Anne-Marie accepted the scissors and began the work of shaping Jane’s hair into an approximation of a man’s. Though her mouse-brown tresses usually hung limp unless she exerted great effort with an iron, once her hair was freed of its own weight, it had some life to it.

When Anne-Marie had done, Jane ran her hands through it and rumpled her hair as she had seen Vincent do. This simple action, coupled with the physical sensation of her abbreviated locks, dealt Jane’s sensibility a hard blow. She sat with her fingers pressed against her scalp for some moments, trying to press the fear back into her skull so that she might continue at her tasks.

Jane sighed. ‘Well. That was the simple part. Now, Anne-Marie, would you please ask the stable master to saddle a horse for me.’

‘I do not know if there are any horses left. They might have taken them all.’

She had not considered this possibility before, but once stated, it made sense, for if M. Chastain had been earnest in his desire to send all the students away, he might well have lent them horses to aid in that. And with servants travelling with them, it would be only natural for the horses to be in use. ‘Well. See what you might do. If I need to buy one, then I shall do that.’

With a curtsy, Anne-Marie left. Jane could not rely on her to stay cowed long, and wished she had some other, more reliable ally, but she suspected that even if Anne-Marie turned on her again, she would continue to help simply to remain close to Jane and know her movements. So long as Jane was careful to let her know no greater part of her plans than strict necessity required, she could make tolerable use of Anne-Marie.

In the meantime, with Anne-Marie out of the room, Jane packed Vincent’s travel easel, slipping the glass Sphère into his satchel of art supplies while she was at it. From the vials of ground pigment, she shook out a small quantity of vermilion crimson and mixed enough oil with it to create a thin paint. She applied this to the centre of one of Vincent’s pocket handkerchiefs. She folded the oil carefully into the centre of the cloth so that it was not showing, and tucked it in her breast pocket. Jane wished she might have a pocket-book such as her husband’s, but trusted that no one would note the lack.

Anne-Marie returned within the half hour. ‘We are in luck. One of the horses had thrown a shoe and M. Chastain had not wanted to wait for it. They are readying it for you now.’

‘Thank you.’ Jane shouldered the easel, grunting under the weight. Anne-Marie reached for the satchel to help her, and Jane snapped. ‘Leave it.’