Still, there were other ways of making a breeze. Jane tore a page out of her sketchbook, wincing at the noise the paper made as it ripped free. Folding it in even pleats, she made a crude fan and abandoned her chair. Standing by Vincent, she fanned the air, trying to cool him some. Beyond stirring his hair, it seemed to have little effect, and he scarcely seemed to notice her presence, so deep into the glamour was he.

Sweeping his hand back as he worked a Chastain Damask pattern, he caught her raised arm with his elbow. Startled, Jane dropped her makeshift fan and he dropped the glamour. Part of the tree disappeared.

He wheeled on her. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

‘I—You looked hot.’

‘Yes. That happens. I am working glamour. Or rather, I am trying to work glamour.’ His face was far redder than it had been moments before.

‘I am sorry. I only wanted to help.’

‘You cannot.’ He gave her his shoulder and focused again on the window. ‘Now excuse me while I rebuild this tree.’

In agony, Jane took a step back to keep out of his way. ‘You could use your Petite Répétition technique to build it faster.’

‘If Mrs. Gilman did not, undoubtedly, know every tree in that painting better than her husband’s face, that might be an option. But as it is, I must build each one individually.’ He tied off the thread of glamour he was stitching and faced her, gaze fully in the physical world, and burning her with the anger under his skin. ‘I am sorry you find this tedious, but I did warn you not to come.’

‘I thought that was because you were concerned for my health, not because I would be in the way.’

‘Well, had I anticipated it, I might have expressed that as a reason, too.’

Jane stared aghast at her husband, trying to understand what had provoked him to this undeserved harshness. Often he could be brusque when he was distracted, but never cruel.

Mr. Gilman chose this inopportune moment to step into the room. Jane hardly knew whether to be thankful for his interruption or to wish him away. ‘Ah. Mr. Vincent. Might I impose on you for a small change to our plan?’

With an obvious struggle, Vincent calmed his features. ‘Yes?’

‘There is to be only one lamb.’

The colour faded from Vincent’s face and the muscle in his jaw tightened. ‘Only one?’

‘I am afraid so.’

Jane tried to distract Mr. Gilman before he could notice Vincent’s anger. ‘Of course, you know your wife better than I. But it does seem as though the effect of a single lamb gambolling is much different from the flocks which Mrs. Gilman has painted.’

He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Nevertheless. I find that one will suit my needs.’