A Wish Made Of Glass (8 page)

“They were yours,” she whispers. “I got them for you.” She rises and her next words flare with anger. “You’ve always seen the worst in things. Well, are you happy now? You’ve broken the slippers like a spoiled child, and they were yours all along. You were too selfish to see what would have been obvious to any simpleton—that I would never have taken them for myself. But you preferred to destroy them rather than to see anyone else so much as touch them.”

Her words are so bright and harsh that I have to blink. The truth of them shatters inside of me, sending shards of light and pain straight into my heart. For she is right. I have broken everything which has ever been given to me, simply because it was not perfectly to my taste. It is a horrible truth to swallow. I fear it will poison me if I try.

“Isidore.” When I hear the tenderness in Blessing’s voice I realize I am crying. But when she approaches I back away.

“No.” This one last wound is too fresh, even if it is of my own doing. If I speak of it now I will surely bleed to death.

“But—”

“No.” I shake my head, putting all the resolve I can muster into my voice. Blessing’s mouth shuts like flower petals closing, and she gives me a look I cannot fathom.

In my own bed I curl into a ball. I cannot even gather the strength to crawl beneath the covers. I think of the handful of words the fey folk have spoken to me here in the North. They sounded like comfort when they were first spoken. Now I fight the urge to see them as accusations.

Though if I am honest, I must admit them for simply the truth.

I remember the fey woman’s whisper to me the night she wove Dewdrops into my hair.

Do not lose your heart
.

The memory of broken glass thrusts its sharp corners deeper into my heart and I curl tighter, cowering.
Do not lose your heart
, she said. What she did not tell me was that the surest way to lose it was to hold it tight.

Softer still come the fey man’s words.

This is not your home
.

No
, I want to answer him,
it is not and never has been
. I am wandering here, and lost. This world fits me like an ill-made garment, and I cannot help but dream of a time I might cast it aside to don one made to measure for me.

When I remember the anguish in the fey man’s face, I know the slippers are not the only things that I have broken this night. The slippers would only have been a balm to cool the fire of this sickness I carry. They could never have healed it.

Only one thing can do that.

So it is now, in my coldest and loneliest of moments, that I fathom the emptiness that has been in me for so long. More so, I know at last the one way to fill it.

In the same moment that I learn what I truly desire, I understand that it is too late. For I have already destroyed it.

CHAPTER TEN

I cannot imagine a heavier silence than the one hovering between my sister and me as we rumble down the road to the ball. Within the walls of the coach, the atmosphere is so thick it is difficult to draw breath. We sit pressed against opposite corners of the coach like two hostile cats, prepared at any moment to bring out claws. Blessing’s eyes flash blue fury at me from behind her pearl-encrusted mask, and I do the best I can to stave off the roil of emotions washing over me. Guilt and shame are high among them.

Lord Auren’s abode is more palace than house. We can see it shining, brimful of candlelight, from a mile away, as if the sun is preparing to rise in the west. Its tall stone towers and sweeping verandas are too grand for my taste. I would take a cottage in the heart of the wood before I would think of living in such a place as this. But from the corner of my eye I see Blessing grow still, and from the way her slender shoulders rise and fall I know she is breathless with awe.

The wide front doors are thrown open and light spills from them and from the windows. It stretches its golden fingers down the stone steps and onto the frost-covered lawn. We enter the doors together and I melt into the crowd as soon as I can, with only a slight stab of guilt at leaving Blessing alone. Even with her mask in place, she is far and away the loveliest woman here tonight, and soon she is surrounded by men petitioning her to dance.

Giving an inward scoff, I turn my attention to my surroundings. The ballroom is stunning on the merit of its size alone. Thick columns of marble rise so high that the light from the
multitude of candles cannot find the top of them. Evergreen boughs and holly branches, bright with berries, are hung everywhere, giving the hall a festive, intimate quality I would not have thought possible in a room so vast.

And everywhere, everywhere, are masked people. Couples hop and twirl past me in a galliard while the scent of perfume accosts my nose. Their masks are a wonder to see. I marvel at the intricacy of some and cringe at the ferocity of others. There is an owl with feathers poking out from every side and the slash of a sharp beak down the center. There is a man with a face of green leaves fanning out from his eyes. There are gilded masks and jeweled masks and masks of lace and ribbons and animal hide.

As I stand among the crush of guests, wishing already for this night to be over, a strange feeling comes over me. Like the whisper of a breeze, it touches the base of my neck and the tips of my ears. A shiver creeps under my skin as I turn slowly around.

It takes me a moment to pick him out. When I do, there is no doubt his gaze is fixed on me. A man is standing across the room. It is a wonder I can see him, for the crowd swarms thick between us. Beneath his mask I can see the angle of a pale, strong jaw. The mask itself is made of burnished metal, thin as parchment, and it angles gracefully around the sides of his face. The eye holes are filled with darkness, and only a glint of dancing light convinces me there are eyes behind them at all. Extending upward from the mask is a pronged diadem. It is a crown fit for a king, and I wonder at the boldness of any man who would wear such a thing in the house of a great lord. Unless …

I tap the person next to me and the face of a wolf, fangs bared, looms above me. “Excuse me,” I say. “Where is Lord Auren?”

“Young Auren? Hm, let’s see.” Though the mask is fierce, its wearer is nothing but a portly old man, his round belly poking out like a drum before him. He gives me a kind smile before he scans the crowd. “I saw him not long ago, but there’s little doubt he is skulking in the shadows somewhere. Auren hates balls, poor lad.”

“Do you know what mask he is wearing tonight?” I cast another glance to where the man with the crown had been standing. He is gone. I give a small huff of frustration. “Was he masked as a king?” I venture.

“Who, Auren?” The man gives a bellowing laugh. “Not he! A king! Oh, what a thought. It’s a wonder he’s even wearing a mask. He doesn’t like drawing attention to himself, you see. I saw him not a few minutes since. Hmm, what was he wearing?” He turns to the lady at his side, whose face is masked in black starched lace. “Belle, my dear, what mask was the young lord wearing? A crimson dragon, was it not?”

“A crimson dragon?” The lady frowns and gives him a sharp rap on the shoulder with her fan. “Nothing like. It was gilded blue, encrusted with diamonds.”

They begin to bicker and I quickly thank them and duck away through the crowd. It seems I must find Auren myself. I am eager to reassure myself that the young lord and the man in the crowned mask are not the same person, though I cannot say why.

In the end, it is Blessing who leads me to him. If I had given half a moment’s thought to it, I could have guessed as much, for fully half the men in the room are buzzing about her like hummingbirds around a flower. Why should Auren not be there, too?

But if she is a flower, she is surely a wilting flower. Her mask cannot hide the look of a trapped animal I see in her eyes. I wonder how the men speaking with her do not see it. I fight
the urge to push through them and whisk her away to a place where we can both gossip and laugh over the people in this fanciful, foolish place.

There is a rustling sound to my left, and I twist around in time to see a man making his way through the crowd of others. His steps are slow, like a man who has stumbled into a dream. His mask is a simple white and covers one side of his face. The other side shows skin that is soft and youthful. His eyes and hair are brown as a doe’s. He is hardly more than a boy, yet when the others fall silent and make way for him, I realize I have found the young lord at last.

Auren offers Blessing a polite bow and extends his arm for her to take. Without a word, he leads her from her group of admirers and across the room. I follow in their wake at a distance, using the bright banner of Blessing’s golden hair to guide me through the throng.

They disappear behind the thick curtains of a window alcove and I want to stomp with annoyance, for I had hoped to spy a while longer. Instead, I tuck myself as close to the wall as I can get and put my ear against the curtain. It is shameless, I suppose, but I am beyond caring.

“Thank you.” Blessing’s voice is a wisp of sound. She is breathless with some emotion. It sounds half fear and half elation.

“It’s no trouble.” There is a smile in Auren’s voice. “I will admit, I was perhaps being more selfish than gallant by rescuing you. I’ve watched you the night through and knew I couldn’t let you leave until I met you.”

I can almost feel the heat of Blessing’s blushing cheeks from my side of the curtain, so certain am I of her reaction. This is the moment another girl might simper or play coy. Yet, despite her discomfort, I hear Blessing say, “I have no need for such praise. This much and more has been spoken to me too many times to count tonight. I am weary of it.” There is a note of impatience in her voice. I cannot help but admire her for it.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Auren says cheerfully. “I was hoping you were not that kind of girl. I had to be sure, of course.”

I press closer into the curtain, my interest piqued.

Blessing gives one of her tinkling laughs. “Well that makes things much easier, though I wouldn’t have you think I’m ungrateful that you stepped in when you did. I’m not used to so many people as this. My sister and I live alone, you see, and our lives are very quiet and simple.”

“Alone? You’ve no parents, then?”

“My mother and stepfather died four months ago.” The sorrow that is sharp in Blessing’s voice echoes in my own chest. Auren is quick to respond to it.

“I am sorry,” he says. “What a horror for you. We don’t have to speak of it if it will cause you pain. My own father died a year ago. It is hard to move on,” his voice lowers a fraction, “but not impossible.”

So in a matter of moments they move from formal to intimate, and I hear their talk continue as if they are childhood friends who have just been reunited. I step away from the curtain and shake my head. After everything, here is Blessing once again, ready to pluck happiness as if it is a bright flower which has sprung up just for her. I am frozen with warring emotions, torn between wanting to rejoice with my sister at this unexpected gift and wanting to trample its delicate petals beneath my feet.

This had been my plan, of course. Dear Hazel had thought I would be a match for Auren, but I had known better. Who better fit to be the wife of a lord than Blessing? I had wished this for her. I had planned it.

Swift on the tail of this thought comes another darker one. An image of Blessing slipping her foot into the fey slipper. Then another, from a deeper place, of her hand lying contently in my father’s.

Am I to let this happen? How easy it would be to snatch this happiness out from under Blessing, just as it has been snatched from me so many times. My heart beats a wild, unsteady rhythm as I press to the curtain once more. Blood rushes in my ears.

“I will certainly take my mask off,” Blessing is saying. “But I will not do it alone. You must take yours off at the same time.”

“Very well.” Auren’s voice shakes with amusement. Perhaps it is the first time he has felt joy since his own father died. My resolve wobbles sideways.

“Are you ready?” Blessing’s voice is teasing. “One.” She draws out the number as she says it, and I hear Auren snort with laughter. They are, after all, but two children together. “Two.”

My fingers are slick with sweat as they grip a fold of the curtain. I am ready to rip it aside and stop this nonsense, but somehow I am waiting a second longer, and then another.

“Three!”

Their laughter dies to silence as, behind the curtain, they gaze on one another’s unmasked faces. I have missed my moment and now I am nothing but an intruder. I am keenly aware I have stepped into a sacred circle, a place I have no right to be. My face is hot and my eyes are burning with inexplicable tears.

Truth hits me with the force of a storm.

I am not that person. I do not have to be that person ever again. I do not need to break the happiness of others merely because it is not my own. Perhaps I once was that girl, but something
has changed in me. A seed born of fey music and broken glass pushes at my heart, tiny but stubborn, and I know for a certainty that I am new.

I step back from the curtain and bump into something solid. Someone.

“You see,” a voice says, close to my ear. “I knew this place was not your home.”

The words catch like a barb in my heart, so close are they to what I feel already. I gaze up into the face of the one who spoke them. The man wearing the crowned mask looks back at me. Behind the thin layer of iron his dark eyes are two shining stars. My breath comes in quick, shallow spurts. I thought I would never see him again.

He does not give me time to respond. His fingers are already woven through mine as he says simply, “Will you dance?”

My blood races like quicksilver through my veins as he leads me to the center of the floor. But he does not stop there. We go straight through the crowd of people with their frills and baubles and masks, onto the veranda beyond. Yet even here we do not stop. The chill wind catches at the edges of his long cloak and at the rim of my gown as we descend the stone stairs and step onto the lawn.