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!’