Lord Byron cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but what exactly is the plan?”
Vincent looked at Jane, as if to ask for understanding, then turned to the poet. “I am going to use glamour to make myself look like the French officer who they are expecting, with the goal of having them open the strong room and bring the Verre Obscurcie out. I should be able to swap the Verre and papers while inside, under the guise of examining them, so it will not require a second trip.”
“But with the early arrival of the officer, they will be suspicious, surely.” Jane could not begin to list the number of her concerns. Though it was something that they had discussed before, they had discarded it when the less dangerous plan had presented itself. “Spada knew the fire was set by us.”
“Well, there were two of them.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. But that means that he will now note and suspect any change in the routine.”
From his place against the wall, Lord Byron shrugged. “So go at the time the officer is supposed to be there.”
“And have two officers arrive?” Jane shook her head. “I do not see how that is better.”
“Because it is fairly easy to make certain that an officer travelling some distance does not arrive on time.”
The Abbess turned on the poet. “I will not be party to an innocent man being waylaid for the purposes of this plan.”
“First of all, I sincerely doubt that a French officer has any innocence about him.” Lord Byron cocked his head and smiled disingenuously. “As for his delay, I was not thinking of waylaying him so much as providing him with some companionship for the evening.”
“Could you really?” Jane asked.
“My dear, I have tempted your husband to drink more than he ought to on—” He broke off when Vincent cleared his throat and shook his head slightly. Smiling, the poet flexed his hands, as though he were a pugilist preparing for a fight. “That is to say … a French officer? It will not be a problem.”
Indeed? The poet had an undisputed reputation in this area, but she had not heard about his exploits with Vincent. She would have to decide later if she wanted to know about them or if it was best not to ask. Still, his offer would remove one problem … but only one. “Vincent, you said you could only hold glamour as a disguise for half an hour. That was when you were in good health, and I do not think that a week will restore you. Particularly if you are required to perform a second glamour as well, to unlock the strong room.”
“It will not take long for them to bring the Verre out,” Vincent protested.
The Abbess shook her head. “You are thinking like an Englishman. They will want to have coffee and talk about your travel. If you rush them, you might get them to open the strong room in half an hour, but you will not have time to complete the transaction and depart.”
“What you need … is a distraction…” Lord Byron said slowly. Then he grinned and bowed his head to the Abbess. “If you would help, I think I can provide an excellent one, via subterraqueous avenues. Does the palazzo still have the racing gondolas?”
The water entrance would be perfect, if it were possible to get a gondola out without being seen. On land they might try a Sphere Obscurcie, but it would never work on water. “Wait—what if we had a real Verre, and used it to come in through the water entrance?”
“Where would we get that?” Vincent shook his head. “None of the glassmakers would work with us.”
“Because they thought we were trying to steal their work.” Jane turned to the Abbess. “But if we had someone to vouch for us?”
She straightened. “I will not lie, you know that. You would have to tell them what you are working on.”
Vincent gazed at her, considering. Every part of his expression, from the set of his brow to the softness of his jaw, spoke of weariness. If it were possible to create a Verre by herself, she would, but it required two glamourists. If Vincent were incapable of helping, then it would also make his suggested plan impracticable.
Jane waited, giving him time to work through the problem on his own and to see that working a single thread of glamour was more possible in his condition than the madness of using it incessantly as a disguise. Eventually Vincent wiped his mouth and sighed. “All right.”
Twenty-one
The Abbess and the Glassmaker
The following Tuesday, Jane and Vincent presented themselves at Signor Nenci’s with the Reverend Mother. Jane had wanted to wait longer, but Vincent had pointed out that the glass needed time to temper. His colour was much improved, and to one who did not know her husband, he would seem to be in good health, but to Jane there was still a pinched quality to the skin around his eyes. When pressed, Vincent had admitted that light still pained him somewhat. The vertigo, however, had abated. He had been true to his word and slept through Saturday and well into Sunday. He had eschewed glamour entirely on Monday and pulled just enough from the ether on Tuesday morning to be certain that he could do so without any ill effects.
Though he had promised to alert Jane if any symptoms recurred, she was watching him closely and intended to stop their experiment if he betrayed any signs of fatigue beyond those that they had discussed. Assuming that Signor Nenci would even see them. The Abbess knocked on the door and folded her arms across her chest.
After a moment, the door cracked open and the same apprentice they had seen on their first visit poked his sweat-stained face through. His eyes widened at the sight of the Abbess. “Oh! Reverend Mother.” He bowed. “What can I do for you?”
“I would like to see Signor Nenci.” Her voice made it very clear that this was not entirely a request.
“Of course, come in.” He stepped back, opening the door wider.
From inside, a familiar voice bellowed, “Tomà, what in the devil’s name are you doing, letting a draft in!” Signor Nenci stomped up to the door with a deep glower. “How many times have I—Reverend Mother!” He cuffed Tomà. “Why are you keeping her outside in the cold?”
“Thank you.” She stepped forward as though used to this sort of deference. Then Signor Nenci saw Jane and Vincent.
For a moment he looked confused, as though he recognised them but had forgotten from where, and then the memory came back with clear force. His face twisted as though he were going to swear, but he held in whatever comment he was about to make. Swallowing, he bowed to the Abbess. “I am afraid I need to ask your companions to wait outside.”
“No … I do not think you do.” She beckoned to Jane and Vincent, wrinkled face set in a mask of stern authority. “Sir David, Lady Vincent, come with me, if you please.” Without waiting for Signor Nenci’s further permission, she walked through the door.
As Jane and Vincent followed, he bent his head down and whispered. “Why I am suddenly frightened of an old woman?”
She murmured back, “It is one of the compensatory powers of age. Wait until you see me in my dotage.”
“You shall be a force of nature the likes of which the world has never seen.”
“You are too kind.” She stopped whispering, because Signor Nenci had shot her a look that carried much acrimony.
Once inside, she had the opportunity to look around Nenci’s glassblowing factory and compare it with Signor Querini’s. In spite of the fact that Querini’s establishment was the newer one, this one spoke of modernity, with what appeared to be new ovens and working tables. A half dozen apprentices and glassblowers worked on creating goblets, bowls, and delicate candelabra. Nenci led them to a small office, kept separate from the rest of the factory by a low wall with windows looking out across the floor. He offered chairs to the Abbess and to Jane. Vincent, he let stand.
The Abbess steepled her fingers in front of her and nodded to Vincent. “Sir David has a business proposition I want you to hear out.”
Signor Nenci scowled. “If it is to watch us work, the answer is no. Even for you, Reverend Mother.”
The Abbess raised her eyebrows at Vincent and inclined her head.
; Vincent inhaled and Jane could see him brace himself. “Am I correct that you guard your trade secrets carefully?”
Tilting his head to the side, Signor Nenci nodded. Clearly he had not expected this line of questioning. “Yes. Why?”
“Because we have a new technique and need a glassblower who will not share it.”
Snorting, Signor Nenci dusted off his hands. “There is nothing that your English glassmakers can teach me.”
“What about a glamourist?” Jane said, hoping to coax him to hear them out.
“Again with the glamour.” He rolled his eyes, and it seemed likely that even the presence of the Abbess would not restrain his tongue for much longer.
“We can record it. In glass.” Vincent’s stillness was a sign of his tension, but she remembered when she had once thought this flat affect was due to unshakeable calm.
The glassmaker’s brows drew together, and he glanced to the Abbess for confirmation. She nodded. “I have not seen it myself, but I have seen the work that these two can do, and spent enough time with Lady Vincent to be certain of her character. The other factor to consider is that Signor Querini worked with swindlers to try to steal the technique from them.”
Signor Nenci wiped his mouth and stared at them for a long moment. He crossed the room and shut the door to the little office. “You said tried to steal the technique.”
Jane said, “He has our papers and the Verre Obscurcie we created, but the swindlers do not seem to have an understanding of how they work.”
He leaned against his desk and watched them closely. “How do they work?”
Vincent cleared his throat. “Do I have your word that you will not share it?”
“With the Reverend Mother as my witness, yes.” He crossed his arms and waited.
“Glamour leaves a trail in glass. We can enhance that with the application of a gossamer-weight thread of cold. When the Verre is put into full sunlight, the light follows the path of the glamour and creates the same illusion.” It sounded so abundantly simple when Vincent explained it that Jane could not understand why no one else had thought of it first. Though, to be fair, it did only seem to work consistently with the Sphère Obscurcie.
Signor Nenci straightened as Vincent spoke, with a look of intense concentration. “The illusion—what sort of thing can you produce?”
“So far, only this.” He rapidly wove a Sphère Obscurcie and vanished. The glassmaker started, but did not exclaim. From within the sphere, Vincent’s disembodied voice continued. “The glassmaker we worked with in Binché thought that it was because this weave had the same shape as the sphere we were trying to cast into. The challenge has been keeping it still enough while we are working. We have had only limited success with other weaves.”
“Why a sphere?”
Jane frowned. “We thought that was the foundation of blown glass.”
Nenci shrugged and picked up a bas-relief made of glass. His gaze had the intensity of expression that she associated with Vincent when he was planning a glamural. “For vessels, yes, but a slab sounds as though it would work better.”
“A slab?” Vincent reappeared, shaking his head. “I do not understand.”
“You pour the glass on to a working surface and use paddles to control the shape.” Nenci’s face twisted as though he were about to spit on the floor in disgust. “Querini did not even consider this, did he? Amateur. A slab, yes. Less movement, longer working time, and not hollow in the middle.”
Jane’s mouth fell open. They had been working with a craftsman, but this was an artist. Vincent seemed equally shocked, and ran his hand through his hair. “Can we try it?”
“Yes, yes! Come—no, wait.” Signor Nenci stopped and looked at the Abbess. “If this works, I want to license it from them. Will you witness it?”
“In fact, we cannot license it.” Vincent shook his head. “I am sorry, but I am bound by the Prince Regent not to teach the Sphère Obscurcie weave to anyone.”
“But it works with other glamours, yes? It is only the sphere that was limiting you, I suspect.” Nenci rubbed his hands together. “Yes … I am certain that is the problem. As I have no interest in invisibility, that should not be a concern. It is the ornamental aspects that I want. Imagine, a glass platter that will create a glamour for your dining room table, eh? If we set the slab in a larger piece of ornamented glass, then it can remain attractive even when the sun is not out.”
“Um … and if we do not want to license it to you?” Jane asked, though in truth what she wanted was to go into the glass factory and try it straightaway.
“Of course you do.” Signor Nenci waved his hand as if that was not an objection. “Your husband wants secrecy with this. I will offer you a ten-year exclusive contract, plus a share of income for sales of works created based on your technique. If it works.”
Vincent shook his head, clearly as taken aback as Jane about the sudden reversal in the glassmaker’s attitude toward them. What if he had been paid to learn the technique…? But, no, they had chosen Nenci on their own. And yet, for all they knew, Spada had paid every glassmaker in Murano to learn the technique and give it to him. Even the Abbess could be an associate designed to make Jane trust her.
Was this paranoia, or caution? She looked at the glassmaker very carefully, searching his face for any sign of duplicity, though she was not sure how that would present itself. “Why?”
“Two reasons. No, three. One: Venice’s glass industry is stagnating. If you give me ten years with this, then I can start to turn that around. Two: Other people will figure it out, eventually, but if I license it, Murano will have a jump.” The glassmaker gave a smile that was closer to a sneer. “And third: Querini used to be my apprentice. With apologies to the Abbess, the devil take him.”
On the last point, Jane had no doubt that his emotion was sincere, and it gave her a path back into clarity. He would have been a better choice to work with them from the beginning. Spada had not used him, then. And Jane suspected that the swindlers could not have used him as they had Querini, because Nenci was as dedicated to his art as they were to theirs.
They had found another partner.
* * *
Signor Nenci had cleared his apprentices away from part of the studio and erected a folding screen behind which they could try the technique. The Abbess settled upon a chair behind the screen to watch, confessing herself to be curious about the endeavour. Vincent removed his jacket, setting it upon a chair back near the wall. Jane wished that she still possessed a pair of buckskin breeches, but was not going to remind Vincent of the dangers of muslin at a furnace.
Scowling, Signor Nenci suddenly stopped in front of her, then shook his head. He leaned around the screen and shouted across the studio. “Rosa! I need your spare work smock!”
He then ignored them as he dragged a small metal-topped table from the wall toward the screen. The legs squealed against the stone floor of the glass factory, sending shivers down Jane’s spine.
Vincent stepped forward. “May I help?”
“I want this there.” He poked a finger at a spot in front of the furnace and stalked off to pick up a pair of wooden paddles. Vincent lifted the table, rather than dragging it, and carried it to the place that Signor Nenci indicated. “Rosa!”
“Coming, Papa.” A young woman hurried across the glass factory with a black wool garment draped over her arm. She wore a similar garment, which was like a day dress that wrapped around to tie at the waist. It had long, closely fitted sleeves without any embellishments, and over it she wore a heavy leather apron.
He jerked his chin toward Jane and stomped over to the table that Vincent had placed. “Let her use it.” Setting down the paddles, he adjusted the table with a steady string of curses.
The Abbess cleared her throat, which only made him curse more quietly.
Rosa rolled her eyes and beckoned to Jane. “Forgive Papa. He is a curmudgeon when he works.”
“I am focused,” Signor Nenci snapped.
“You see?” She held out the black dress to Jane. They seemed matched in height, though Rosa had a more pleasing plumpness than Jane. “Do you need help? I just wear it over my dress.”
“Thank you.” Jane took the dress. “My husband can also be a curmudgeon when he works.”
Vincent frowned at her with a look that said that he could hear her, and also proved her point. He went back to rolling up his sleeves and conferred with Signor Nenci while Jane shrugged into the dress.
Rosa wrinkled her nose. “Men can be so peculiar about work.”
“I can hear you,” her father said, although he seemed a little pleased.
Caught by the fact that the young woman had a working smock, Jane asked, “Do you assist?”
Rosa gave an aggrieved sigh, as though she had answered that question many times. “I am a fifth-generation glassmaker.”
“Oh—forgive me. I should have known better.” Jane of all people should know what it was like to be an artist and face that presumption. She engaged herself with tying the lace of the dress. “And you wear wool to work in?”
Rosa nodded. “It does not catch fire the way muslin does, though it is rather warm. I use black because it does not show the scorch marks so much.” She looked Jane over and gave a nod of satisfaction. “Do you need anything else, Papa?”
He shook his head, grunting, and waved her away. Rosa laughed, as though used to his abstracted gaze, and walked off to leave Jane and Vincent alone with her father. He hefted the paddles and used one to point at the table. “I’ll work the glass from here. Where do you need to be?”
Vincent took up a position opposite him. “Will this be in your way?”
Signor Nenci shook his head. Pulling on a leather glove, he turned to the oven, while Jane hurried to stand in front of Vincent. While she did, the glassmaker picked up a metal scoop and plunged it into the oven. He ladled out molten glass, then poured the glowing orange substance onto the table. “Wait.”
Tossing the scoop into a container, he shook off the glove and began to use the paddles to shape the glass into a rectangle. For a moment, he concentrated on pulling the glass up as it tried to spread out on the table. Then he nodded. “Now.”
Valour and Vanity Page 25