Suspended In Dusk by Ramsey Campbell, John Everson, Wendy Hammer

this a painting of truth, does it?”
    Henry said nothing. He resumed painting, his brush slower and more lacklustre than before. He continued in this fashion for several minutes, until it became clear that conversation would be strained at best. I shook my head, and stood.
    “I can see that you are busy, so I shall leave you in peace. I assume we will all see you at Dawkins’s supper on Friday?”
    “That you will, Edward.”
    “Excellent. Until then, goodbye, my friend.”
    I closed the door behind me and descended the three flights of stairs to the front door. I exchanged pleasantries with the charwoman as she washed the front steps, and made my way into the thick fog of the London night.
     
    * * *
     
    The image of Henry’s painting remained in my thoughts as I walked, and I compared it to the works I had seen at the Academy, reminding me of a discussion with that infernal Dante Rossetti about fallen women. Snippets of prose tugged at my attention, and my senses tingled with the promise of a new story. I snorted again at Henry’s belief in the moral obligation of art. No, if anyone were to expose the public to the horrors of street life, it should be me.
    My feet took me in the direction of Southwark. My publisher’s brother-in-law had told me of a less-than-reputable club in the area, and advised that I ‘sample the wares’ if I wanted a higher standard of female company. I had no intention of doing such a thing, but the idea of a new muse loomed large in my mind. My last had left London two weeks ago to marry an industrialist in Birmingham, and we had all heard tales of Rossetti’s circle finding their muses in the most unlikely of places. Why might I not find a new one in the bowels of the Virginia Club?
    Red lamps adorned the club’s tables, and corseted waitresses served drinks to men hidden in shadow. I took up a seat near the door, reluctant to venture too far inside lest I find it difficult to find my way back out, and ordered a glass of sherry. Within moments, a blond beauty appeared at my side.
    “Is this seat taken?” She gestured to the empty seat.
    “Not at all.” She sat down and I admired her graceful poise. A pile of golden curls sat on her head, although several ringlets had escaped their pins, and lay against the girl’s pale neck. I tried to picture her standing alone on Blackfriars Bridge, contemplating her fate as she stared into the churning black water below. Yes, she would do.
    “I’m Ellen,” she said.
    “Edward Bonneville. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    She smiled and leaned forward. I tried to guess her age, which I placed at between seventeen and twenty-three. God alone knew what she’d done for employment at this establishment.
    “I shall be honest with you, Ellen, I am not looking for the sort of companionship one might find in a place such as this.”
    “Oh.” Ellen’s smile evaporated and her gaze began to wander the room.
    “No, I seek a muse, and I suspect you may be exactly what I’m looking for.”
    The smile returned, as did her attention. I suppressed a smirk—Ellen had no doubt heard tales of women elevated from the lower classes through their association with artists and writers, and sought a similar advancement for herself. Henry’s painting again came to mind and my inner smirk faltered. Perhaps I could prevent another tragedy.
    “What do you want a muse for?”
    I explained my position as a writer, though disappointment rankled me that Ellen had not heard of my work. I told her about Henry’s lofty ambitions, and my desire to tell the truth that he could not, and in the course of my narrative, I described his painting.
    “It’s common enough. Girls get too old or sick and men don’t want to know. They can’t make any money, so…” Ellen allowed her words to hang in the air but the unhappy conclusion was plain enough to infer.
    “It’s very sad, but I feel literature could do so much more than art.”
    Ellen nodded, as if she knew