Without a Summer by Mary Robinette Kowal

son of the Earl of Verbury. From few things he had told her, his father possessed strict ideas of propriety and exacting standards for what comprised the masculine ideal. He had thought Vincent’s interest in the “womanly” art of glamour beneath him, and made every effort to break him of it. Even knowing that, she was unprepared for the severe disorder of senses that Vincent now displayed.
    “You mean the beatings?” Vincent shrugged, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “It is not that. My father made sure I was well trained in all things masculine, and I feel certain that I should win any corporal confrontation since I am younger than he. To be honest … to be honest, the strength of my feelings surprised me.”
    “You were shocked to see him. Naturally so.” Jane went to her husband, stopping just short of touching him. His resemblance to a wild bear was so strong that she was not certain touch would be welcome.
    “I will own that I was. More so that he would acknowledge me.”
    “It is no wonder that when he spoke to us your sensibility should be affected.”
    Vincent stared at the wall, brow knit in thought. In a very low voice, full of feeling, he said, “But it was when he spoke to you that I—” Groaning, he tilted his head back and stared at the skylights and the dark sky beyond. “I could not think. I could not draw breath. I could only hold myself still and not hit him. I had forgotten what it was to be angry all the time.”
    “It did me no harm.”
    He dropped his gaze back down to her. “Not yet. That … you see, that is the genius of my father. The punishment always comes, but you never know when.”
    Jane could only stare in appalled fascination at Vincent. His childhood was so foreign from the convivial household in which she grew up that she could scarcely comprehend it.
    “The only question I have is—I keep thinking that I should not have turned down his commission so I could at least know where the battle is to be played.”
    “Why must there be a battle? Is there a reason we must engage?”
    “I—perhaps not.” Vincent groaned again and turned in a great circle, as though he were still managing the glamour. “It is hard to think not. He controlled every minute of my life until I went to university.”
    “But he no longer has any hold on you.”
    Vincent was silent, but pulled a fold of glamour out of the ether. He sketched a rough tree in the air, passing his hand through the branches. He was so focused Jane thought he might have forgotten her, but Vincent unstitched the tree and stared at where it had been. “He has always found a way to make me do what he wants.”
    Jane laid a hand gently on his arm. “Not always, I think.”
    Recalling himself, Vincent looked at her. He lifted the tips of her fingers to his lips. “No. I suppose not always.”
    In spite of the dampness of his shirt, Jane snuggled in and lifted her head to kiss him on the cheek. His skin tasted of salt. “Come to bed?”
    He squeezed her close. “Ah, Muse. I shall not be good company tonight. You go, and I will be down shortly.”
    She wanted to protest, but recognised his urge to exhaust himself and drive thought from his mind. She could not do that for him, so she kissed him again and went to bed, leaving Vincent to weave webs of glamour alone.

 
    Eight
    Feeble Protestations
    Vincent did not come to bed until sometime long after Jane had fallen asleep. When she awoke, he was in his nightshirt on the window seat, with one leg drawn up and his elbow propped upon his knee. His head rested against the glass as he stared outside. She doubted he saw anything beyond the window.
    When she stirred, he abandoned this pensive stance and greeted her with admirable aplomb. By mutual agreement they did not speak of his upset of the day previous. Still, she saw it in his silence on the way to Stratton House, and in the way in which he applied himself to their work.
    Vincent often threw himself into glamour when