Valour and Vanity (27 page)

“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.”