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faded glamour, large windows lined one wall to let in light, while the opposite wall had mirrors facing them. At the far end of the room, a little raised gallery waited for musicians to play from it. Two large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
    They would have to design the work with care to avoid having their illusions refracted by the crystals.
    Jane paced the length of the dance floor, making notes in her drawing book. They would sketch the design in paint first, then do a few small, rough renderings in glamour before beginning work on the final. She became aware of Lord and Lady Stratton watching her and made an effort at conversation. “From where is your son coming?”
    “Cambridge. Studying law. A fine boy. Very proud,” Lord Stratton said.
    Lady Stratton beamed. “I think you would be hard-pressed to find a more upright figure, though I must allow that I am partial. Alastar has a sturdy character and a quickness of understanding that I sometimes wonder at.”
    Jane’s curiosity was piqued by the mention of an eligible son. If he was at Cambridge, then he could not be too much older than Melody. Perhaps she could contrive to bring Melody with them and make an introduction. If he were unmarried. “Will he be bringing his family with him?”
    “Ha! He is not yet married, more is the pity. That is why my lady wants to hold these balls.”
    Insensible to anything save the details of their commission, Vincent walked to the balcony and looked up at it. “How does one access the gallery?”
    “There are stairs through … they are here somewhere.” Lord Stratton led the way to a florid shrubbery under the balcony and waved his hands through the illusion until he patted the wall. He made quite the strange picture, half in and half out of the glamour. It looked as though the bush had sprouted a head. “Ah. Here it is.” He disappeared entirely as he stepped farther into the shrubbery.
    Jane followed him through the shrub, into a steep staircase. Tempting though it was to undo the glamour masking it immediately, she merely marked the stair on the plan of the room she was drawing. They would have to confirm that decision with their patrons before taking any action.
    “Is there any other access?” She could hardly imagine a musician carrying a harp up that narrow flight, but perhaps they only used violin and flute.
    “None that we can find.” Lady Stratton eyed the stairs doubtfully. “I think I shall have to speak to our housekeeper. That is rather more dust than I would like.”
    “All in good time, my dear. All in good time.” Lord Stratton led them up the stairs to the gallery. “We only took the house at the new year, and there is much to be done yet.”
    The gallery was a small, enclosed space with a good view of the ballroom. Folding chairs leaned against the walls, half-disappearing into tangles of glamour. Like the rest of the ballroom, the decorations were somewhat gaudy. The illusion of thousands of candles played on the wall, but did little more to dispel the shadows of the space than a painting of flames would have. Too often amateur glamourists would try to flood an area with the illusion of light, not understanding that it would make the space seem darker by contrast, as the eye and the mind disagreed on what they saw. Only in a completely dark space, such as a cave, could one perceive the feeble light provided by glamour. The illusion, however, seemed bright, which caused the pupil to close and thus make the entire room appear darker. Of all the threads of glamour, representations of light required the most delicacy—delicacy that this glamourist had sorely lacked.
    It did not help that, even with snow upon the ground outside, the balcony was stifling. Frowning, Vincent reached into the ether and twitched a thread. At once, a breeze circulated through the tight space.
    “Someone had bound the cooling breeze into the candles, no doubt during a repair.” Vincent shook his head, the