Valour and Vanity (33 page)

On the last point, Jane had no doubt that his emotion was sincere, and it gave her a path back into clarity. He would have been a better choice to work with them from the beginning. Spada had not used him, then. And Jane suspected that the swindlers could not have used him as they had Querini, because Nenci was as dedicated to his art as they were to theirs.

They had found another partner.

*   *   *

Signor Nenci had cleared
his apprentices away from part of the studio and erected a folding screen behind which they could try the technique. The Abbess settled upon a chair behind the screen to watch, confessing herself to be curious about the endeavour. Vincent removed his jacket, setting it upon a chair back near the wall. Jane wished that she still possessed a pair of buckskin breeches, but was not going to remind Vincent of the dangers of muslin at a furnace.

Scowling, Signor Nenci suddenly stopped in front of her, then shook his head. He leaned around the screen and shouted across the studio. “Rosa! I need your spare work smock!”

He then ignored them as he dragged a small metal-topped table from the wall toward the screen. The legs squealed against the stone floor of the glass factory, sending shivers down Jane’s spine.

Vincent stepped forward. “May I help?”

“I want this there.” He poked a finger at a spot in front of the furnace and stalked off to pick up a pair of wooden paddles. Vincent lifted the table, rather than dragging it, and carried it to the place that Signor Nenci indicated. “Rosa!”

“Coming, Papa.” A young woman hurried across the glass factory with a black wool garment draped over her arm. She wore a similar garment, which was like a day dress that wrapped around to tie at the waist. It had long, closely fitted sleeves without any embellishments, and over it she wore a heavy leather apron.

He jerked his chin toward Jane and stomped over to the table that Vincent had placed. “Let her use it.” Setting down the paddles, he adjusted the table with a steady string of curses.

The Abbess cleared her throat, which only made him curse more quietly.

Rosa rolled her eyes and beckoned to Jane. “Forgive Papa. He is a curmudgeon when he works.”

“I am focused,” Signor Nenci snapped.

“You see?” She held out the black dress to Jane. They seemed matched in height, though Rosa had a more pleasing plumpness than Jane. “Do you need help? I just wear it over my dress.”

“Thank you.” Jane took the dress. “My husband can also be a curmudgeon when he works.”

Vincent frowned at her with a look that said that he could hear her, and also proved her point. He went back to rolling up his sleeves and conferred with Signor Nenci while Jane shrugged into the dress.

Rosa wrinkled her nose. “Men can be so peculiar about work.”

“I can hear you,” her father said, although he seemed a little pleased.

Caught by the fact that the young woman had a working smock, Jane asked, “Do you assist?”

Rosa gave an aggrieved sigh, as though she had answered that question many times. “I am a fifth-generation glassmaker.”

“Oh—forgive me. I should have known better.” Jane of all people should know what it was like to be an artist and face that presumption. She engaged herself with tying the lace of the dress. “And you wear wool to work in?”

Rosa nodded. “It does not catch fire the way muslin does, though it is rather warm. I use black because it does not show the scorch marks so much.” She looked Jane over and gave a nod of satisfaction. “Do you need anything else, Papa?”

He shook his head, grunting, and waved her away. Rosa laughed, as though used to his abstracted gaze, and walked off to leave Jane and Vincent alone with her father. He hefted the paddles and used one to point at the table. “I’ll work the glass from here. Where do you need to be?”

Vincent took up a position opposite him. “Will this be in your way?”

Signor Nenci shook his head. Pulling on a leather glove, he turned to the oven, while Jane hurried to stand in front of Vincent. While she did, the glassmaker picked up a metal scoop and plunged it into the oven. He ladled out molten glass, then poured the glowing orange substance onto the table. “Wait.”

Tossing the scoop into a container, he shook off the glove and began to use the paddles to shape the glass into a rectangle. For a moment, he concentrated on pulling the glass up as it tried to spread out on the table. Then he nodded. “Now.”

Vincent reached into the ether and pulled out a fold of glamour, then let go of it. He coughed, stepping back from Jane. Concerned, she looked back at him. He shook his head. “It is nothing.”

“Vincent—”

“The thickness was wrong.”

Signor Nenci worked the paddles without looking at them. “Glass is cooling.”

Vincent took his position again, reached back into the ether, and pulled out another fold. He began the weave for the
Sphère Obscurcie
shape, pausing for a moment to adjust the direction of the folds slightly to allow for the angle at which they were now working.

Jane pulled the lines of cold from the ether and followed Vincent’s path to strengthen its impression in the glass. Compared to working with the sphere, even one held still on the end of a pole, this was astonishingly simple. It took them only a little longer than it would to weave one without glass, and Jane was almost baffled when Vincent released the glamour. She did the same, with the sensation that it must not have worked.

Signor Nenci looked up at them as he stepped back from the table. A perfectly formed square sat on the table, and running through the middle of it, the faint occlusions of glamour. “Well?”

“That was easier.” Vincent had a line between his brows as he stared at the glass. He rubbed the base of his neck, frowning. “How long before we can put it into the sun?”

Turning in place, the glassmaker looked around the studio, which was lit by slanted skylights in the ceiling. He snatched his leather glove off the floor and pulled it on. With a shriek of metal on stone, he dragged the table to the closest pool of sunlight. Vincent reached out to help him, then jerked his hand back, shaking it. Signor Nenci grinned. “Careful. The d——n thing’s hot.”

“Signor Nenci!” The Abbess stood to follow them.

He grinned. “Well, it is.”

“I see.” Vincent examined his hand, but did not appear to have burned himself.

Jane followed the men more slowly, hanging back so she could watch for the telling moment when the slab went into the sun—

—And Signor Nenci vanished.

“My God!” The Abbess raised a hand to her chest. “Ah … in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

“Eh? What?” Signor Nenci’s disembodied voice came from the centre of the
Sphère.
To him, standing in its influence, the room would appear perfectly normal.

“Allow me.” Vincent stepped into the
Sphère
, vanishing. “If you would go to Lady Vincent and then turn.”

With a series of his habitual grumbles, the glassmaker stepped out of the
Sphère
and stomped across the floor. When he got to Jane, he stopped and turned. “Well?”

“Where is the table, Signor?”

His mouth opened as if he were going to make a sneering comment.

“Never mind the table,” Vincent’s disembodied voice said. “Where am I?”

For a long moment, the glassmaker simply stared openmouthed at the space where the table had been. Then he clapped his hands and began to laugh. “What else can we make?”

Vincent emerged from the
Sphère,
rubbing the base of his neck. “Let us find out, shall we?”

“We were only going to make the
Verre Obscurcie
today,” Jane said.

“I did not expect it to be so easy.” Vincent still wore a contracted brow. “We have time to try another.”

“It is not the
time
I am worried about, but your energy.”

Vincent scowled. “We said we would make three tries. It took only one, so why not see what else we can do?”

“You are rubbing your neck a great deal.”

Vincent dropped his hand and sighed, stepping closer to Jane. He lowered his voice. “You know what this is.”

“And you know why I am voicing my concern.”

His jaw worked and he looked to Signor Nenci as if the glassmaker would support him. Signor Nenci stepped away, studiously taking no notice of them. A loose thread on his leather apron consumed his attention. Vincent growled low in his throat. “I had thought you would wait until I had given you some cause for concern.”

“It distresses me to see you acting unwell.” She studied him, wishing that it was easier to tell when he was being honest about his health. “Would you tell me if your head was really bothering you?”

“After our conversation? Yes.” Vincent held out his hand, spreading his fingers wide. No tremors were visible. “You see? I am perfectly well.”

“Perfectly?”

“Adequately well, then.” He rumpled his hair with real aggravation upon his face. “One more, Muse.”

The Abbess watched them with her head tilted to the side. She had seen Vincent at his worst, and was no doubt wondering why they were even contemplating working with glamour now. Jane shared that. They had a working
Verre Obscurcie,
so there was no need to do anything else today. But Vincent looked so excited, and after months of his depression it was difficult to deny that sparkle in his eye. He did not seem the worse for wear, if she disregarded the hand that had rubbed the base of his neck. And truly, it was astonishing how easy it had been to cast the glamour into the slab of glass on the table. Jane was eager to see what else they could do. It was only the timing that concerned her.

But one more attempt could not hurt. Not really. “One more. And I mean one more
attempt
, not that we continue working until we create one more glass.”

Vincent flashed a rare grin and spun back to Signor Nenci, then stumbled and took a step to the right to catch his balance. It was not much, but it was more than enough to show that he was dizzy. Jane put a hand under his elbow to steady him, in case it was worse than it looked. He jerked his arm free and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Vincent…”

“I am—”

“Do not tell me that you are well.” She glanced to the Abbess to see if she had noted Vincent’s stumble. The nun had clearly seen it and was hurrying across the factory floor. “We have done everything here that we set out to do today. We are going home now.”

“I was going to say that I appear to be a little light-headed, yet.” He lowered his hand and glowered at the floor. “It is not enough to present a problem.”

The Abbess stopped in front of Vincent and tilted her head up as if she could glare sense into him. “And if you lost your balance next to the oven?”

The look of anger and embarrassment that crossed his face was remarkable to behold. “That would be unfortunate, yes.” Like a bear trapped between a trainer and his audience, Vincent turned between Jane and the Abbess. “Then I shall ask Signor Nenci to move the table farther from the oven.”

Jane put a hand on his arm to stop him. Though they had discussed what she was going to say next, a significant part of her expected him to insist on staying regardless of any prior agreement. “When we were working with Querini, you made me stop when I was unfit and would not admit it. Do you remember? To pull me away, you said that you would stop working the next time I asked, without grumbling.”

To his credit, Vincent only looked at the floor for a long moment, as though he were counting the tiles in the floor. Then he nodded, lifting his head, and gave a smile that was almost convincing. “Shall we go home?”

Not even Signor Nenci tried to convince him otherwise, for which Jane was grateful. When she got Vincent back to their apartment, she would find out how his health really was, when he was not putting on a show for the Abbess.

Twenty-two

Glass on Marble

Jane shifted over in bed and tried to find a more comfortable position. It was still dark out and she desperately wanted to sleep, but she had been tossing all night. Though they had worked hard on their plans, she was left with a lingering tension as she continued to think through all of the possible things that could go wrong today. Each time she answered one question, her brain would offer her another. Was Signor Zancani going to have the costumes ready? Yes, he had already shown them to her. Then would the nuns be in position to provide a distraction? Of course, they had already practised that. Would Lord Byron have any questions before they began? Probably.

As she rolled on to her back, the extra space in the bed told her that Vincent was not in it.

Jane sat up, holding the cover around her to ward off the cold. “Vincent?”

He stood at the window, a shadow against the dawn light. “It is raining.”

Using the blanket as a robe, Jane crawled out of bed. The bare boards of the floor seemed almost cold enough to be the flagstones of Vincent’s glamural. The glass walls of the orangery showed a still-dark landscape, but without any hint of the rain that appeared in the real window looking out over Murano. Low clouds covered the city, and rain drizzled down the walls of the city into the canals.

There was no possibility of a
Verre Obscurcie
working today, not even Signor Nenci’s version. “Can we put it off?”

He shook his head. She knew that, of course. They had known that rain was a possibility when they went to bed last night. To wait increased the risk that the Lombardy-Venetia officer would arrive the next day and take all the
Verres.
They would have to use their other plan, then, and send Vincent in, today, as the French officer. “It frightens me, Vincent.”

“You know I will be fine.”

“No … I really do not. I know that
you
think you will be, but I want that faith.”

Vincent turned from the window and wrapped his arms around her. “This will work, Muse.”

And if it did not—oh, the things that could go wrong terrified her. “Just remember that I will come for you.”

He smiled, and traced a finger down the side of her face. “That I know.” Bending down, Vincent kissed her, first on the forehead, then the nose, and then her lips. His breath was warmth and life. Jane opened the blanket to pull him inside the small shelter with her. Vincent slid his arms under the cloth and down her back. Without effort, as if to prove that he was fit, her husband lifted her and carried her back to bed.