Glamour in Glass

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “Did you shout?”

  Jane nodded and transformed the cough into wheezing. Fumbling at her breast pocket, she drew forth her pocket handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth. The smell of the oil paint tickled the back of her throat and Jane bent double, coughing in earnest now, until her throat was raw. Straightening, she pulled the handkerchief from her mouth and let it fall open to show the spot of red paint. “Pardon,” she whispered.

  The soldiers took a step back, the soiled handkerchief and her blotched face evidently painting a clear portrait of disease. One of them said, “You cannot paint here.”

  Jane nodded to show she understood and pressed her other hand to her chest as if trying to gather the resolve to speak. Her heart thudded against her palm. They stood over her but did not press her to speak, nor did they come too close as she gathered her supplies and started down the hill. Not until she was at the bottom did they leave their station. Without further incident, Jane reached the phaeton and clambered onto the bench seat. There she began to shake.

  If they had not believed her to be a consumptive painter and she had been captured, there would be no one to speak for Vincent. Only the two letters to Skiffy and Vincent’s father gave any hint of their circumstances, and none at all of their whereabouts. She was a fool, and more than a fool, to attempt a rescue of her husband alone, but neither could she leave him. Jane saw little alternative but to make an attempt.

  She would first, however, write to Mr. Gilman and apprise him of what she had learned so that there might be at least one person who knew where they were. As she drove back to Binché, Jane pondered what she had seen. It would not do to leave Vincent there for long, and yet she must wait for a sunny day. It served her then to lay her plans carefully so that they might have a chance of escape.

  * * *

  Thanks to Mr. Gilman, Jane had funds, but had few other resources beyond that. The man’s dress she had adopted allowed her to walk through the streets of Binché without comment, which made her errands easier, but she was hampered by her voice, and being a consumptive artist only afforded her so much latitude in avoiding conversation. In the week following Vincent’s capture, Jane had done her best to make Henri Villeneuve a fixture in the environs. She purchased a second easel, some sailcloth, three blankets, a Claude glass, and two of the Gilles masks. The evenings she spent locked in her bedchamber at the Chastain home, working on her handicrafts.

  Every morning weather permitted, she drove out to paint in the environs of Gemioncourt. Though she never ventured quite so close to the farm, she did her best to be seen by the soldiers so that her presence became unremarkable. They soon paid little heed to the consumptive artist she tried to portray.

  She became familiar with the ebb and flow of life in the camp, watching as she did. With the Claude glass, she pretended to sketch the landscape through the obscured glass in the manner which had swept the more romantic painters. Though she disdained the use of such artifice in paintings, it served her as a mirror so that she might stand with her back to the farm, and yet observe as the camp followers arrived to meet their lovers. Their forms were obscured and muted in the glass, but Jane needed only to learn the rhythms of the camp, not the identity of the people. In that flow she hoped to find a path to freeing Vincent.

  Besides her innocuous appearance, the one fold she had to ply in this affair was that no one, save Vincent, knew that the glamour in glass existed. No one in the entire world had the notion that it was possible to travel unseen, and on that she was forming her plans. For if one did not know it was possible, one would not guard against it.

  This meant, however, that she must wait for a sunny day, without chance of clouds, before attempting a rescue of her husband. The week preceding had been overcast or with scattered clouds, but showed promise of clearing on the morrow. The fact that he was tied in the open worked to her advantage, in that she would not have to risk passages where the glamour would not work, but it also meant that his absence would be noted more quickly. To delay that moment, Jane needed a distraction.

  Anne-Marie had been arriving every morning as had become custom, and helping Jane into her gentlemen’s habit. At moments, the absurdity of a lady’s maid appearing to dress a man reduced them both into fits of giggles, not so much from how amusing it was, but from the enormous tension both women were under. Jane made no pretence of having forgiven Anne-Marie, but they had achieved a sort of peace. Though Anne-Marie’s loyalty remained to Napoleon, her remorse at having been party to Vincent’s capture seemed genuine.

  Jane sorted through her options repeatedly, yet she found little recourse. She would need help to rescue Vincent. She would not be so foolish as to trust Anne-Marie entirely, but had hopes that her guilt might induce her to offer some aid.

  Jane rested a hand on one of the trunks which Anne-Marie had packed for her. “I should like to ask you for help, but I shall understand if you do not wish to be involved.”

  Anne-Marie brushed out her apron and straightened her shoulders. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Would you arrange to have my things returned to England?”

  “Might I ask why?”

  Jane settled in a chair and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Because you are correct. There is no way to free Vincent from Gemioncourt.”

  “Oh, madame … I am so sorry.”

  “Are you?” Jane threaded her fingers together and kept a studied gaze on the heavy carpet covering the floor.

  “Though you have no cause to believe it, I am.” A silence passed between them before Anne-Marie continued. “I have seen you at Gemioncourt, when I go in the evenings.”

  Jane lifted her head and met Anne-Marie’s eyes, surprised that the woman had not made use of the information. “And you have not said anything?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.” With that much understood between them, they spent the rest of the morning packing, until Jane left to run her errands.

  She carried with her, as always, Vincent’s satchel with the glass Sphère within it. Jane had made the plan as simple as possible, believing that—as with glamour—the fewer threads there were to tangle, the more robust the illusion. Her first stop was M. La Pierre’s glass factory.

  The gruff man met her at the door of his shop, showing no signs of recognising her, save from her previous visit as Henri Villeneuve. “I was wondering when you were coming. It is been done these last two days.”

  “The weather.” Jane wheezed and gestured out of doors as if to imply that she could not chance the rain in her state. She coughed, holding the handkerchief to her lips.

  He took a step back, caution guarding his face. Jane felt a small burst of relief that he had clearly already heard that M. Villeneuve was consumptive. It gave her more latitude in her movements if no one wanted to approach her.

  M. La Pierre shook his head and hauled a wooden crate up onto his counter. Removing the top, he pulled out a glass lamb, a Scottish Blackface, to be precise. “Is this to your liking?”

  It was exquisitely crafted, with the hooves and wool cleverly rendered so that it seemed ready to gambol with its brethren. Jane nodded, and as he replaced it in the crate, tucking straw around the lamb, she pulled an envelope from the satchel. When he had done, she tucked it into the crate on top of the lamb.

  She waited until he had nailed the crate shut, and then, still in a whisper asked, “Your son?”

  “Will deliver it, yes. I will send him out tomorrow.”

  “It must be tonight.”

  The old man frowned as though he would balk at that, but Jane opened her satchel and pulled out some additional guldens, over and beyond what she had already paid for the commission. He rubbed his whiskers and then opened the door to the furnace room. “Mathieu!”

  A few moments later, Mathieu appeared, face still ruddy from the fires within. He stripped off his gloves as he came through the door. Though she had requested that he make the lamb, this was the first time he had se
en her in this guise, and she quailed at the trial it now faced.

  Mathieu searched Jane’s face, as if finding her familiar, but unable to place her. “Sir?”

  Though she trusted Mathieu, she had no wish to involve him directly in her troubles and so felt the greatest relief that he failed to recognise her.

  “You are off to Brussels tonight on delivery,” M. La Pierre said.

  Jane gave him Mr. Gilman’s direction, written on a card. “Into his hands directly, if you please.”

  Mathieu touched his forelock in reply and Jane left the shop, tolerably satisfied that the lamb and her message would reach Mr. Gilman without incident. Even if Mathieu were stopped, the letter within was as innocuous as she could make it. It stated her honest plans to leave Binché, and told of a fine herd of Scottish Blackface sheep—the code for Lieutenant Segal—which waited at Gemioncourt. If the letter were removed and opened, Jane had hopes that at least the glass lamb would be delivered and serve as a partial message.

  She hoped that it would arrive in time to be of use, but not so early that Mr. Gilman might attempt to stop her.

  Jane stopped at the grocers for a luncheon, and purchased a basket in which to pack it. She also bought a bottle of champagne, a length of rope, and a sharp knife. With her purchases, Jane returned to the Chastain estate and locked herself into her bedchamber. She might not be able to work glamour, but there were other illusions which she hoped would serve as well.

  * * *

  In the morning, Jane rose with the sun. Though it took several trips, she carried her basket downstairs, with the results of her evenings’ handicrafts rolled in one of the blankets. The stable master, good man, was waiting for her when she entered the stable, and had the horse already harnessed. Jane thanked him and loaded her provisions into the cart, covering them with a blanket.

  She had spied a pasture within an easy walk of one of the back gates to Gemioncourt, its chief feature being that when the sun was directly overhead, there were no shadows along the path between the two.

  She drove there and set up Vincent’s travel easel and her paints. She put the picnic basket and the champagne conspicuously on the bench of the cart as set dressing for her tableau, then began to paint. Despite the pastoral setting, she had difficulty focusing her attention on the canvas. As little interest as she had in painting, it was important that the canvas show signs of work. She painted for some two hours until the sun was well overhead. After checking the road to make certain it was clear of traffic, she lifted the blanket. In the bed of the cart she had two manikins, one clothed from Yves Chastain’s wardrobe.

  Yves’s manikin, she had built around the second easel she had purchased. She now propped it in front of the canvas to create the appearance that Henri still stood there contemplating his work. It would not suffice at close range, but she hoped that her days of tramping around the countryside would suffice to dissuade anyone from approaching.

  The other manikin, she had crafted to bear as much resemblance to her husband as she could, remaking the Gilles mask for the face. She had dressed it in his clothes, then shredded them and saturated the remnants with paint to resemble dried blood. It would fool no one for long, but filled her with intense disquiet nevertheless.

  Taking a deep breath, Jane opened the satchel and pulled out the glass Sphère. The sun entered the ball, lighting all the inclusions and tracing a path of invisibility around her. Jane slipped her free hand into the loop of rope she had affixed around the manikin and lifted it to her shoulder. She had built it in a curled posture, but even so, it hampered her movements considerably.

  Holding the glass Sphère with care, Jane walked across the field, following the tracks that her phaeton had made through the rye. She crossed the road without incident and began walking down the path to Gemioncourt. Her every footfall sounded loud in her ears. When the manikin bumped against a bush or a twig cracked underfoot, Jane cringed.

  As she neared the farm, a solitary shadow lay across the path, cast by a tree. Jane stood at the edge of it, chewing on the inside of her lip. It would clearly betray her when she returned along the path, but for the moment. Jane would have to hope that no one was watching this part of the small orchard. Holding the glass Sphère above her head, Jane tried to keep it as much in the light as she could and crossed the cool shadow in two strides.

  On the other side, her heart sounded as loud in her ears as gunfire.

  She reached the gate and paused outside it. The scene within was much as she had last seen it. Vincent lay with his hands tied to the trellis. She hazarded a guess that they were afraid he would attempt to vanish, and so wanted him in plain sight at all times. A single sentinel patrolled in front of the trellis. Around the farmyard, other French soldiers lounged and diced.

  Steeling herself, Jane waited until the sentinel faced away from her, then undid the latch and let it swing open. She slipped through quickly, and stood within the yard of Gemioncourt.

  Her path to the trellis could not follow a straight line, as she had to avoid the shadows of out buildings and trees at intervals throughout the property. Instead, she followed a circuitous route which reminded her of the shrubbery maze at her parents’ home. By creeping along and pausing to let soldiers pass before her, Jane managed to reach the trellis without incident.

  She went to the back side of it rather than the front, and knelt in the sun by the lattice. So close to her husband, Jane caught her breath at the sight of him. Vincent’s head lolled against the upright post of the trellis. Bruises mottled his exposed skin. The flesh above his right eye had split open, and a fly buzzed around the dried blood that caked there. His hair lay matted against his scalp. Jane had thought she had taken the wounds on her manikin too far, but none of it matched the horror of what they had done to her husband.

  The emotions which she had struggled to govern during the course of the past week now threatened to overwhelm her. Though she longed to let Vincent know she was there, she dared not risk the sound of her voice carrying. She could not even approach too closely without the Sphère obscuring him too soon. Lowering her bag from her shoulder, Jane settled as quietly as she could in the sunlit space by the trellis. She placed the Sphère Obscurcie on the ground next to her, careful not to let her own shadow fall upon it.

  Positioned close to the wall as it was, she was in no danger of a soldier walking through the spot she occupied. Jane withdrew a leather case, unfolding it to reveal the slender glass rod she had commissioned. The rod had been ground down to dull its sheen, and bent at an angle a few inches from the end.

  She slid the rod forward until its tip was in the loose dirt under the trellis in what she hoped was Vincent’s line of sight. As black and swollen as his eye was, she was not entirely certain that he could open it.

  Carefully, she wrote in the dirt:

  VINCENT. IT IS JANE.

  A long minute passed before Vincent saw her writing. She recognised the moment by the way his head jerked as though he were going to lift it, and only just stopped himself. The sentinel marched, his feet grinding against the dirt of the yard. Dice rattled together and a soldier shouted with laughter. In the distance a rooster crowed.

  When the sentinel’s back was once more to them, Jane wiped her words clear and wrote, I WILL CUT YOUR ROPES. DO NOT MOVE.

  He coughed and adjusted his head in a nod masked as a lolling movement. Jane let out a breath she had been unaware she was holding and waited until the sentinel faced away again. She stretched her hand out, keeping within the limits of the Sphère’s glamour, and put the knife against the rope on Vincent’s right hand. His eyes widened at the touch of the blade, and he held very still.

  It was but the work of moments to cut through the ropes binding Vincent. His hands freed, Jane looked again to the guard. His steady pace took him past Vincent again, ennui clear in each step.

  She wrote: WHEN CAMP FOLLOWERS COME. I COUGH 2, YOU ROLL LEFT.

  He grunted to show he understood.

  Whi
le they waited for the followers, Jane adjusted the manikin she had so carefully built, and composed it in Vincent’s sprawling posture. Each scrape of her boots on the gravel sounded as thunder in her ears, making her freeze in terror, but it seemed that the sounds blended into the general hubbub of camp life.

  As the sun crept on its path, Jane eased her way around the trellis, moving the Sphère and the manikin in a slow, careful progression, until she was standing by the side of the trellis, ready to spring forward. Until the camp followers arrived to provide a distraction, Jane could do nothing but wait.

  She thanked the heavens for the glass Sphère, without which she would have had no way to reach her husband. Even were she not with child, walking any distance while controlling the glamour of a Sphère Obscurcie would have been too great an effort to have been successful.

  A bead of sweat tickled past her ear. One of the flies on Vincent found her and buzzed around her head, tempted by the salt on her skin. Jane’s apprehension grew with each passing moment, yet she could do nothing but sit and count each breath Vincent took.

  The laugh of a woman echoed over the wall. Jane lifted her head and stared at the gates as the first of the camp followers arrived. Still, she did not move, waiting for more to come so that they might distract the guards. As the women arrived in twos and threes, there came an unexpected but hoped for sound: the clop of horse hooves and the rolling grind of wagon wheels against gravel filtered through the orchards to the east of Gemioncourt. Anne-Marie and an aged driver pulled up to the gate of the farm. Piled in the back of their wagon were the crates and trunks holding Jane and Vincent’s possessions.

  She had not been sure if Anne-Marie’s guilt would exceed the opportunity offered by Jane’s supposed departure from Binché. It is a grim situation when one finds oneself hoping to be betrayed, and yet that is exactly what Jane had wished for. She could not ask for a greater distraction than that which Anne-Marie unwittingly provided.