All of M. Chastain’s students, save the two women, leapt off the stage and forced their way through the crowd. Behind them, Vincent bounded onto the stage from the stairs at the rear and clapped M. Chastain on the shoulder. His mouth moved, but Jane could not make out the words. Then her husband spread his legs wide and inhaled deeply. Though she could not see the folds, by his movements, Jane could imagine that he was spinning out a fold of glamour to try to reach the other glamourist’s strands from a distance. M. Chastain joined him in a similar stance.

The span across the square was very great, and even working together, Jane had doubts that the two men would be able to effect any change. All the while, the bees continued to buzz overhead and the anthem played on.

Jane almost let her sight slip into the ether to see whence the other folds came, but stopped herself. The crowd jostled around them, elbows and feet pushing against their neighbours in an effort to stay upright. Jane lost sight of Vincent as she staggered in the crush. Yves supported her arm and with a word, arranged his friends around her and the other ladies in a determined cordon. Though he still had the slight stature of a boy, in truth no taller or broader than Jane herself, he exuded a sense of being more than his size.

When Jane could see the stage again, M. Chastain was bent at the waist, hands on his knees. Even from where she stood, she could see his chest heaving. Of Vincent, there was no sign.

Had he been standing in Jane’s spot beneath the balcony, he could have stopped the display as surely as he had worked the glamour on the clock tower in his university days. Jane thought that even she could break this one from where she stood.

If only she were able to perform glamour.

How much harm could it do to simply let her vision slip into the ether? Jane shook her head to clear it of the temptation. Even if she looked, what would she do with that information? It would tell her nothing that she did not already know. Above her head, the young woman worked glamour. Coming to a decision, Jane supported herself on Yves’s shoulder and pulled off her slipper. Though she had no real hope, she threw it at the glamourist.

The shoe fell far short and landed in the crowd, provoking a renewed outcry. Mme Meynard gasped. ‘Mme Vincent, have you lost your mind?’

‘I see one of the glamourists.’ Jane pointed at the young woman.

Before she had fairly finished speaking, Mme Chastain cried, ‘Your shoes, ladies. Yves?’