Even recognising the unlikeliness of the accusations she lay upon Vincent’s shoulders, Jane had trouble wresting her thoughts away from the dark spiral she had embarked upon. She pushed the pillow away and rolled onto her back, staring at the canopy above her.

She was of two minds. In one, she wanted Vincent there to reassure her that he loved her. In the other, she was glad he was away, because it delayed the moment when she would have to know how he reacted to the news.

Sitting up, Jane swung her legs out of bed, steadying herself against the quick wave of dizziness that washed over her. When it had passed, Jane went to her dressing table, took up the bottle of lavender water which her mother had sent her, and used it to wash her face.

Glancing at the mirror, Jane’s pallor surprised even her. She pinched her cheeks to try to restore some bloom, then stopped. What was she doing? Primping as if a blush on her cheeks would make the difference between Vincent loving her or not?

Jane sat with her elbows on the table, hands cradling her head. This would not do. Until Vincent by some action or word gave her a reason to think that she had lost him, she dishonoured him by assuming the worst. She sat thus for some time, and was sitting there still when Vincent ran up the stairs and threw open the door to the room.

She jumped as it rebounded against the wall.

Vincent’s face was red and his chest heaved as if he had run some distance. He strode across the room and knelt at her feet, taking her hands. ‘Muse, is it true?’

Incapable of words, she could only nod.

He rose to his knees, embracing her and pulling her tight. ‘And you are well?’

‘The doctor says I am in excellent health.’ Her voice broke. ‘Only I am not to do glamour.’

He shuddered. ‘Your mother was right to take me to task for letting you risk yourself.’ With her ear pressed to his chest, his voice vibrated through her. ‘If anything had . . . I should never have forgiven myself.’

‘But I wanted to. And neither of us knew.’ Timidly, she ventured. ‘You are not displeased?’

Vincent released her, sitting back on his heels in apparent shock. ‘No. Why would you think that?’

‘Because I cannot help you with the glamour in glass any longer.’ She did not, would not, voice her deeper fears.

He caressed her face in one hand, tracing the line of the scratch under her eye with his thumb. ‘Muse, have you been crying?’

‘Maybe a little,’ she whispered. ‘I so wanted to work with you, and now . . .’ She bent her head, twisting her wedding band around on her finger. The sapphire caught the light and winked as though it held a glamour in its depths.