Captain Livingston was out of the room in a moment, shouting for his horse.

If Dr. Smythe, the closest surgeon, were out on a call, it could take hours for him to return. Meanwhile, something must be done; but the home remedies were so paltry. “We must cool him.” Jane pulled folds of glamour out of the ether and wrapped a cooling charm around Mr. Vincent. She took deep breaths, her ribs pressing against her stays as she worked the folds. Without taking her attention from Mr. Vincent, she asked, “Is there a cold-monger?”

In a house such as this, there must be.

In short order, the cold-monger was summoned. Working together, he and Jane traded the folds of chill between them as Mr. Vincent was carried to a guest room. Once he was established in the bed, Jane passed all control of the folds to the cold-monger and watched as he used his exquisite and specific control over the folds to create a layer of cold air around Mr. Vincent. She placed her hand in the cool air and instructed the cold-monger to bring it to a point that was cold enough to bring the fever raging through Mr. Vincent’s body under control, but not so cold as to damage him. That done, the cold-monger tied the folds off. Jane herself took a cloth dipped in water and dribbled it into Mr. Vincent’s mouth, knowing that next to overheating, dehydration was the greatest danger.

She had never overexerted herself with glamour this severely, but she well remembered the cautionary tales with which her tutor had frightened her. Like a horse run too long and too hard, Mr. Vincent’s heart could burst if they could not cool him down sufficiently.

With the application of the cold-monger’s craft, Mr. Vincent’s spasming grew less severe, but his breath was still ragged and his pulse too fast. It seemed forever before the surgeon arrived. When he did, he strode straight into the room, without so much as taking off his greatcoat.

Dr. Smythe felt Mr. Vincent’s pulse and his face turned grave. Surveying the folds of chill surrounding Mr. Vincent, he said that they had probably saved his life, but whether he would regain his senses was beyond the surgeon’s power to judge. Then, Jane was forced to quit the room as the surgeon decided to remove Mr. Vincent’s shirt to try him with leeches.

Once outside, beyond the immediate stresses of caring for Mr. Vincent, Jane’s own anxiety caught up with her. It was only by placing a hand against the wall to steady herself that she was able to make her way down the hall. She was determined not to faint and add to the doctor’s burden. So young a man, struck down in his prime by such a trifle. The illusion should have been well within his grasp, but it was obvious that he had pushed himself too hard finishing the glamural for Lady FitzCameron. Jane should have tried harder to convince him not to do the tableau vivant when she saw his hands shaking after holding the illusion for so short a time.