As she drew, she rotated the Sphère so that she could capture all sides of it in her drawings. It occurred to her to wonder if an imperceptible fracture could have marred the ball as it cooled. That would account for how it had stopped working.

Jane wished that she could test her theory by passing a strand of glamour, only a single fold, through the glass, but even the simplest ones were denied to her. Still, it was pleasant to be outside drawing. The courtyard bustled with activity as students came and went from the studio on various errands, and the relative calm of her bench was an oasis in the midst of activity. Through the windows of the studio, she could see Vincent talking with M. Archambault, and resolved to ask him to try passing glamour through it again, with an eye to discovering a possible crack in the glass.

She did not have long to wait before Vincent strode out of the studio and headed toward the stables. So focused was he that he did not notice her on the bench, for all that she was only fifteen feet from his path.

She called his name, to catch his attention. Vincent stopped and turned toward her voice, then looked past where she sat and, frowning, spun completely around.

‘Vincent?’ Jane raised her hand and waved.

Again he turned, and as before, his gaze passed through her. He faced the building, shading his eyes as though to spy her in a window. Breath quickening, Jane put her hand on the Sphère of glass, which practically glowed in the sunlight. ‘Vincent, can you not see me? I am sitting by the studio.’

Rotating on his heel, Vincent faced her voice. ‘I cannot. Jane, you should not be practising glamour.’

‘It is the Sphère!’ Only one thing had changed between here and their chambers. Jane pulled the velvet covering over the glass ball to mask it from the sun.

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?’