*
Jane can’t get herself through the hanging into Tu Reviens fast enough. She’s so desperate that she’s careless about it and bursts onto the landing without checking to see if anyone’s there who might witness her appearance. There is, in fact, a man on one of the bridges, the cleaner who interrupted breakfast because he was lost. He’s washing the banisters, wringing a cloth out repeatedly into a bucket of water. Luckily, he’s mostly turned away from her.
Steen—Jasper?—is more circumspect. He waits until the man has completely turned his back, then steps out of the painting, a basset hound again.
Jane has collapsed onto the landing. She sits next to the painting with her back to the wall and legs spread out before her in a V. Jasper—Steen?—takes the long route around her legs, then nudges her thigh with his nose, gently, in a gesture clearly meant to encourage her to get up and step back into the painting.
“No,” she whispers. “Forget it. Never again.”
He burrows his head under her arm and rests his chin on her lap. A moment later, apparently deciding that’s not good enough, he climbs over her leg and rests his chin on the other side of her lap, then, when perhaps that strikes him as no improvement, he tries to perch himself lengthwise on top of one of her legs. Basset hounds are ridiculous. She crisscrosses her legs to give him more room and he manages to nestle awkwardly on top of her lap. Laying his head on her arm, he stares up at her fondly. He weighs a ton.
With tears rising to her eyes, she pets the short hair on the back of his head, gently. Then she strokes his long ears. His basset hound ears are much longer than his strayhound ears.
She both wants his comfort and doesn’t want it. She wants his dog comfort; she doesn’t want his strayhound comfort. “Can we communicate with our minds on this side of the painting?” she whispers to him.
Jasper shakes his head.
That, at least, is relieving. Closing her eyes again, Jane sits there for a long time.
Soothing noises surround her: the man wringing his cloth out into his bucket. The voices of Lucy and Phoebe below, moving across the receiving hall. The sucking of air when gala people open and close the doors. Sometime later, the voice of Colin, speaking to someone who’s not answering—probably Kiran. Jane breathes slowly and pretends her lungs are a jellyfish. She is as vast and deep and heavy as the sea.
Then a new sound: the distinctive shutter slide and clap of Ivy’s digital camera. Opening her eyes, Jane finds Ivy on the opposite landing, seeming to take a picture of the cleaner with the bucket. She remembers, not much caring, that Ivy’s been lying to her about something, or at any rate, been evasive; that Patrick and Philip and Phoebe were up to something sneaky last night. That Grace Panzavecchia might be in the house.
Across the landing, Ivy watches Jane curiously. “Hi again,” she says.
When Jane is unable to stretch her face into anything pleasant or friendly, Ivy’s own face goes guarded, almost a little hurt. Then, as she continues to watch Jane, she begins to look concerned.
“Hey, are you all right?” she asks, walking across the bridge toward Jane.
No, Jane thinks. I stepped into a painting and turned into someone else. “Take a picture of me?”
Ivy pauses, surprised by this, then brings her camera to her face and clicks. Then she comes to Jane’s landing and crouches beside her, pressing a few buttons and handing Jane the camera so she can see her own image on the screen. It’s nicely framed. Jasper is adorable in her lap. And the person in the picture looks just exactly like Jane: Jane’s facial features, her hair, her clothing, her body, and an expression of distress on her face that mirrors exactly how Jane feels. That’s me. That’s me. Right, Aunt Magnolia? Jane resists the urge to touch her own face for further confirmation.
“Thanks,” Jane says.
“You’re welcome,” Ivy says. “You seem . . . upset. Did something happen?”
Did something happen? Laughter rises into Jane’s throat, bursts out of her mouth. Ivy tilts her head, puzzled. There’s nothing Jane would rather do than tell Ivy all about it. She’d like to send Ivy through the painting to show her, as long as she doesn’t have to go in again herself. “Yes,” Jane says, then swallows. “Something happened. I want to tell you what it is, but I don’t think I can just now. I’m sorry.”
Ivy seems unfazed by this. She’s comfortable, crouched beside Jane, her arms resting on her knees and her camera perched in one hand. “It’s funny you say that,” she says, “because there are things I’d like to tell you too.”
Footsteps sound very close. Coming from the direction of the east wing, Mrs. Vanders appears on the landing, then stops short.
“This is not a convenient assembly point,” she says. “Especially on the day before a gala.”
“I’m just leaving,” Jane says, despite not having any intention of ever going anywhere again.
Mrs. Vanders grunts. “Have neither of you located Ravi?”
Right. Jane remembers that once, long ago, in a time before Zorsted, Mrs. Vanders was looking for Ravi, because of something somehow related to a Vermeer painting. It doesn’t matter now, at all. “I saw him,” Jane says. “With fruit and toast. He went up to the third floor to visit someone.”
Mrs. Vanders grunts again. She’s begun to peer at Jane suspiciously. “What’s wrong with you, girl?”
Jane remembers she’s got some questions for Mrs. Vanders about Aunt Magnolia. She was shocked to learn that Mrs. Vanders knew Aunt Magnolia. Since then, Jane’s threshold for what qualifies as shocking has risen. Opening her mouth to form some sort of Aunt Magnolia–ish question, Jane discovers that Mrs. Vanders, who’s apparently not a woman blessed with patience, has grunted yet again and marched on down the stairs. “Ivy,” the housekeeper calls sharply over her shoulder, “I expect Cook could use an extra hand or two today, if you’re quite done with your camera.”
Ivy doesn’t move. “Maybe we can talk later,” she says to Jane.
“I’d like that,” Jane says, “very much.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
One of her legs is falling asleep under Jasper’s weight. “Yeah,” she lies, shifting him incrementally.
“It’s good you’ve got the basset for company,” Ivy says. “Jasper’s never been so obsessed with anyone.” She makes a move to stand up.
“Take my hand?” Jane says.
For the merest, surprised second, Ivy hesitates. Then she reaches out and takes Jane’s hand. Her hand is warm, strong. She holds Jane’s tightly.
“Thanks,” Jane says.
“You’re welcome.”
Somewhere in the house, Mrs. Vanders shouts Ivy’s name.
“Sorry,” says Ivy with a sigh.
“It’s okay. Go ahead,” says Jane.
So Ivy lets Jane go and turns away, leaving behind a faint whiff of chlorine. Closing her eyes again, Jane can’t stop seeing that wrong face that looked back at her in the window reflection.
Suddenly Jane is clambering to her feet while Jasper yelps and trips and fights for his footing. He fixes Jane with an indignant expression.
“Sorry!” she says, already on her way up the stairs. “Sorry, Jasper! But I need a mirror.”
*
The thing that upset Jane about the face in the Zorsted window reflection wasn’t that it was a terrible, ugly face, because it wasn’t. If someone walked through the door of Tu Reviens wearing that face, Jane would think, Wow, that person has an interesting face. I can’t begin to guess what part of our Earth that person gets her genes from. But she wouldn’t be bothered.
The thing was, Jane could feel herself underneath that unfamiliar face. She had looked out of her own eyes, into those unfamiliar eyes. This is more disturbing than she ever would have anticipated. It’s as if a total stranger broke in and stole her insides.