Vincent inhaled in shock, taking half a step back. She laughed, throwing her head back with delight and then, watching him, pulled the velvet from the Sphère. By the way his eyes widened and a slow smile grew to match hers, Jane knew that she had vanished from his sight.
Her husband ran forward, slowing as he met the boundary of the Sphère. Then he stood within its influence. “Hello, Muse. What have you done?”
“You will have to tell me. I can only tell that I have vanished” She traced a finger across the inclusion which lay closest to the surface of the glass. “It was sunny that day in the glass factory, but rained the next. Since then, the ball has been on your desk in shadow. My best guess is that sunlight is purer than any form of conjured glamour. What do you think?”
“I think that you are the cleverest woman in the world.” Vincent knelt by her and let his gaze go distant. “It is bending the sunlight.”
“If we can perfect our technique or make purer glass, then we might be able to use it to direct glamour yet.” Jane tapped her chin, wishing that she could see what he was seeing. “I wonder if indirect sunlight will suffice?”
“Likely not.” Vincent shaded his eyes and tilted his head up to the sky. He pointed. “There is a cloud coming, if you want to test your theory, but since the Sphère never vanished from our rooms, I would hazard a guess that the diffraction is too great.”
As he began to rise, Jane caught his hand. “Wait. May I step out of the Sphère and watch?”
“Of course.” He glanced past her to the studio. “They cannot see us, can they?”
“I do not believe—” Her words stopped as Vincent covered her mouth with his. Jane yielded to him, aware of the softness of his touch, the warmth of the sun, and the breeze which caressed her.
Vincent pulled back, cheeks ruddy and curving with his tender regard. “I quite like this thing you have invented, Muse.”
“Mr. Vincent! You shock me.” Try as she might, she could not keep her voice stern or hide her delight.
He compressed his lips into his private smile and nodded to the sky again. “The cloud is about to cover the sun.”
Jane rose and hurried away from him until she felt certain she must be out of the Sphère’s influence. When she faced the direction whence she had come, the bench and Vincent were quite invisible, leaving only a view of the courtyard beyond. She held her breath, hardly knowing whether she wanted them to appear when the cloud masked the sun, thus proving her point, or to stay concealed.
The day greyed, and as if he were watercolour bleeding onto a page, Vincent faded into view, first as an ill-defined shape, then his colour becoming more vibrant until she could see him with unrestricted clarity. She had only time to say, “I see you,” before the cloud passed from the sun and he vanished once more.
Gravel rattled close by and then Vincent appeared before her, walking with the Sphère held carefully before him. Jane knew that they had, at that moment, vanished from the view of those around them, and she could hardly contain her exuberance.
“Shall we show M. Chastain?”
Vincent bit the inside of his lip, tilting his head to the side to examine the Sphère. “Not yet, I think.” Raising it, he peered into the interior. “I should like to have it written up, and run a few more trials first.”
“But he might offer some suggestions.”
“True.” He paused, seemingly about to say something more, but then shook his head. “You know I prefer to present a finished work than to have someone observe my progress.”
“Surely a colleague…”
“If you prefer.” Some of his reserve had returned. Jane wondered what she had done to cause it, until he answered her unasked question. “The invention is yours.”
Was it possible that Vincent was jealous that she had conceived the idea of using glass? Jane considered how long he had been striving to find a way to record a glamour so that it could be moved without effort. And she had leaped past his years of careful notes and theories with a child’s plaything. “The invention is ours. Take the time you need.”
Letting him put more time into understanding the glamour could do no harm.
Fifteen
Ribbons of White and Red
Jane woke the next morning and had an appetite for the first time since she could remember. Sun streamed into their bedchamber, tiny motes of dust dancing in the light. She stretched, feeling all the effects of good health that she had not realized she had lost. Everything about the day seemed as if it were made for wonder.
Vincent had already arisen, no doubt to make his way to Brussels yet again. She could not find it in herself to resent the trip. Her glamour in glass had worked. What could be more perfect than that? Jane threw off the counterpane, unable to contemplate staying in bed. She felt the urge to find an activity to match her spirits.
The doctor had advised her to take fresh air and to go for gentle walks, so that is how she would spend the morning. A hearty breakfast, and then a stroll into town. Perhaps she would even go so far as the old Roman walls. Dressing herself in her blue high-collared walking suit, Jane marvelled at what it was to be hungry again. It had been so long since the thought of food had not turned her stomach that she had not at first recognised the pricking in her middle as hunger.
Jane hurried downstairs to see if she could persuade the kitchen staff to provide her with an egg and some plum bread for breakfast. These acquired, she took herself to the parlour, hoping to find a cup of coffee. Mme Chastain was retying the sash on Miette’s dress as Jane entered. “You seem to be in good spirits this morning.”
They had recorded a glamour in glass. “Thank you! I am feeling well for the first time in ages.” Jane pulled up her chair and took her place at the table.
“I am glad to hear it. The first is always the worst. You will not mind so much with your second.” She brushed Miette’s hair out of the little girl’s face, smiling.
The notion of having a second child seemed utterly foreign at that juncture, but Jane did not care to dispute the claim. They had, after all, recorded a glamour. She poured a cup of coffee to distract herself. “I thought I might go for a walk today. Do you need anything from town?”
“I want a new ribbon!” Miette danced away from her mother, undoing her bow in an instant. “For my crystal.”
“You shall have one.” For that blessed, beautiful crystal which had delivered such elation that Jane could hardly contain herself. One ribbon? Why, the child should have a dozen, and still it would not be thanks enough.
Jane found that, though her appetite had returned, her excitement was too great to allow her to sit still for long. She took her leave with her errand in mind, and began the walk to the centre of town. Out of doors, the spicy scent of early geraniums mingled with the earthiness that marked the passage of carriages. Her feet rang against the cobblestones paving the street, and everything seemed scrubbed clean just for the purpose of giving her walk pleasure.
The town buzzed with life. Women in neat linen leaned out of their windows to converse with their neighbours on the street. A boy ran past with a wood hobby-horse, toy sword held over his head, shouting “Viva Napoleon!” For a moment she thought it was young Luc Chastain, but it was another child with similar colouring. A pack of boys chased him, so intent on their game that they bumped willy-nilly into the pedestrians.
As Jane approached the centre of town, she became sensible of a change in the knots of people lining the street. There was, in their general carriage, a tension that ignored the beauty of the day. Jane stepped into the notions store and found it astonishingly thronged with customers, but with a sharp line down the middle of the crowd. It took her a moment to comprehend the difference between the people standing on opposite sides of the divide. She noted that one group held red, blue, and white ribbons and the other held only white, but nothing else unified the sets, save for a clear animosity of each toward the opposite group. In all other ways, it was a cheerful space. The spools of ribbons lini
ng the shelves caught the light from the street, and a glamour arched overhead to create the illusion of a ceiling full of fluttering ribbon and lace.
In the space between the groups, two women stood, pulling a single white ribbon between them. They shouted insults at each other, tugging the ribbon back and forth while the crowd jeered them on. The woman on the left had red and blue ribbons dangling from her grasp, while the one on the right had only the shared white ribbon.
“You are a traitor to your nation!” the one with white ribbon shouted.
“Ha! France is not my nation, you haughty bourgeois!” Red and blue jerked on the white ribbon.
Behind the counter, the gaunt shopkeeper tried to call for order, but was roundly ignored.
An older gentleman holding a white ribbon approached Jane with apparent trepidation. “Madame, you are British? You should return home.”
“What has happened?”
“Napoleon has returned to France.”
Jane’s knees threatened to give way under her. Though she had understood the man perfectly, she felt the urge to ask him to repeat himself, as if that would make his words mean something different. Napoleon out of exile! How was that possible?
The import of the brigands who had accosted them on the road returned to her. She had thought that they had little to fear if Napoleon’s only supporters were such ragged men as those. Around her, she saw the evidence that the Ogre had far more support than she had guessed possible.
On the outskirts of the crowd, a woman holding red and blue ribbons sneered at her. “She is British!” Her words brought silence to the room, and Jane felt the full weight of both groups’ attention fall upon her. “What is she doing here?”
“She is here to buy ribbon. Are you not, madame?” The shopkeeper took advantage of the lull in fighting and drew himself erect. “In my shop, one only purchases ribbon or lace. Do I make myself understood, mesdames and messieurs?” When no one responded, he pointed to the ribbon held between the two women. “That piece of ribbon is spoiled, and I will not sell it to either of you. But I will gladly sell you both lace, which is also white. Will that suit?”
The women looked down at the white ribbon, stretched and spoiled by their struggles. As one, they let it drop to the floor.
Not willing to lose control, the shopkeeper rapped the counter. “Who is next, please?”
As the crowd began to sort out who had precedence, the gentleman with the white ribbon who had spoken to Jane first, gestured toward the door. She needed no further hint.
On her way out, one of the women with red, blue, and white ribbons shifted abruptly, driving her elbow into Jane’s middle. “Go home, British.”
The breath left Jane’s body in a rush, and she struggled to draw in the next. Pain, sharp and quick, drew a line from her toes to the base of her skull. Folded over, she wrapped her arms around herself and became more conscious of the child she carried than she had ever been previously. Heretofore, the inconvenience had taken precedence, but all she could think of now was that the child—her child—might be harmed.
Tears pricking her eyes, she forced herself erect and made her way out into the sunlit street. The day, so bright, so pleasant, seemed painfully at odds with the events, and yet there were those residents of Binché who were rejoicing at the news. The conversation from the dinner party when they first arrived came back to her, and she recalled Mme Meynard saying, We have been passed back and forth between France and the Netherlands for almost as many years as there have been people living here.
And here Jane saw the proof of that, for half the town rejoiced that their Emperor had returned, and half the town despaired. It was only with the greatest difficulty that Jane did not run back to the Chastains’, where she knew at least they did not support Napoleon. She had no such faith about their neighbours.
Mme Chastain met Jane in the foyer of the home, her hand held to her breast. “Thank heavens. I have been so worried for you.”
“You have heard, then.” Jane tugged her gloves free.
“Yes. Colonel de Bodard just came with the news.”
“I heard only that Napoleon was returned to France, nothing more.”
“Come into the parlour.” Mme Chastain took Jane by the arm. “You are as pale as death.”
“I am only a little frightened.”
They went to the parlour, where M. Chastain had gathered with his students and the household’s senior staff. Colonel de Bodard stood at the mantel with the room’s attention fixed upon him. Gone was the gentle chevalier who had comforted Jane at the dinner table. He stood now in the Belgian uniform, a dark blue jacket with red epaulettes at the shoulder. Jane scanned the room, growing cold as she realized that Vincent was not there. He had gone to Brussels, and would be on the road even now. He might not know that the Ogre was out of the box.
Jane put a hand on her middle, as if it would reassure their child.
Anne-Marie pressed a glass of Madeira on her, and offered Jane her seat. M. Chastain paced the room with one finger hooked over his nose and the other hand tucked behind his back. “Those of you who wish to go may, but I think the danger is not great.”
“But I heard Napoleon was gone to Paris,” M. Archambault said.
“Yes, but King Louis XVIII has sent General Ney to stop him. He will do so, and then we may all rest easy. Remember, Napoleon can have no great number of men, and those that he has are all deserters, not the steadiest sort in a fight.” Colonel de Bodard left his place by the fire and came to Jane’s side. “Mme Vincent, how are you taking it?”
“I am only piecing together what has happened, and perhaps more frightened than I should be.” The scent of the wine turned her stomach. Jane swallowed against bile and set the glass on the side table.
“Napoleon landed at the beginning of the month and is marching toward Paris. No shots have been fired, and garrison after garrison has surrendered to him. This sounds astonishing, but remember that King Louis is still in Paris, and has the army to back him. The Belgian army has been called up and we will join forces with the British to help oppose Napoleon.”
“What if the French army surrenders?” Mme Chastain touched her husband’s arm. “They might already have done so, and we will not know for another week, as slow as the mail service is.”
“Do not alarm yourself over things that shall not happen. You might as well be alarmed that the sun will land in our courtyard.” M. Chastain snorted. “I, myself, am not surprised to see him returned. He has never kept his bargains.”
A small hand tugged at the corner of Jane’s dress. Miette stood by her chair, prism held tightly in both hands the way another child might clutch a doll for comfort. “Did you fetch my ribbon?”
“No, dear. I am sorry, but I could not.” Jane recollected the scene in the notions store and wondered how much worse it would be if more was at stake than a bit of frippery. Was Vincent safe? She took Miette by the hand and stood. “But you shall have your choice of ribbons from my collection.”
It was not good to keep the little girl here amid so much worry and Jane was glad of an excuse to escape the atmosphere herself. She kept up a constant chatter as they went above stairs, trying to drive out any sense of unease from the both of them. Her mind, though, sought after Vincent at every minute.
In her apartment, she pulled out the bandbox which held her millinery supplies and settled down at the table with Miette. Without self-consciousness, the little girl climbed in her lap to see into the box better.
The weight and warmth of Miette’s small form settled Jane, helping her focus past the concern for her husband. They sorted through the box, putting aside those ribbons too large to fit through the small brass ring at the top of the prism, until they settled on three: one red, one white, and one green. Jane could not help but see the symbols writ on the red and white ribbons, so she steered Miette toward the green one and helped her thread it through the ring. Then they stood at the window in the sun and admired the rainbows that Mi
ette scattered about the room.
When that amusement faded, Miette tilted her head up, curls falling back from her cheeks. “Will you make me a glamour?”
“I am afraid I cannot, my dear.” Jane cast about the room for some other activity which might suit to amuse a little girl. She had no toys, only books and art supplies. “Shall I read to you? Or we can do drawings.”
“Why not?”
“Well…” Jane hesitated, uncertain as to the propriety of explaining such things to a child. “The doctor told me that I should not. I listen to my doctor’s advice. Would you not do the same?”
“No.” Stoutly, she shook her head. “The doctor tells me to drink nasty tonics. I hate him.”
Masking her smile, Jane crouched next to Miette in the window. “But you feel better after, yes? Sometimes we might not like what the doctor tells us to do, but it is only for a little time, and then we are well again.”
“Are you sick?”
“No…” Jane rested her hand on her stomach. Though she had yet to begin to show, the changes were apparent to her. “I am increasing.”
“A baby!” Miette’s delight at this news was all too clear. “May I hold her when she comes?”
“Of course.”
The sound of a horse trotting into the courtyard below pulled Jane to her feet. Vincent had returned, his mount lathered in sweat.
Sixteen
The Writing Desk
Jane took the marble stairs as quickly as the slick soles of her slippers would let her. Miette was not far behind, though the child could have no idea why Jane was in such a hurry. They reached the foyer just as Vincent strode inside, dust clinging to his coat and sweat making a map of the dirt on his face. Jane collided with him in an embrace in the centre of the hall. She cared not a whit for who saw them, only that he was safe and present.
“I take it you have heard the news.”
Jane stepped back so she could see her beloved. “The town is uneasy.”
“I am not surprised.” Vincent wet his lips and rested his hand on Miette’s shoulder, crouching down to be on eye level with her. “Will you fetch your father for me?”
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