She drove there and set up Vincent’s travel easel and her paints. She put the picnic basket and the champagne conspicuously on the bench of the cart as set dressing for her tableau, then began to paint. Despite the pastoral setting, she had difficulty focusing her attention on the canvas. As little interest as she had in painting, it was important that the canvas show signs of work. She painted for some two hours until the sun was well overhead. After checking the road to make certain it was clear of traffic, she lifted the blanket. In the bed of the cart she had two manikins, one clothed from Yves Chastain’s wardrobe.

Yves’s manikin, she had built around the second easel she had purchased. She now propped it in front of the canvas to create the appearance that Henri still stood there contemplating his work. It would not suffice at close range, but she hoped that her days of tramping around the countryside would suffice to dissuade anyone from approaching.

The other manikin, she had crafted to bear as much resemblance to her husband as she could, remaking the Gilles mask for the face. She had dressed it in his clothes, then shredded them and saturated the remnants with paint to resemble dried blood. It would fool no one for long, but filled her with intense disquiet nevertheless.

Taking a deep breath, Jane opened the satchel and pulled out the glass Sphère. The sun entered the ball, lighting all the inclusions and tracing a path of invisibility around her. Jane slipped her free hand into the loop of rope she had affixed around the manikin and lifted it to her shoulder. She had built it in a curled posture, but even so, it hampered her movements considerably.

Holding the glass Sphère with care, Jane walked across the field, following the tracks that her phaeton had made through the rye. She crossed the road without incident and began walking down the path to Gemioncourt. Her every footfall sounded loud in her ears. When the manikin bumped against a bush or a twig cracked underfoot, Jane cringed.

As she neared the farm, a solitary shadow lay across the path, cast by a tree. Jane stood at the edge of it, chewing on the inside of her lip. It would clearly betray her when she returned along the path, but for the moment. Jane would have to hope that no one was watching this part of the small orchard. Holding the glass Sphère above her head, Jane tried to keep it as much in the light as she could and crossed the cool shadow in two strides.

On the other side, her heart sounded as loud in her ears as gunfire.