The Right Honourable, The Earl of Verbury
Jane had to read the letter again to fully comprehend it. She looked up, expecting night to have fallen outside, but the late afternoon sun still shone on the buildings across the street and caught on the mullioned windows. A gentle breeze shook the strands of bobbing ivy that twined around the frame.
Lord Verbury, dead.
She did not expect Vincent to regret that fact, but she had no idea how he might feel about the death of his eldest brother or the accident that had disabled his middle brother. She had only met the men once, and it had been an evening fraught with tension. She rubbed her brow, trying to order her thoughts. When she lowered her hand, Herr Scholes was watching her.
He pushed his chair away from the conversation, which seemed to be about the trials of teething, and drew it next to Jane. “Is Sir David well?”
Jane smoothed the folds of her dress. If her mother had asked the question, Jane would have given a polite fiction, but Herr Scholes had filled the void that Vincent’s father had created long before his death. “He has received word that his father and eldest brother are dead.”
“Ah.” A wealth of unhappy knowledge rested in that simple exhalation. He rubbed his bare scalp. It was a gesture she had seen from Vincent many times, and Jane suddenly realised where he had learned it. Herr Scholes looked at the ceiling as if he could see through it to Vincent. “Forgive me for an impertinent question, but does he still have nightmares?”
“Not since we arrived here. They were particularly bad after the Trial.” Jane was aware that she spoke of it as if there could be no other trials, but when one stood accused of treason by one’s father, as Lord Verbury had done to Vincent, there could be no other. The Trial was over a year behind them, yet Jane knew that Vincent’s sleep would be disturbed tonight. “Have you any suggestions?”
“I am certain that you know him better than I by now, and you have heard the sum of my wisdom about using glamour to channel your emotions.”
“He does work himself to exhaustion when upset.”
“Hm. I am familiar with that…”
“Was he so often upset?”
“Angry, more than anything. Understand that, given our profession, I was accustomed to pupils who had been told that glamour was too feminine an art for them to pursue. Most of the young men who came to study with me bore the scars of their choice in some form or another. Your husband was marked by fury, made worse because he was so used to containing it that he often did not recognise his own anger.” He sighed and scrubbed again at his scalp.
“I think he was still struggling with that when we met. I thought he was angry at me, at the time.”
“You? You have done wonders for him. I saw him laugh more today than in the two years he studied with me. I think he—”
An abrupt sound from above, as of a body striking the floor, caused Herr Scholes to break off. Jane was at the door to the parlour without any memory of having stood. She glanced back at Herr Scholes, who met her eye with a knowing look. It was the sound of Vincent falling unconscious.
Fortunately, only family was present, and they were familiar enough with Vincent’s history that Jane needed to make only a hasty apology for her exit. She hurried out of the parlour and up the stairs to their room.
Vincent had not been gone long enough to risk a seizure by working beyond his capacity. Even so, it was rare that he pushed himself to the point of fainting. His stamina was impressive and one of his great strengths as a glamourist. Still, Jane would not be easy until she saw him.
When she pushed open the door to their chamber, the remnants of glamour floated in the room. Unlike the detailed, precise illusions that they created for the houses of nobility, this consisted of raw strands of glamour pulled straight from the ether. Reds and blacks swirled around the room in a thundercloud of distress.
His voice came from behind the small sofa set in the middle of the room. “On the floor.”
Jane shut the door and hurried around the sofa. Vincent lay on his back in his shirtsleeves. Sweat had soaked the fabric, sticking it to his chest. It plastered his hair to his head and stood in great drops upon his forehead, but he was clearly not in any danger.
Jane knelt beside him. “You worry me.”
“I did not faint.”
“And yet, you are on the floor.”
“I was dizzy and caught my heel. It seemed simpler to lie here and wait for it to pass.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “You read the letter?”
“I did.” Jane still had it in her hand, in fact.
Vincent covered his face with his hands, letting out a long breath that approached a groan. With his fingers resting on his brow, he rubbed his temples.
“Does your head ache?”