bookcase with large, awkward threads. The fold was bulky and wrinkled; light careened across the gilt titles. “You see how simple it can be.”
“Indeed.” Jane came to stand by Melody, suppressing a wince at the clumsy effect. “And with only a little effort you may adjust the folds to the brightness or shade you desire.” She plucked Melody’s stitches free and shook the folds out so that the wrinkles dropped away. “You see how I can stretch the fold to change the degree of brightness? Thinning any fold in this manner will mute its effect.”
“You make it look so simple.” Miss Dunkirk studied the air with the abstracted gaze so indicative of an absorption of glamour.
“Here.” Jane plucked the fold from the shelf and held it out to Miss Dunkirk, the light dripping in strands of gold that would have made Rumpelstiltskin proud. “Hold it so that you can feel its weight, and then I will show you how to thin it.”
Eyes widening, Miss Dunkirk accepted the sheer fabric of light from her. At first it wrinkled in her hands, sending rainbows of color at odd angles across the surface. But with gentle prompting, she was eventually able to straighten the fold so it gleamed evenly.
Laughing together, they pulled and twisted the fold,exploring the many possibilities inherent in a single fold of glamour. Miss Dunkirk displayed a greater aptitude than Jane had expected. In the end, she was able to create the effect of sunlight glancing across the books, and if it were not as subtle as Jane might have managed, neither was it as inept as one might expect from someone who had never studied glamour.
Breathing rapidly and somewhat flushed, Miss Dunkirk stepped back from her last carefully placed stitch.
Jane nodded in approval. “Very nicely done.”
Turning from the bookcase, Miss Dunkirk said, “Miss Melody, what do . . . Oh.”
From Miss Dunkirk’s tone, Jane fully expected her sister to have slipped the room again, and in this she was correct.
Somewhat more unexpected was the view through the window, wherein Melody conversed amicably with Mr. Vincent. Or, rather, she conversed. He drew.
He had turned aside from his easel and picked up a leather notebook. Judging from the angle of his gaze, he was probably sketching Melody.
They were quite alone. Jane compressed her lips. Would Melody never learn the bounds of propriety?
“Miss Dunkirk, will you excuse me? Melody and I should return home for dinner.”
“Of course.” The girl’s face was paler than Jane would like, but they had not done so much glamour that she felt cause to worry. “I have kept you too long.”
With a minimum of farewells and a promise to see eachother soon, Jane left Robinsford Abbey and went round to the side of the house where Mr. Vincent painted and Melody watched.
As Jane walked across the neatly trimmed lawn, a breeze carried Melody’s voice to her. “Ah, you see. My sister comes to be my nursemaid and chaperon, as I told you she would.” She waved and raised her voice. “Jane! Do look at what Mr. Vincent is drawing.”
Noting that her sister made no move to perform introductions, and was unlikely to do so, Jane halted in front of the pair. “I am afraid that we need to return home for dinner.”
Mr. Vincent shut his slim, leather notebook and stood waiting for Melody to introduce them. His eyes were a warm brown, but they studied Jane without a hint of emotion—no compassion, disdain, or condescension marred his visage. Indeed, Jane had detected more interest in his expression when he was painting Robinsford Abbey than when he looked at her.
Melody wrinkled her nose. “Oh, do be reasonable, Jane, or you’ll have Mr. Vincent thinking that we dine unfashionably early.”
“I trust that Mr. Vincent, whom I have yet to meet, will understand.”
“La! He is standing right here. Don’t pretend you don’t know him.” She leaned toward Mr. Vincent and lowered her voice. “Jane spotted you out here first and was
“Indeed.” Jane came to stand by Melody, suppressing a wince at the clumsy effect. “And with only a little effort you may adjust the folds to the brightness or shade you desire.” She plucked Melody’s stitches free and shook the folds out so that the wrinkles dropped away. “You see how I can stretch the fold to change the degree of brightness? Thinning any fold in this manner will mute its effect.”
“You make it look so simple.” Miss Dunkirk studied the air with the abstracted gaze so indicative of an absorption of glamour.
“Here.” Jane plucked the fold from the shelf and held it out to Miss Dunkirk, the light dripping in strands of gold that would have made Rumpelstiltskin proud. “Hold it so that you can feel its weight, and then I will show you how to thin it.”
Eyes widening, Miss Dunkirk accepted the sheer fabric of light from her. At first it wrinkled in her hands, sending rainbows of color at odd angles across the surface. But with gentle prompting, she was eventually able to straighten the fold so it gleamed evenly.
Laughing together, they pulled and twisted the fold,exploring the many possibilities inherent in a single fold of glamour. Miss Dunkirk displayed a greater aptitude than Jane had expected. In the end, she was able to create the effect of sunlight glancing across the books, and if it were not as subtle as Jane might have managed, neither was it as inept as one might expect from someone who had never studied glamour.
Breathing rapidly and somewhat flushed, Miss Dunkirk stepped back from her last carefully placed stitch.
Jane nodded in approval. “Very nicely done.”
Turning from the bookcase, Miss Dunkirk said, “Miss Melody, what do . . . Oh.”
From Miss Dunkirk’s tone, Jane fully expected her sister to have slipped the room again, and in this she was correct.
Somewhat more unexpected was the view through the window, wherein Melody conversed amicably with Mr. Vincent. Or, rather, she conversed. He drew.
He had turned aside from his easel and picked up a leather notebook. Judging from the angle of his gaze, he was probably sketching Melody.
They were quite alone. Jane compressed her lips. Would Melody never learn the bounds of propriety?
“Miss Dunkirk, will you excuse me? Melody and I should return home for dinner.”
“Of course.” The girl’s face was paler than Jane would like, but they had not done so much glamour that she felt cause to worry. “I have kept you too long.”
With a minimum of farewells and a promise to see eachother soon, Jane left Robinsford Abbey and went round to the side of the house where Mr. Vincent painted and Melody watched.
As Jane walked across the neatly trimmed lawn, a breeze carried Melody’s voice to her. “Ah, you see. My sister comes to be my nursemaid and chaperon, as I told you she would.” She waved and raised her voice. “Jane! Do look at what Mr. Vincent is drawing.”
Noting that her sister made no move to perform introductions, and was unlikely to do so, Jane halted in front of the pair. “I am afraid that we need to return home for dinner.”
Mr. Vincent shut his slim, leather notebook and stood waiting for Melody to introduce them. His eyes were a warm brown, but they studied Jane without a hint of emotion—no compassion, disdain, or condescension marred his visage. Indeed, Jane had detected more interest in his expression when he was painting Robinsford Abbey than when he looked at her.
Melody wrinkled her nose. “Oh, do be reasonable, Jane, or you’ll have Mr. Vincent thinking that we dine unfashionably early.”
“I trust that Mr. Vincent, whom I have yet to meet, will understand.”
“La! He is standing right here. Don’t pretend you don’t know him.” She leaned toward Mr. Vincent and lowered her voice. “Jane spotted you out here first and was
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