Frank sat forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together. His gaze went to Jane and then back to Vincent. “Do you need anything?”
The brief flash of pity in Frank’s eyes threatened to unravel him. Vincent looked down, clenching his hands into fists. For a moment—and a moment only, thank heavens—he was tempted to ask Frank to bring him some sherry, but this was not a time to slip into darkness. If Jane woke and he was insensible … it would not stand. “Thank you.” He forced his hands open, heedless of the shaking and lifted his gaze. “Would you ask them to bring Charles to me?”
*
One of the nurses had brought Charles in to visit, and Vincent now sat in the nursing chair, which he had pulled over next to Jane’s bed.
Each time he saw their son, Vincent was surprised anew by how little he was. In art, even the most detailed miniature was necessarily in want of completeness. Not Charles. His fingers alone were works of the highest order. It did not seem that anything so small could be so exquisite.
Vincent stretched his legs out in front of him and rested Charles on his lap. The midwife who had brought him in had wrapped him in a blanket, so that only his arms were free. The shift Charles wore was an unassuming cotton, without the rows of tucking and embroidery that Tom’s dresses had borne. The cap, too, was simple and its unadorned nature made the utility of warmth more apparent. In Vienna, he had thought the ruffled caps an affectation of fashion.
“But you will not be a fashionable young man, I wager.” He let Charles grasp his index finger. His son’s entire hand wrapped around it with an astonishingly strong grip and still the little thumb did not quite meet the equally small fingers. “You will be handsome in manner though, I trust. Your mother will have to instruct you there. Hm?”
Charles squirmed in reply.
“That is correct. Of the two of us, you should defer to her judgement more than mine.”
A little series of grunts was his answer. Charles’s hand found his own face and his eyes widened in astonishment.
“I will grant that that is not the common arrangement, but you need not look so surprised. Your mother is kind, with a steady character. She is wiser than I am, and a better glamourist. Yes. You will do well to attend to her example. I will tell you that I am a better man for doing so.” For a moment, Vincent found it difficult to breathe. The little squirms and grunts of their son made Jane’s stillness more apparent. His Muse needed to awaken soon. Thank God that Charles was too young to be able to see clearly, or he would be appalled at the state his father was in.
While holding Charles, Vincent was able to sometimes concentrate on just the single strand of joy that their son represented, but doing so meant letting the other strands slip and his glamoured fa?ade of calm fray. It was always the joy that surprised him and made the unravelling begin. Vincent compressed his lips and cleared the emotion out of his throat. “I look forward to introducing you to your cousin. I am glad that you will be of an age together. Tom is an upright young man.”
A gentle tap at the door preceded Nkiruka into the room. “How you do, doo-doo?”
“Well, thank you.” Vincent shifted Charles to his elbow and stood, relying on old training to steady himself with nothings. “And yourself?”
“Fine. Better yet, if you na lie to me.”
“Sorry. I am … doing poorly. She is—” And those were words he could not say aloud. “But Charles is well.”
Her vision went vague as she looked into the ether. “You do good with the web.”
“Thank you for giving me something to do.”
“It keeps infection out. I don’t know how or why, only that it do.”
“I admit that I am used to thinking of glamour as having little practical application.”
“That true enough.” She laughed and shook her head. “Dat’s why bakkra don’t care much if we do glamour. T’ink it’s only pretty pictures.”
“Although one could make the argument that the glamural hiding this village is a deeply practical application.” He rocked on his toes a little, dandling Charles. “How are you hiding the weaves?”
“De words an’ dem don’ have no English.”
“Jane said as much when you were working on the book. I am sorry it was lost in the fire.” For a moment his fury at Pridmore and his father rushed up. They had caused this. It was their fault that his Muse was—his throat tightened. It did not matter. They were dead, and she would recover. He swallowed and was able to forge ahead. “It is a very great loss.”
“Oh, I brought de book with us. T’ink I’m going to let all that work be wasted? Eh eh!”