The couple in front of them paused on the threshold with an intake of breath, then proceeded slowly through the door, their heads turning about in constant amazement. For her part, Jane nearly stumbled with her own astonishment when she entered the dining room, though the wonders of the room seemed to have no impact on Mr. Buffington. When she had seen the unfinished room at the FitzCameron ball, she had marveled at its artistry and elegance, but she had not imagined how complete, how perfect, the illusion would be upon completion.

The room had vanished, its walls replaced entirely by arching trees; the ceiling, a sky overhead which shimmered with the light of stars and the moon. The trees rustled in response to a conjured breeze, which carried with it hints of jasmine and the pleasant, spicy scent of loam. The brook, which had so entranced her at the ball, continued its babbling, but now it was accompanied by birdsong from a nightingale that sat on one of the tree branches, singing its melody at exactly the right volume to be unobtrusive in a gathering.

They walked on a floor of soft grass that seemed to cushion their feet beyond what any glamour should be able to do.

In the midst of this glade, the mahagony clawfoot table, rather than jarring with all the plates and silver necessary for a dinner of forty, seemed as if it were something out of a tale of enchantment. The crystal and silver gleamed in the glamour and its formal lines were juxtaposed against the wild beauty of the trees to create a careful elegance.

Though the sky shewed nighttime, the room did not lack for light, as the table abounded with candles which gleamed against the silver and crystal assembled there. Mr. Buffington led Jane to her seat while chattering about how it was a shame that this was not a real forest, for there was sure to be good hunting in a wood such as this. He no doubt took her hushed reverence as a sign of her interest in his hunters.

Jane now well understood Mr. Vincent’s fatigue. She had imagined after seeing the early steps of the glamural at the ball that he had little remaining to do, but she had not understood how complete his vision would be. Already at the table, Mr. Dunkirk stood behind the chair next to hers, waiting for all the ladies to be seated. He had escorted Mrs. Ellsworth, who chattered to him with the same ambivalence to the surroundings as Mr. Buffington. Jane wanted to apologize to Mr. Dunkirk for her mother, but until the table turned, she was bound to pay attention to Mr. Buffington, leaving poor Mr. Dunkirk to the banalities of her mother’s conversation.

She admired the room, resisting the temptation to delve beneath the surface of the illusion. The ambiance of the room soothed her, and she let herself relax into it, without worrying about how it had been created. As she took Mr. Vincent’s advice to experience the art without struggling to see behind the scenes, she felt the impact of the piece manifest in an unexpected yearning. The vitality of the room extended beyond the mere execution of glamour and into palpable emotion; Jane could not imagine creating so rich an environment.