Vincent had to turn away. God’s wounds, was the smallest thing going to make him weep? He stood by the chair and faced the window, though no pretence would hide his difficulty in governing himself. It became harder to keep the snarled mess of his sensibilities in check with each moment that his Muse slept. “I am glad to hear the book was saved.” At least his voice was tolerably steady. “I should like to read it.”
“Sure. I bring it.” Nkiruka came to stand in front of him. “But let me hold dis picknee dat cause so much trouble first. Ah he mi come for.”
“Of course.” Vincent was equal parts reluctant to part with Charles and also grateful that he did not have to risk dropping his son. He wanted a moment to restitch the illusion of control. If it were a glamour, he would tear the misshapen patchwork out and start anew, but for Charles, for Jane, he had to keep the fa?ade in place. Once he started to unravel, he was not sure there would be anything left of him.
Thirty-five
Considerations
Jane must have been working a great deal of glamour to be so out of breath. Vincent was talking about folds with someone. She knew the voice that answered him, but she could not place it for the longest time. Dragging her lids open, Jane looked to see who it was. Still, the apparatus of her mind turned so slowly that she stared at the elderly black woman for some time without a name attaching itself. Jane knew that she liked her.
Nkiruka. Yes. That was it.
She stood talking with Vincent, whose back was to Jane.
Jane wanted him to turn, but she was so tired. She would call him in a moment.
*
A baby was crying.
Jane frowned. Why had Melody brought Tom into her bedchamber in the middle of the night? It seemed rude and unlike her.
Vincent’s voice rumbled, “Shall I hold him again?”
“Naaa. I t’ink he wet.”
Oh. Jane’s eyes were closed. She opened them, blinking against the light. Nkiruka held—oh. Oh, she held Charles. Vincent bent over their son, patting his belly as the infant shrieked his displeasure.
Jane’s mouth was dry and she had to swallow several times before she could make a sound. “May I see him?”
Vincent jerked around. His eyes widened. By his expression, he had not expected her to live. Neither had she.
Jane tried to smile at him, and Vincent’s composure shattered. He took a step towards her and his legs buckled. Her husband dropped to his knees like a marionette with all its strings cut.
Nkiruka backed away, turning to the window. She wove a sphere of silence around her so that Charles’s cries vanished, leaving only the sound of Vincent sobbing.
He knelt by the bed. Vincent found her hand and clutched it with both of his, pressing his face down against it. The sobs were nothing romantic, but ragged and raw. Each breath sounded as though it tore open his throat and choked him. Jane wanted to bring her other hand over to stroke his hair and soothe him, but she had not the strength to do even that.
She settled for moving her thumb along the ridges of his fingers and smoothing his hot tears away.
The storm, when it passed, was not long, nor did Jane think that it had swept away all the clouds from Vincent’s mind. He leaned against her, face nestled against the damp fabric of the bed. She stroked his hand and raised a finger to his forehead, which was fevered, as though he had overworked with glamour.
When Vincent’s breathing had steadied, he pulled himself up. His face was red, blotched, wet with tears, and, with the addition of his bruises, altogether inelegant. Jane had never seen anything so handsome.
“Forgive me for that.” Vincent pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped ineffectually at his face. He kept his other hand on hers.
“Nothing to forgive.” Speech was laborious but necessary. “Flattered.”
His chuckle contained the remnant of a sob. “This is a strange sort of flirtation.”
“Inscrutable.”
That had been, perhaps, a mistake, as he began weeping again. His breath caught like a child’s, and he shook his head. With a sort of mocking smile, Vincent gestured at his face. “Apparently, this is what joy looks like on me.” He did not bother with his handkerchief but wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “I always was a backwards youth.”
She mustered a smile for him. “You say that as if it were no longer true.”
“No, only to prove that I have long practise at being contrary.”
“I did not need proof.”
Vincent laughed, and cried, and laughed some more. “Do you want to see Charles?”
“Very much.”
He rose and walked away from her with clear reluctance. Jane rolled her head to the side to watch him, weariness keeping her pinned to the bed. Her whole core ached, and when sleep came again, she would embrace it gladly. It crept around the edges of her vision, and she had to widen her eyes to keep them from shutting of their own accord.