Jane spied Anne-Marie standing outside a shop on a cross-street and thought for a moment that she might be able to release poor Yves from his duties. As she opened her mouth to suggest it, Lieutenant Segal stepped from the shop and pressed a small packet into Anne-Marie’s hands. Jane’s heart seized at the clear devotion in Anne-Marie’s eyes, and the tender regard with which Lieutenant Segal beheld her. The ease in their manner reminded her too painfully of the distance which had grown between herself and Vincent since they had discovered she was with child.

Jane pulled her attention away, determined not to bother them. As a distraction, she searched for some topic on which one might converse with a young man. ‘How do your studies go?’

He shrugged. ‘They are well enough, I suppose.’

‘And do you study glamour as well?’

Scowling, Yves kicked a loose cobble and sent it skipping down the road. ‘It does not seem to be a skill I have. At least, not to hear my father tell it.’

‘There are other masters . . . if it is something you have an interest in.’

‘I shall have to find some other occupation. He will always be better than me, you see.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘I had thought to join the army, but without a war on, there is no way to make your fortune, or any likelihood of rising through the ranks.’

‘But glamour is less dangerous.’

He flashed her a smile. ‘Which means less of a chance for glory or distinction. No, I think I shall have to find something else.’

‘Is being distinguished so important to you?’

‘It is to my father.’ He stopped in front a petite two-story home fronted by neat window boxes filled with purple tulips. ‘Here we are.’

Vincent’s horse was tied to the fence, and flicked its ear disinterestedly at their approach. Jane thanked Yves, and – though he offered to wait for her – the way his boots shifted on the cobblestones gave a clear indication that he wished to be on his way. After she assured him that she could make her way back, he trotted off in the direction whence he had come.

Jane knocked on the front door, thankful for the gloves which covered her suddenly sweating palms, though she had no reason to be nervous. As she waited, she took in the details of the house, noting that the tulips which graced the window boxes were crafted from glamour. At a distance they had the right shape, but on closer inspection they were crudely rendered, and clearly not her husband’s work.

The door opened and a young woman answered, dressed in the simple local costume. She had curling flaxen locks, and clear grey eyes which greeted Jane with a twinkle. ‘May I help you?’

‘Is this the home of Mme Maçon? I was told that Mr. Vincent would be here. I am his wife.’