The space to traverse was small, and it took delicate nudges of the threads to follow Dr. Jones’s fingers without touching her arm or Jane’s body. The lointaine vision did not care what his intentions were—it would show whatever was at its end, and if a solid body crossed its path, then that became the end in view.
Vincent could thread a lointaine vision through the smallest opening when he was calm, but he was far from calm.
Still, while Dr. Jones was searching, he was able to concentrate on her hand. He could concentrate on managing the threads of glamour and drive out the purpose from his thoughts. The fact that his Muse was bleeding to death billowed at the edge of his mind, but he could not let himself turn to look at it.
“There. Stop.”
Dr. Jones pointed to a tear in the deep red wall of Jane’s body. The ragged patch was no longer than the knuckle of Dr. Jones’s thumb, but bright red blood poured down from it.
“God.”
“Hold steady, Mr. Hamilton.” Dr. Jones pinched the opening shut between her thumb and forefinger. “I should advise you to look away.”
But he could not avert his gaze and still maintain the glamour as it needed to be. He had to stare at the space between his hands and at the blood that still leaked out of Jane.
“Nkiruka, there is a needle and thread on the table. Will you thread it for me? Doubled, no more than six inches.”
He tried to take comfort in the confidence in Dr. Jones’s voice, but there was so much blood. When Jane had miscarried, he had thought that was a frightening amount of blood. This.… The tremors began again.
He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs until his ribs ached, and blew it out. Again. He had to hold the threads steady for Jane. Breathe. Reach for a thread of calm from anywhere. Anything that would steady his hands. He was the Prince Regent’s glamourist. He had survived Napoleon, by God. He would not be unmanned by blood.
But it was Jane.
And he would break without her.
God help him, Vincent knew the path he had been on before Jane. He could not lose her. The world could not lose her. Their son—
“I need the image steady.” Dr. Jones squinted at the lointaine vision, which shook between his hands. Pieces of the disc shifted to a view of her arm and then back to Jane’s workings.
“I am trying.” He ducked his head and concentrated on the glamour. He must think of it as a technical challenge, not as though his Muse’s life depended upon it. The glamour was well within his abilities. He need only steady his hands.
He needed to steady his hands.
He must steady his hands.
It was vital that he steady his hands.
Vincent had spent his whole life trying not to be overset by his emotion. His father had always said it was a sign of weakness. When pure will failed, he had learned to hide it and to tie a glamour around himself that looked like control. But the illusion would do no good here. His hands must be steady in earnest.
Nkiruka gave Dr. Jones the threaded needle. He had not even seen her set Charles down on the counterpane by Jane’s head. She stared at his hands, her vision soft and vague, as if she were looking into the ether. “Let me.”
He wet his lips. This was not a standard technique, and he had altered it even further to brighten the image. “You see what I am doing?”
“Clear enough.”
“Then yes. Please, God, yes.”
She slipped under his arm to stand in front of him where Jane usually stood when they worked in tandem. With a delicate precision, the older glamourist touched the lines. Her touch was so gentle, he almost could not feel it, but the tremors in the image steadied a little. She nodded, brows drawn together in concentration. “Got it.”
Vincent let go, and stepped back.
The image steadied the moment his hands were no longer on the thread. Nkiruka, an elderly woman who must be in her seventh decade, could do what he could not. Out of sheer habit, Vincent swung his arms behind his back and clenched his hands together at the base of his spine.
Without some activity to distract him, even an activity he was failing at, the billowing fabric of fear kept pulling his gaze. It was always worse after the fact. He could brush past when in motion, but standing still and useless, it was too easy to get tangled in the folds. Jane could die. He had been worried that she might miscarry again because it had distressed her so the last time, but bearing his child might kill her.
When she recovered, he was never touching her again without a French envelope between them. He would not get her with child again. Watching her suffer the delivery had been bad enough, but to risk losing her again was unthinkable.
His breath was fast and shallow. Vincent held it. Then he exhaled slowly and attempted to hold to a regular pattern, as unnatural as it felt. As he watched Nkiruka and Dr. Jones work to save Jane—and they had to save Jane—it was impossible to miss the tension of both women.
God. He could not breathe again.