The young woman looked Jane up and down, taking notice of her English walking suit as though her accent alone were not enough to identify her. ‘Of course, madame. He is right this way, with my grandmother, Mme Maçon.’

She led Jane down a narrow hall and into a tiny sitting room. An elderly woman, white hair thinned to a wisp, sat in a rocking chair by the fire. Vincent sat next to her, a notebook open on his knee and a pencil in his right hand. His left hand gestured under a floating glamour of a single green leaf.

As Jane entered, Vincent started visibly, dropping his notebook. It slapped to the floor, and as he grabbed for it, the green leaf trembled and scissored out of view. ‘Jane!’

Jane could not miss the sudden pallor of her husband’s face, nor the flaring of his nostrils as he inhaled at the surprise of seeing her. More than mere surprise, though: in the widening of his pupils and the vein that leapt at his temple, she saw fear. Not wishing to record more of his alarm at her presence than she had already witnessed, Jane focused on the ribbon of her reticule.

The paper of the letter rattled as she drew it forth. ‘You received a letter, and I thought it might have been the one you were looking for this morning.’

‘Thank you. You did not need to bring it all this way.’ Vincent rose and took the letter from her outstretched hand.

‘The doctor did encourage me to go for walks, and this provided me with a new route.’

‘I see.’ Vincent cleared his throat. Jane could not miss the glance he shot to the young woman who had greeted her. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Mme Maçon, who has been graciously taking time to show me her approach to glamour.’

Now it was Jane’s turn to lift her eyes in surprise. She made her courtesies to Mme Maçon and her granddaughter while her mind filled with wonder. Why in Heaven’s name would Vincent be studying with a folk glamourist? She could only have the most primitive of techniques, beyond which he was far advanced.