on Kurt's life, and he couldn't quite pinpoint why. His mother would have called it a sign from the heavens, a signal that Kurt should let the light in, bask in its warmth and allow the sun to shine on him. It felt like forever since he had let himself indulge like that. When had something so ordinary started to feel like an indulgence?

He was momentarily struck with the thought that Blaine should hear this piece. Should he ask the quartet what it was? He and Blaine hadn't even discussed music; he just had a feeling the man would enjoy it.

"Kurt, I'm going for a walk," Burt said when the Barrows had finally left and the coffee had gone cold. "Did you want to join me?"

He was so lost in the melody that he had missed the Barrows' exit as well as the waiter's final pass with fresh coffee. He looked down at the dregs in his cup and decided he would have to make do with just the one cup today.

"I think I'd rather read my book," he said. "You go on ahead, and I'll catch up with you before dinner."

Burt smiled warmly and nodded before turning to go. Kurt watched him retreat through the dining room entrance and as he got farther away, he grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared around a corner.

As a child, Kurt had always been fascinated by how large his father seemed, a giant who could protect him from the world, but as he himself grew taller, Kurt realized his father was mere mortal and only of average build. It was like watching someone walk slowly away from you toward the horizon, until they gradually slipped away. His mother had done that — seemed larger than life and then not, until she was but a speck on the horizon and then one day... gone.

He glanced out the brightly lit stained-glass windows to his right, the beauty of the day beckoning him to befriend it, and suddenly had an idea. Kurt craned his neck, hoping to spot a waiter or other attendant. There were several milling about, waiting for tables to clear, but none nearby, and it wasn't really appropriate for Kurt to approach them. His eyes raked the soiled table, wondering if he could make a sound loud enough to attract attention — or perhaps if he dropped a knife. Last night at dinner a woman two tables over had dropped a spoon and three waiters had rushed to her side: one to replace the spoon, another to clean up any mess and a third to ask her if she needed anything else.

Just as his hand closed around a dirty butter knife, their waiter stopped at a neighboring table to drop off a fresh pot of coffee. When he passed close enough, Kurt gestured for him to stop.

"Yes, Mr. Hummel?" he asked, not making direct eye contact. It still unnerved Kurt, the extreme formality of the hotel staff, but he tried not to let it show.

"I was wondering if there was a way for me to get some things from the kitchen for a picnic lunch," he said. "Some bread and cheese perhaps – a little bit of wine?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I'll talk to the maître d' and send word to your room," the waiter said.

"Thank you," Kurt replied. He pushed his chair away from the table and tossed his napkin next to his plate. He straightened his checked waistcoat and stretched his legs, feeling stiff from sitting so long. It was still quite early and he needed to find something to occupy his time before meeting up with Blaine, otherwise his own thoughts – and nerves – would drive him absolutely mad.

The choice was made for him, however, when he spotted a bellhop carrying a large, framed painting of a marsh scene out of the parlor. He followed a plump matron up the stairs toward the guest rooms and disappeared out of sight.

Kurt took a right out of the dining room toward the brightly lit parlor and found that several of the hotel's artists had displayed their work in the room's open space. The contrast of newly realized artwork with the luxurious murals of the ceilings was overwhelming, as was the flurry of activity in the room's three sections.

The artists' studios at the Ponce were one of the highlights of visiting St. Augustine because several accomplished painters had taken up residence there and on Friday evenings opened their studios for guests to peruse and purchase one-of-a-kind pieces. But during the day, the artists displayed their artwork in the parlor, showing off their talents as well as their salesmanship.

Kurt stopped at the first grouping of paintings, a series of still lifes that looked as if they might jump from their canvases thanks to the realism in both color and light. He'd heard that Martin Heade's studies of flowers weren't to be missed. He assumed it best to start there and work his way through all of the displays until it was nearly time for him to meet Blaine.

As he approached, he noticed Mr. Heade was busy showing a painting to an older couple, both dressed in dark grey, and sharing the same pinched expression. Kurt didn't see them as the artistic type; he suspected they were buying art because it was the fashionable thing to do. He snorted to himself. People really didn't know what beauty they missed when they bypassed the arts in favor of impressing their friends.

Kurt crossed to the opposite side of the room to browse the paintings hung on the wall there — also Mr. Heade's — and stopped in front of a deeply colored canvas with a vibrant white flower sitting nestled on a blue velvet cloth. It looked as if he could reach through the frame and touch its lush petals. Kurt shoved his hands deeper into his pockets to resist the urge. He tilted his head to one side and studied the fine brush strokes, the lifelike highlights on the leaves and the deep azure of the velvet.

"It's gorgeous," he said to no one.

"Mr. Heade is a talented painter," a voice beside him said. Kurt startled at the sound, turning to find a man with a long, scraggly beard standing a few inches away, his attention steadfastly on the same painting that Kurt was studying. When Kurt didn't respond, the man continued in a muddled accent, "See the way the he paints every detail as if there were no other truth than that?"

Kurt looked back at the painting and considered the man's words. The painting was quite detailed, but it was this bearded man that intrigued him, rather than the painting itself.

"It's a magnolia, right?" Kurt asked. He had seen the white blossoms on the trees that lined some of the lawns in St. Augustine when they first arrived and had immediately inquired as to their name.

The bearded man nodded. "Did you know that magnolias are considered a symbol of beauty and perseverance?" he said. "The magnolia tree is actually an evergreen. It never completely sheds its leaves."

"It's so beautiful," Kurt said, "for something so resilient." Forgetting himself, he reached up as if he could feel the velvety petals of the white flower through the canvas and pulled his hand away at the last second.

"Well, why should the two be mutually exclusive?" the man asked. "Magnolias are a beautiful fragrant flower that can survive the extreme heat and unpredictable cold of the Florida climate. It's probably why they've been associated with nobility and dignity, even sweetness and a love of nature... all things that don't necessarily go together, but describe the bloom nonetheless."

Kurt took in the man's dress and noticed he was wearing a painter's smock of his own. "Are you a painter?" he asked.

"I am," the man responded. "Felix de Crano. I'm in studio number one."

"Mr. de Crano, I've heard your name mentioned. Your watercolors are the talk amongst the ladies at dinner."

"You're staying at the hotel, then."

"Yes, I am." He held out a hand. "I'm Kurt Hummel."

Mr. de Crano accepted Kurt's hand with a firm shake and returned his attention to the painting.

"Do you ever paint florals, Mr. de Crano?" Kurt asked.

"Please call me Felix," he said. "And I prefer landscapes, sometimes people... much less complex than flowers."

"People are less complex than flowers?" Kurt said, raising an eyebrow.

"Some are, yes." Felix nodded at the grey couple talking to Mr. Heade and gave Kurt a knowing look.

"I see what you mean," Kurt said, stifling a laugh.

"Kurt Hummel, I like you," the artist said, grinning broadly and revealing a row of uneven, uncared for teeth. It ordinarily might have bothered him, but for whatever reason, Kurt was endeared to this man, and his haggard appearance only added to that. "Would you like to see my paintings?"

Kurt followed Mr. de Crano to his display and marveled at the volume of work this man had accumulated. His watercolors were of a simpler style than Mr. Heade's work, but nonetheless beautiful.

There were a dozen or more landscapes, the city's fort, the city gates, deep, romantic sunsets, the island and bay, moss-covered trees, orchards, birds. It was all there. He came to rest in front of a colorful painting of a street scene, the familiarity of which had already ingrained itself into Kurt's permanent memory.

"You like that one?" Felix asked.

Kurt nodded slowly, unwilling or unable to look away, he was unsure of which. The moss hanging on the trees, shading the heavily rutted dirt of King Street looked all at once foreign and exactly like home. The spire of the Cordova hotel could be seen in the distance peeking out from behind the thick greenery. Kurt could feel the shade of the canopy and smell the orange and magnolia blossoms as if he were standing right there.

It was the route they had taken from the train station four days ago, and Kurt was enthralled by every brush stroke.

"Sometimes what we see and what we're able to express through our art are so different and yet exactly the same, no?"

Kurt wasn't sure what the painter meant, but he nodded his agreement anyway. He didn't want to seem unsure or ignorant in front of this man, who so obviously had an incomparable talent.

"I wish I could paint what I see in such a manner," Kurt said.

"Are you an artist, my young Kurt?"

"I'd never insult a talent such as yourself by claiming the title," he said. "I design ladies dresses and sketch a little." He dismissed the notion that he was an artist with a wave of his hand and added, "What I do is nothing like this. This is... exquisite."

"It's but a dalliance. The frescoes of Europe... the great painters? Those, my friend, are exquisite. I paint what I see; nothing more."

"You see as a genius sees," Kurt replied.

The painter snorted and waved off Kurt's compliment.

"Kurt, have you a steady hand?"

"I like to think so," Kurt said.

"Good, then you come to my studio tomorrow afternoon; I will teach you these things. We start just after lunch, yeah?"

"I... uh..."

"It's settled. Now you stay and watch me paint for a while. I need someone to tell me when I use too much yellow."

Kurt smiled. He didn't have anywhere to be for a while. What was the harm in watching this master work?

By the time Mr. de Crano dismissed Kurt, — and that's exactly what it was; he left no room for Kurt to argue — it was nearly time to meet Blaine, so Kurt went to his room to retrieve a book and set off for the lobby to wait.