“Please sit by me and I will explain as best I can.”

Jane sat in the rough chair by his bedside as he slid to the edge. He reached for the book and opened to the first page. “This contains my thoughts on glamour and my efforts to codify a system for recording it.”

Strong, masculine handwriting strode across the page; the tight script wrapped around an ink sketch in the corner. Despite herself, Jane leaned closer, fragments of sentences leaping off the page at her, fragments like explore light and ways to transport it. Perhaps storing in glass? and Without passion, there is no art, only technique.

“But this is your life’s work! I—”

“Exactly.” He pursed his lips and growled low in his throat. “I teach the techniques of glamour to Miss Dunkirk. But techniques are not art. To you, I want to give my art. Whether these writings hold the key, I do not know, but I think they might. You are always so careful, so methodical in your thoughts and actions. I should like to know what levels of art you could reach if you relaxed your guard.”

“I am courteous and follow the civilities which are expected of one in polite society.”

“And your glamour reflects that. You are one of the finest natural technicians I have seen, and you have a rare eye for form; but for all that your art is lifeless.”

“Are these the words of thanks you want me to accept with grace?”

He laughed. “No. Only the book. I would rather have you honestly angry with me than polite.”

She took his measure for a moment; though he disdained empty courtesies, his roughness of manner seemed at times to be a shield for a more gentle nature. “It is not so easy to be angry with you.”

“You were, though, for a moment. When you are angry, your face stays calm, but your skin flushes. I have had several opportunities to notice this.”

Jane felt her skin warm with shame that her feelings had been so transparent. “Are you certain that I was not embarrassed?”

“Quite.” He looked away again, returning his gaze to the book in his lap. “I owe you more than my life, and this is the most precious thing I have to offer. Will you let me thank you in this manner?”

Mr. Vincent’s face, whether from illness or emotion, shewed a naked need to be clear of the debt he perceived that he owed Jane. She would protest that he owed her nothing, but that would only agitate him further, and were she honest with herself, she would admit that she wanted the knowledge in those pages. She wanted to prove to him that her art was not lifeless.

“Yes. I will accept your thanks in the manner you offer.”

Mr. Vincent nodded without looking up, then shut the book and handed it to her. “Thank you.”

Jane took the book. “You are welcome.” The moment begged for more comment, but no words seemed capable of filling it. She rose then to go, accepting silence as the best option. Only at the door did she remember that he might, yet, have some message for Melody, but could not bring herself to acknowledge a possible attachment directly. “Have you any messages you wish me to carry?”