Were they really going to have this conversation again? Her expression must have been clear, because Vincent cut himself off in midsentence and settled for a series of grumbles. She cleared her throat and sought to return them to the topic they had abandoned to discuss measurements. “Sister Maria Agnes, what is the word from Sister Franceschina and the other nuns in the scriptorium?”
The nun shuffled her pages to find a set of notes. “Sister Franceschina and her team say that they can make a duplicate. But given the complexity of the copy, they will need the journal for at least three days.”
Jane grimaced. The chance of discovery was too great if the book was removed from the palazzo for that long. Assuming she could even find it when she went inside. Her chest tightened at the thought. “That makes it … difficult.”
The group fell silent, recognising that she was right. Vincent tilted his head back to study the glamoured ceiling with a scowl. Sister Maria Agnes tapped her pencil upon her page of notes, and the Abbess removed her glasses to polish them. Moving his hands in a pantomime, Signor Zancani appeared to be trying to act out various scenarios with his fingers.
Jane pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to think. They needed to speed up the length of time it would take to make a copy of the book—or, rather, not an exact copy, but one in which certain key errors were introduced that would prevent anyone from understanding how the Verres Obscurcis were made.
Then she had an idea that might actually work. “Ah. There is a technique that glamourists use when multiple people are working on the same project, whereby a wall is broken into a series of squares. Each glamourist creates a rough framework within those squares, and then later the whole is tied together. Could each person from a team of calligraphers make notes about a portion of the page? Would that speed up the process?”
Sister Maria Agnes narrowed her gaze in thought and nodded slowly. “For the content, yes, but the handwriting—Oh! It is Sir David’s. Of course. I see now, yes. Yes, that could work, indeed.”
“Good.” Vincent nodded with clear relief. His gaze went suddenly distant, then he turned to Jane with a lively interest that made her heart speed unaccountably. “Teams.”
“What are you thinking?”
“A bouclé torsadée, but cross-woven with a lengthened pirl. It would only need a slight alteration to the rotational angle. Plus a lointaine vision running askance.”
“Possible. But the distance?”
“Yoked and spliced.”
Signor Zancani coughed and raised his hand. “Once again, for the puppet player?”
The nuns looked equally baffled, so Jane translated for her husband. “A bouclé torsadée ordinarily carries sound, but we can modify it to carry light instead. If we can work with a team of you, in the same way I had the choir girls use yokes with our dove display, then we should be able to span the gap across the street. Rather than trying to get the skein all the way across, Vincent and I can weave two shorter skeins and splice them. I can then hold the papers up to the bouclé torsadée so that Vincent can see them here in the closet room. Then he can run a lointaine vision through the bouclé torsadée to create an impression of the pages as I turn them.”
Vincent nodded with the abstracted gaze of a man building a glamour in his head. Her husband had never appeared more attractive than in this moment. His idea would almost certainly work, and it would not require them to remove the journal from the premises at all. Then he frowned, tilting his head to the side. “No … no. It will have to be multiple lointaines visions, I think. After we finish, I can tie it off so that it plays in a loop and pause it wherever Sister Franceschina would like, but we can only have one page visible at a time.”
Sister Maria Agnes nodded as she caught up with them. “And we need multiple nuns working on the copy to have it finished quickly enough. I have not used a … what did you call it? A lointaine vision?”
“It is an invention of Vincent’s. I can show you the weave later.”
“Can you move one after it is made?”
“If we keep it short and do not move it far.” Vincent rubbed his forehead, scowling at the table as he thought. “Yes … that should work. We should make an extra journal to practise with.”
“Agreed.” Jane played through the scheme in her head to see how the pieces fit. “And then we need only to find a way to return to the palazzo to replace the journal with the forged copy. And replace the spheres with simple glass balls, though those will be harder to sneak in than the journal. And I will have to get them back out.”
“I have an answer for that!” Signor Zancani perked up. “When I make your grocer’s boy costume, I can give it a paunch so you can carry them in under your waistcoat. Padding only, the first time. Then replaced with the spheres.”
“Excellent solution.” At first Jane had been unconvinced that this plan could succeed, but as they talked through its problems, she found herself starting to believe that they might actually pull it off. “Let us hope that I can discover where the Verres are kept during my first—”
The unmistakable sound of a walking stick tapping against the floor cut Jane off. It accompanied the footsteps of a gentleman with an uneven tread, as though he walked with a limp. Jane looked to Vincent. He, too, appeared stricken by the sound. They had heard it so many times at Ca’ Sanuto.
Sister Maria Agnes opened her mouth, but Jane quickly put a finger to her lips and shook her head. The sister subsided, seeming to catch the concern from Jane.
Vincent rose slowly and mouthed, “Spada?”
She nodded. That was her fear as well. It seemed likely that he had followed them to the warehouse, else they would have heard him sooner. In all likelihood, Spada had already heard Jane, as the walls of the glamural were immaterial. Jane had the instinct to flee, but there was no time to get the nuns out of the way before he entered the glamoured palazzo, and they must protect the nuns, in the hope that Spada did not know the extent of their involvement. What could they do?
Jane turned to Vincent, reaching for glamour to cast a Sphère Obscurcie over the nuns. He clearly had the same thought, and he gestured for her to keep talking while he carried it out.
Jane swallowed. What had she been saying? She could not mention the disparity in dimensions. What was safe? Perhaps some misdirection. “With luck, appearing as a cleaning lady will be regarded without suspicion and give me access to the entire palazzo.” She could only hope that Spada had not heard the discussion of her actual disguise.
Vincent finished his glamour and vanished along with the nuns and the chairs. His voice carried out. “Yes, exactly so. And that will allow you to open doors for me while I am hidden by the new Verre Obscurci.”
She breathed a sigh of relief that Vincent was following her lead. “It is fortunate that Querini was still willing to work with us.”
A moment later, Vincent stepped out of the Sphère Obscurcie. He pointed to the outer wall, which the footsteps were approaching, and raised his eyebrows. Jane nodded. Yes. It made sense to confront Spada rather than letting him come into the illusion where their friends where hidden. Through the window, a gentleman had limped into view on the “street” they had rendered. He stood with his back to them, leaning on his cane, and stared at the artlessly rendered building on the opposite side of the street, which represented the building where Vincent would work glamour during their attempt to recover the Verres.
“I am particularly excited by the new effect,” Vincent said. “The movement of the lion in Trieste inspired me to consider trebled weaves, and … huh.” He stopped walking, clearly struck by an idea. Shaking himself, Vincent continued. “So, having a Verre that records movement should help in a number of ways.”
Jane stared at him. What had he just figured out? Surely not how to record movement in glass, but something had just connected in his head. “Lord Wellington was delighted with the prototype we sent to him.”
They had reached the wall now. Even though the glamural was rendered without detail, the
walls still appeared solid. Vincent stood very close to her and bent his head to murmur, for her alone, “You are brilliant, and I adore you.”
The heat from his body washed through Jane and left her breathless.
Her husband grinned and dove through the wall, vanishing as it appeared to close around him. The other man exclaimed, “Good God!”
In English.
Before she could follow, Vincent said, “Byron?”
Jane took an extra breath, and held it as she stepped through the illusion. After the terror of the past minute, it was deeply satisfying to see the great English poet jump backwards at her sudden appearance and yelp. Overcome with relief, she laughed with a sudden understanding of why Vincent so enjoyed appearing out of the walls.
The nuns appeared then, followed closely by Signor Zancani. Lord Byron looked doubly stunned. “My God—begging your pardon, ladies.” He swept his hat off his head. “Vincent, what the devil—oh, this is going to be very difficult. What in heaven’s name, perhaps?”
“I find that a simple ‘what’ followed by the question often suffices.” The Abbess tucked her hands into her sleeves, all the wrinkles in her face conspiring to hide any sign of humour.
Jane covered her mouth to mask her smile, as the imperturbable Lord Byron opened his mouth to give a retort, and then closed it again. He bowed. “What? Is going on?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Vincent clapped him on the shoulder. “It is good to see you, but what are you doing here?”
“I got your letter. Letters, really. Damn—Very—sorry that I did not receive them sooner. We had left La Mira for a bit of travel and only just returned. I came straight back. Your landlord directed me to the convent.” He turned to stare around at the glamural. “Is this Palazzo Utino?”
“You know it?” Vincent leaned forward eagerly.
Lord Byron nodded. “I went to a party there once, and then—” He cleared his throat and glanced at the nuns. “Shall we say that I had other reasons to visit for a while. Speaking of which, we shall have to settle your accounts.”
Vincent had turned a little away and rubbed at the base of his neck, wincing. Jane realized that, to him, this would be a transference of debt rather than a clearing of it, and it would offer little relief. With narrowed eyes, he stared at the palazzo illusion. “Does anyone know you are back?”
“I came straight here. Why?”
“Because it occurs to me that it would be best if Spada et al still think we are without resources.”
“Ah.” Lord Byron cocked his head to the side and considered. “Well … there is a lady that I could—A friend that I could stay with.”
The Abbess shook her head and tutted. “We know what you are, Lord Byron. Unless you plan on repenting, there is no point in pretending for our sake.”
Lord Byron tipped an imaginary hat to her. “In that case …
Now heave’ a lonely subterraqueous sigh,
Much as a nun may do within her cell:
And à propos of nuns, their piety
With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell;
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.
“Is subterraqueous even a word?” The Abbess raised her eyebrow.
“Of course it is. A perfectly good word. Underwater caves.”
Tilting her head with a look too innocent, even for a nun, she asked, “Then why not say that? It has the same number of syllables, and is easier to understand.”
He scowled in a way that reminded Jane, with some amusement, of Vincent when affronted by an egregious example of poorly rendered glamour. “I will make allowances because English is not your native language, but you may trust me that the beats are in the wrong place. And ‘subterraqueous’ flows, while ‘underwater caves’ plods. And at any rate, it would have to be cavernous, which does not fit the metre at all.”
“But cavernous is a real word.”
“So is subterraqueous!”
Jane cleared her throat. “Could I ask you to offer us an opinion on a question about the interior of the palazzo?”
“Yes!” Lord Byron snapped. “I mean, of course, Lady Vincent. I would be glad to be of service.”
“It occurs to me that you might know of a discreet entrance?” If Jane could avoid the disguise that Signor Zancani had planned for her, she would be delighted, whatever the source of that knowledge. She would much prefer to sneak in, if it were possible to do so.
“It depends. Do you swim?”
Jane shook her head. It would have been too simple to have him appear and offer an answer to their problems.
“So, barring a subterraqueous entrance, the service entrance is your best bet. I find that the kitchen staff in most homes are alarmingly easy to bribe.” He peeled off his greatcoat and hung it over his arm, with the clear intention of staying. “What else can I help with?”
“Come inside, and I will show you the plans.” Vincent turned the poet towards the wall and walked toward it with renewed vigour. Jane had hoped that she would be able to convince her husband to return to their apartment soon, but suspected that he would be up late talking to Lord Byron. As glad as she was to have his spirits lifted, Jane hoped he would not drive himself too hard.
Eighteen
A Flurry of Pages
Jane prodded the pad of cotton wadding in her cheek with her tongue. Her skin itched beneath the wool whiskers that Signor Zancani had glued to her jaw, and she had to resist the urge to scratch. The addition of spectacles helped further define her mask so that only her overlong nose was identifiable. Even that Signor Zancani had transformed by gluing a wart just below the spectacles.
She wore a suit of clothing acquired from a ragman, carefully padded by the puppet player to give her a paunch so it was an established part of her character when she returned with the imitation spheres. Jane ran a hand over the rough waistcoat and was briefly reminded of her time in Binché, when she had used her increasing figure to play a convincing man. She pushed that from her thoughts and focused on what she was about to do.
She stood around a corner from the palazzo with a barrow that they had intercepted from the local grocer. The delivery boy had been perfectly happy to accept Lord Byron’s money in exchange for not having to finish his rounds in the rain.
Young Lucia rounded the corner carrying an umbrella and a shopping basket, as though she were a housemaid on an errand. She had been so proud when they had asked her to help. She stopped as soon as she was out of sight of the palazzo. “The Abbess says that all but the clerk just left the house.”
“Thank you.” They had planned to wait until some of the men left, but this was a better chance than Jane had hoped for. The only one left was the man least familiar with her appearance. She lifted the handles of the barrow and trundled it down the street, leaving Lucia to run down to the canal to carry the message to Sister Aquinata.
The sound of the barrow echoed off the cobbles and plaster, announcing her progress to everyone. Heads turned as she walked, but with no more interest than if it had been any other delivery man. At least, Jane hoped that was the case. She kept her attention on appearing incurious, which was no easy task. The barrow seemed to become heavier as she walked, and her arms burned with fatigue by the time she arrived.
At the palazzo, she entered the side gate and went to the service entrance. The delivery boy said that he always knocked, so she did the same.
After a few minutes, during which she was certain that one of the men would return having forgotten something, the door finally opened. Letizia, Spada’s cook from Ca’ Sanuto, stood in the door. “Where’s Antonio?”
Jane tugged at her cap in greeting, using the motion to hide her astonishment. They had not seen her enter or exit the building since they began spying. Was she aware of her employer’s activities, or simply an excellent cook that Spada kept with him wherever he went? Jane would have to work with the belief that the woman was fully aware.
Keeping her voice low and gruff, Jane uttered one of the Venetian sentences she had been instructed in. “Sick. I’ve your groceries.”
Letizia gave no sign of recognising her, but stepped back and told Jane to bring the groceries in. Jane lifted the basket of squash from the barrow and tucked it under her arm. With her other hand, she picked up the three ducks they had ordered and carried them in. The wings kept catching on her fake paunch, and Jane was hard-pressed not to complete her disguise by cursing. She followed Letizia down a narrow passage to the kitchen and set the supplies on the side table. One of the local girls stood at another table chopping garlic and filling the air with its pungent scent.
Leaving the cook, Jane went back to fetch the remaining items. As she walked down the hall, she marked the door that led to the main house. It was not in view of the kitchen. In less time than she would have thought, she had the rice, chard, and asparagus inside. That left only the basket of oysters. Jane carried it in and set it on the counter.
She nodded to Letizia and went back down the hall as though she were ready to depart. Glancing over her shoulder, Jane slipped through the door into the main palazzo. Her heart beat violently against her chest. From their observations, it seemed unlikely that anyone should have reason to go to the side yard where the barrow stood, but she still felt all the pressure of time that its possible discovery presented. She stood in the dining room, a graciously appointed room with a row of windows looking out into the courtyard. Jane crossed the polished marble floor to the closest window. Grabbing a fold of glamour, she ran it up and out of the window. The glamour had no form or substance, and was visible only to the second sight. Vincent would be watching for it to know that she had made it indoors.
A moment later, a corresponding flash lit the roof of the building opposite. He knew she was there. Good. She waited a moment, till Vincent’s signal flashed twice to indicate that, as far as he could ascertain, it was safe for her to leave the room. Jane dissolved her glamour in reply.
She went to the dining room door and eased it open, wincing as the catch clicked free. She peeked out and, not seeing anyone in the hall, crept across it to the room that their map indicated was a library. Turning the handle, Jane opened the door just wide enough to slide in, but forgot her fake paunch and was briefly stuck. Grimacing, she pushed the door wider and slipped into the room. She closed the door as gently as possible, but it still felt as though the catch clicking home was a gunshot. Jane waited by the door, breath held for the sounds of movement elsewhere in the house. She heard nothing.
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