As it was, Jane returned home in a less than pleasant mood. Though she had every expectation of seeing her family on the morrow, as they had come to London for the express purpose of taking in the Vincents’ glamural with the rest of the public, she wished very much for her sister’s company. When she was home at Long Parkmead, Melody had long been her confidant, and understood Vincent the best out of Jane’s family. But, as the hour was far too late to call upon her relations, Jane began a letter to Melody in an attempt to ease her mind.

She was on her third draft when Vincent returned to their rooms. His cheeks were drawn and his face had the unhealthy flush which so often marks the remnant of exertion. Jane abandoned her letter, alarm replacing her upset, and sprang from her chair. ‘Vincent?’

He sighed heavily. ‘I am quite well.’

‘I do not believe you for a moment.’ Jane took him by the arm, and, despite her smaller stature, led him easily to a wingback chair by the tall casement window. Despite his protestations, the memory of his brush with death from an over exertion of glamour remained strong in her mind. Leaving him for a moment, she flung open the window to let in the night air, and wove a simple glamour to help the breeze along, hoping that it would cool the fever evidenced by the ruddiness of his cheeks. So long as his art beckoned, Vincent would push himself too hard, like a racehorse, without a care for his health.

He dropped without complaint into the chair, and stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning his head against the chair back with a sigh. Jane stood behind him and leaned over to tug his cravat loose. Vincent caught her hand, bending his head to kiss the inside of her wrist.

The warmth of his fever seemed to pulse through her veins and, of a sudden, the room was too warm for her as well. ‘My love, you must not work yourself so.’

‘You have told me so before.’ He kissed her wrist again. ‘But this was entirely your fault.’

Jane snatched her hand out of his grasp. ‘I am sorry. You may be certain it is not an error I will make again.’ As unaffected as he was, she had not expected him to be so blunt in his response.

‘Jane, Jane . . .’ Vincent was out of his chair in a moment and had her by both hands again. They trembled in his grasp, but Jane would not let herself cry when she had cause to be angry. ‘What are you going on about?’

‘The—the knot that came untied on the fish.’ Her throat was raw with swallowed tears. ‘That is what you were correcting, is it not?’