Jane thanked him and returned at a slower pace to the house, wondering how she could have failed to see him, sitting as she was on the main stairs in the entrance. The wind had kicked up while she was indoors, and the first snowflakes, which had been predicted by the dark clouds drifted down, encouraging her to speed her way into the house. It was quite possible that he had entered during the very moment she had her epiphany, as her sight had been directed almost entirely inward.

The idea of catching a glamour in glass would not let her go, so she went to the parlour, hoping to find Vincent there. Mme Chastain sat sewing by the fire, and Jane had to endure some conversation with her as the snow coated the courtyard. Her thoughts ticked in time with the falling flakes as she spun through the possibilities opened by her discovery.

She had to constantly apply herself to keep her attention on Mme Chastain. They spoke of the children, the weather, and dinner parties to come, none of which held the slightest interest for Jane at that moment.

She resisted the urge to ask Mme Chastain for the addresses of glassblowers in town, though she wanted nothing more than to start experimenting right away. More than that, though, she wanted her husband.

As if someone had unstitched a pillow, the snow-storm wiped the courtyard from view in a wash of white. Miette and her brothers scampered into the room to seek their mother’s permission to go out and play.

With this excuse, Jane made her escape and went up to her room. Though she could not see how it was possible to have missed Vincent on the stairs, she could still set her thoughts down on paper, which would give her some measure of peace. It might be that she would discover a flaw in her thinking as she did so.

And yet, Jane was certain that she would not. The theory was sound; the practice would be telling.

She opened the door to their rooms, anxious to begin at once, and stopped with her hand on the door. Vincent’s coat, snow melting on its shoulders, hung on a chair by the fire and dripped upon the hearth. Her husband stood at the table by the window, his hair plastered against his skull and his high collar quite wilted by the damp. ‘I believe the snow is wetter in Belgium than in England.’ He dropped a paper into his writing desk and locked it.

‘You are soaked through!’

‘Believe me, I am well aware of that.’ Vincent undid the buttons at his cuffs.

Jane hurried to his side and began working at the buttons down the shirt’s front. ‘Where have you been? I have been searching everywhere for you.’

‘The studio.’ He lifted his cuff to his mouth to pry a stubborn button with his teeth. ‘Caught by the snow on my way back.’