He smirked. “You are quite good, Miss Ellsworth; I have no doubt that you have a tableau vivant of your own prepared.”

“And you are a faster glamourist than I, so can follow my lead.” She took his meaning. “Could you create an Apollo to my Daphne?”

He glanced at the laurel tree arcing over them and said, “An apt choice.”

Quickly they sketched out the play. Then, working faster than she knew she could, Jane tugged folds over her to create a mask of Daphne, and the delicate garments such an ephemeral nymph would wear as she fled the sun god. She also worked one set of folds into a slipknot, intending to create a surprize at the end of this tableau vivant. Mr. Vincent might be faster than she, but Jane would prove her worth as a glamourist.

She sensed the ether trembling beside her as Mr. Vincent worked Apollo into being. When all was ready, he untied the folds that masked them from view.

As soon as Daphne was brought into view, the spectators gasped in delight. It was only when her friends began to glance at Melody did Jane realize that, in her haste, she had modeled the figure on her sister. Daphne’s golden hair tumbled in the same ringlets, and although her cornflower blue eyes were wide with apprehension and each element was purified for the glamour, they undeniably had their base in Melody’s form.

Appearing taller than he was, and glowing with the light of the sun, Mr. Vincent embodied Apollo, his hands outstretched to reach for the frightened nymph. As their guests studied the tableau vivant with exquisite fascination, Jane released the slipknot she held, and hidden folds slid around her into a laurel tree. She was gratified by the gasps of surprize and pleasure from their viewers. It was no small thing to change a detailed glamour so smoothly.

Then, to her surprize, Apollo dropped to his knees and embraced the laurel tree, weeping with such conviction that Jane very nearly released the folds masking her within the laurel tree; but to have done so would have made the unbidden intimacy more apparent, so she bore it until the party’s applause indicated it was time to end the tableau vivant.

Mr. Vincent stood and became himself, his broad chest heaving from the effort of maintaining the folds while he was moving. As Jane dropped the folds masking her in the laurel tree, she strove to pretend that the trembling in her hands and the shortness of her breath was from the glamour. Nothing could explain away the flush on her cheeks, though.

Mr. Vincent excused himself as soon as he could, saying that he must clean his brushes, despite all begging him to stay and telling him the afternoon would be lost without his company. Lady FitzCameron did not join in these pleas, seeming to know exactly how far she could command his loyalties, and waved her acquiescence when he expressed his earnest wish to return to Banbree Manor. Bowing shortly to Mrs. Ellsworth and Lady FitzCameron, he took his leave and walked down the hill.