Nkiruka picked it up quickly, but Amey kept missing the “over the table” pass as she twisted the string the wrong way.
Laughing from deep in her belly, Amey held up the square of ribbon they had once again created. “Is a box useful for anything? Because that seems to be all I can make.”
“Can hold your brain, mebbe.” Nkiruka reached through the square and tugged her daughter’s kerchief.
“Mammy!” Amey laughed and squirmed away.
Amidst the laughter, Jane’s fatigue was quite forgotten. Even unable to actually perform glamour, she was still able to find satisfaction in discussing the craft.
“See. Is why reeds better.” Nkiruka tossed the string on the table. “Me go mek wan model.”
“Reeds?”
“Like for basket? Make shape. It dry. Then…” She broke off and said something to her daughter.
She nodded. “You can trace the form, because it keep the shape even without somebody holding one.”
“Can’t mek square from circle.” Nkiruka winked at her daughter. “Except mebbe you.” She broke into laughter again.
“Well, that will make an interesting addition to my book.”
“Book?” Nkiruka tilted her head and then looked at the paper on the table. “You ah write wan book?”
“Oh … yes. It was at first only a way to amuse myself while…” She passed a hand down her front. “While I could not work glamour. But I think it has some merit, so I might see about having it published when we are back in London. It is a comparison of African and European schools of glamour.”
Nkiruka slid out one of drawings she had done for Jane of an Igbo training exercise. “You go use this?”
“Indeed. If I were able to see glamour right now, I could take notes myself, but since I cannot, this was very useful.”
“If you were able—” Nkiruka broke off and scowled at the paper.
“I know you say that it is safe, but I would rather you think me silly for not looking than take the chance. It is not so long, and—”
The older woman made a sudden rude noise and pushed her chair back from the table. “We gone.”
Jane turned from her to Amey, who was also rising, to see if she could explain what had just occurred to make Nkiruka angry. Neither of them met her gaze. Jane stood. “Forgive me. I have done something to offend you, but know not what. Will you tell me?”
“You take…” Nkiruka growled and turned to Amey, speaking rapidly with phrases accented by gestures at the paper then at Jane.
The young woman shook her head as she replied. Jane could only watch the conversation with an increasing want of comprehension, until finally Amey turned to her. “She upset that you writing a book and taking credit for her drawings and ideas.”
“Teach each other. That ah one thing. Book? No. Done tek enough, done profit enough.”
“Oh, but…” But … that was precisely what Jane had been prepared to do. It had not been her intention to steal Nkiruka’s ideas or to take credit for them, but nowhere in the structure of her book had she allotted space to acknowledge that half the ideas were not hers. Jane recalled when a pamphleteer had referred to the first glamural she and Vincent had made together as “created entire by Mr. Vincent” and how troubled she had been by it. Vincent himself had always acknowledged her work, but if he had not?
Jane’s face heated with embarrassment. “I am so very sorry. You are quite correct to be angry.”
Nkiruka stood with her arms crossed over her chest and stared at her as though she had grown snakes for hair.
“Would you … that is, if it would not be an imposition, would you like to author the work with me? I think the topic is of interest, and I cannot possibly undertake such a project without your experience.” Jane’s heart was beating too quickly, as it often had since she had been bled. She put her hand on the back of the chair to steady herself. “If we did publish it, you would be entitled to a share of the proceeds, of course.”
“Proceeds?” Nkiruka looked to her daughter for an explanation. After Amey said a few words, Nkiruka’s eyes narrowed. “You pay? Fu talk ’bout glamour?”
“Yes.”
“Mi na read nor write.”
“That has an easy enough solution. I can teach you to do both, or simply transcribe your words, if you prefer.”
“Huh. Ah wha ya tarl!” Her eyes were narrow still.
Before Jane could ask Nkiruka what she meant, the clap of swift bootheels sounded upon the gallery floor. Vincent entered, almost at a run. He drew up at the sight of Jane’s guests and attempted to disguise the fear that had been briefly visible. “Louisa said you were unwell.”
“No … I am afraid that was not true.” Jane sighed at the petty revenge and pulled out the chair she was holding. “Vincent, will you show your silence weave to Nkiruka? We were just discussing glamour, and I have some things I should like your thoughts on.” They had other topics to discuss. Too many, it seemed.
And once they were wrapped in silence, she would tell him about Pridmore, and then she would ask if it was legal to have a letter of agreement with a slave.