Roses and Black Glass: a dark Cinderella tale (22 page)

LONDON, 1873
- In the
foggy city, polluted by coal smoke from the factories along the river,
15-year-old Wren is clinging to a small thread of hope: the shimmering silver
dream of a better life. 

Wren and her brothers, Henry
and Max, are orphans.  They wish to be adopted, but no one wants to take
in all three of them.  Wren won’t be separated from her family, but no
matter how hard she fights to keep them together, she fears she will lose them
nonetheless.  Henry grows more distant by the day, and Wren worries about
how young Max will be affected if he continues along the path of this hard
life. 

She wants more for both of
them - for herself.  She wants an escape.

Prompted by a world she sees
in a dream, Wren begins to tell her brothers stories of a place where they can
be carefree forever - a place called
Nevermor
.  It is an island at
the edge of the universe, where all dreams go.  There is a boy who guards
it, and he is known only as
the Rifter
.  Wren believes that this
place truly exists, and desires her own life there, where she can keep her
family together without anyone tearing them apart.

But Wren gets more than she
bargained for when she is kidnapped by the arrogant and volatile Rifter and
taken to Nevermor against her will.  It is not completely unwelcome,
however.  The land is beautiful and there is freedom.  The Rifter and
his pack of wild boys accept her, and she feels that her brothers will be happy
in this place too. 

Wren falls in love with
Nevermor - and with the Rifter - and yet the more she learns of the conflict
between the Rifter and a wicked man called
the Scourge
, the more she
comes to realize that Nevermor is not a place for children.

Nevermor is a dark fantasy
based on the legend of Peter Pan. 

A portion of the upcoming novel, Nevermor by Lani
Lenore

Text Copyright 2012

Remember, oh child; do not forget

When storms roll in and darkness sets,

Though truth be heavy, keep it still,

As fire will burn and swords will kill,

What happens once comes ‘round again.

As it began, so shall it end.

~~

The sea was calm, glittering beneath the moon like an
endless sheet of diamonds.  Often, it was rocked with the turmoil of violent
dreams, during which the black remnant of nightmares washed up onto the land,
but on this night, the waves lapped gently at the sandy shore and the wind was
steady.

The Rifter was pleased with this, even if it meant that his
sword would not taste blood tonight.  The cool breeze rushed through his hair
and he felt at ease, for the world was also at rest.

Finding that the beach was safe, he brushed back his coat
of leaves and sat down on the rocks that were jutting out toward the ocean. 
From here, he took in the silence – breathed it in like the salty air.  The
dark water stretched as far as his eyes could see, fading away until it met the
blue-black sky.  There was not a threat to be seen – not a nightmare or an
ominous cloud – and to see nothing at all on the horizon was better than noting
danger.

Though if danger had approached him, he would have laughed
in its face as he cut its throat.

The Rifter often brought the others with him, but he had
come by himself tonight.  What he had to do, he had to do alone.  The weight of
this choice was on his own shoulders.

A small orb of light drifted lazily over his head, staying
close to him always, as per their bond.  Though it was uncommon to see a fairy
wisp keeping so close to a human, this one rarely left his side.  As he was the
guardian of this place, she had made it her personal duty to watch over him –
yet her consistent hovering led him to forget that she was there at all.

She dipped low now, flicking his ear to have his attention.

“Yes, yes.  I’m awake,” he told her with a hint of
annoyance.  He didn’t like it when she fussed over him.

The boy lifted his eyes toward the sea again, observing the
calm beneath the light of the large moon.

“Think there’s anything out there?” he asked her.

His only answer was a steady stream of whispers, spoken in
a language that not many could interpret, but it was as clear as English to
him.

“I guess we’ll see,” he responded.  “Why don’t you go
scout; try to bring something in.”

The whispers swirled nastily as the fairy zipped around
him, cutting bright streaks through the air, but the Rifter gave it no
attention.

“I don’t care,” he said, uninterested in her complaints. 
“Just do it.”

With one last curse, the wisp shot off across the sea,
keeping low, until she was only a tiny pinprick in the distance.

Left alone, Rifter whistled briefly to himself.  This night
needed to be fruitful.  He was like an unlucky fisherman, tired of coming back
with empty nets.  His pack might start doubting his skill if he kept returning
without what he came for.

Reclining lazily, the Rifter took out his flute – row of
reeds lashed together – and blew into the end to produce a long, melancholy
sound.  The music flowed out over the dipping sea, disappearing into the
further reaches of the universe.  He paused, hearing the way the water carried
the sound over it, passing it from one wave to the next.  Yes, it was a good
night for this.

Closing his eyes and l
istening to the sound of the
ocean to inspire him, he began to play a slow, haunting melody.

1873

1

Wren looked
down at the tips of her shoes, closed her eyes and transported herself into her
own past.

She imagined
the large, familiar house that she’d once called home, which had the notches in
the doorframe marking the progress of her growth since she was a child.  Her
mother was in the other room, knitting mittens for the baby, and Henry was in
the hall, making a mess with his jacks.  The thump of the rubber ball resounded
down the wooden corridor, so that even their servant, Agatha, could hear it in
the kitchen, where she was preparing tea.  Wren sought the smell of her
father’s pipe that was still on the air, though he was away at work.  The heady
aroma never left.  It saturated everything.

Wren could
almost recall it – only almost.  She sniffed once as if she could catch a whiff
of the memory, but it was just beyond the veil.  When she couldn’t quite
immerse herself in it, she had no choice but to come back.

Taking in a
deep breath as if to seal the images away – to place them back in a tidy corner
of her mind where they had been preserved – she opened her eyes to see her
reality.  When she looked up, she hadn’t managed to deliver herself.  No magic
spell could take her back to her innocent youth.

Miss Nora’s
Home for Wayward Children was not anything more or less than what was
expected.  The gray walls, with their peeling paper, were patchy with water
spots that started at the ceiling and spread out at the angles like an
infection.  There was always a pervading smell of the thick coal smoke that
covered London, billowing out from the chimneys of the factories that had taken
over the East End.  As with all the other row houses and lofts, a thin layer of
black dust covered every surface and never seemed to go away, no matter how
much one wiped or fussed.  It was the only thing that seemed constant and
eternal to the ones who lived here.

The Home
wasn’t a palace, but it was a roof over the head and a bed to sleep in, as
opposed to living on the streets with so many other unwanted children.  Wren
knew this, and not a day went by that she didn’t have to remind herself that
she appreciated it.

It was a
Wednesday, but all of Miss Nora’s orphans – these forgotten children who seemed
to be a class of society all their own – were dressed in their Sunday best. 
They were excused from their schooling for this event: adoption day.  Wren had
been through so many of these days before, and each time, she told herself that
this might be the one that counted – the day that someone would want to take
her home.

Just
remember to smile at the decent ones and keep your head down when the riffraff
pass
, she coached herself.

Wren was in a
simple dress that she had made herself, stitched by hand from basic cloth.  It
hung limply on her thin frame and the seams were a bit crooked, but it made her
look innocent and young – at least she always hoped for that.  There was no
reason to draw attention to her nubile body or otherwise make herself look the
whole of her fifteen years, for doing so might garner unwanted attention.  She
didn’t want the wrong visitors to notice that she was pretty.  She was too
close to marrying age to risk that.

She was
holding Maxwell’s small hand in hers, her callused fingers against his smooth
palm.  He was only four and needed her steady hand to keep him in place, but
aside from that, she wanted to show the visitors that they were together.  They
were blood siblings and she needed that message to be clear.

Henry was
standing on the other side of her, looking sloppy as usual.  His brown hair was
a bit too long but he wouldn’t allow her to cut it.  His clothes were too big –
chosen from a collection that had been at the Home for years before they had
come here.  He’d agreed to stand next to her, but insisted on his independence
by refusing to hold her hand.  The idea of touching his own sister disgusted
him like nothing else.  Such was his thinking at twelve.

There were at
least twenty orphans at Miss Nora’s, all usually so covered in soot from the
factories that their faces could not be distinguished one from another, but
today they were clean enough that they could be recognized as children again. 
Their faces had been scrubbed and their shoes had been polished, all in line
now as they waited to be examined by the visitors.

Some of the
callers were not specifically looking for children
as sons and
daughters.  They were looking for apprentices, servants, older girls to serve
as nannies.  Wren was not unwilling to work for her room and board, but it was
often that even these people would not want to take all three of them on, and
she wanted them all to stay together.  This was her one aspiration.  She didn’t
want to be separated from her brothers.  They were all she had left.

While she put
on her best face for the visitors with softer expressions, some guests were not
quite so scrupulous.  She could tell by the gleam in their eyes that they were
looking for something different – unsuspecting laborers for the workhouse, or
they were thinking vile thoughts as they looked at her supple complexion.

Wren tried her
best to fend some of these off, and had so far managed to do it, finding that
it worked well to claim that Max was her own son instead of her brother.  The
thought of an unwed mother so young tended to put people off.  Or if the
visitor was suspect for a factory workhouse, she would direct Henry to slouch
or pretend that his legs were uneven so that he would look weak.  Miss Nora
already had them working in a factory to earn their keep at the Home.  Wren did
not want them living in one.  There, they would be treated as nothing more than
property and would no doubt suffer the mishandling that went with it.

Wren felt she
was a fairly good judge of character and she kept her eyes peeled for the
genuine article – even if Henry couldn’t care less.  He usually stared at his
own shoes and the cracks between the floorboards rather than put on his best
face.

It would be
nice if he would try sometime
, she thought. 
I can’t do it all by
myself.

She looked out
across the room with the thin drapes and the threadbare settee, looking toward
a decently dressed pair that had caught her eye immediately.  They were clearly
married, and the woman had a warm smile as she pointed out a few of the younger
children to her husband.  He was, perhaps, a bit more stern-looking than Wren
might have liked in a father figure, but the woman reminded Wren of her own
mother, who she had not seen since she’d kissed her goodbye on the steps of
Miss Nora’s nearly two years ago.  These people at least looked clean and
well-to-do, and that was enough reason for her to want them.

The couple was
moving in their direction now, and Wren felt her heart speeding up.  She was
the neglected girl at the party who was finally being asked to dance – but this
was so much more important than that.

This is it
,
she told herself. 
Make it count.

“Stand up
straight,” she whispered to Henry, but all he did was squirm and look up at her
with defiant blue eyes.  All the soap in the world couldn’t wash away that look
of ill-temper that was constantly on his face, and Wren could only hope that
her own smile and politeness would make up the difference.

As the couple
drew closer, Wren’s chest clenched with both fear and excitement.  Her hand was
trembling slightly against Max’s, and she hoped that her anxiety was not
showing through to the outside.

When the woman
hesitated in front of them, she did not seem to see Wren at all.  Her eyes
settled on little Max instead as if she’d just spotted the most adorable puppy
hiding in the bushes.  She leaned down to address him immediately.

“Hello, what’s
your name, pet?” the woman asked him sweetly.

Max turned
against Wren’s leg and didn’t speak.  He was one of the more attractive young
children – his innocence unspoiled by a hard life, even though he’d cried his
share of tears for their lost mother that he could no longer remember.

The woman
looked hopeful for an answer from him, but Wren knew that he wouldn’t talk to
her now.  As little help as she got from Henry, she got even less from Max, who
was fine around the other children but had never felt comfortable in the
presence of strange adults.  She put her hand on his head to soothe him as he
clenched her dress and hid his face in the folds.

“His name is
Maxwell,” Wren said for him.

The woman was
still looking at him anxiously, and Wren would have given anything to have that
sort of attention.

“Say hello,”
she urged her brother, knowing that he was the ticket, and eventually Max
looked sheepishly up at the woman.

“Hullo,” he
mumbled.  He couldn’t have sounded more uninterested in her except if he’d been
bawling, but the woman seemed delighted.

“What a
charming little boy,” she commented, her eyes shining.  “I have so wanted a
little one.  I haven’t been able to have my own, you know.  He even looks a bit
like me, don’t you think?”

Wren wasn’t
sure what to say to that, so she only smiled.  She supposed that if it went
unquestioned, a resemblance might be seen, but as far as Wren herself was
concerned, it was fairly obvious that she was not related to this woman.  The
lady’s eyes were blue, but small, and her nose was slightly crooked over her
thin lips.  Now that Wren was close enough to notice these things, she wondered
how she could have been reminded of her own mother in the beginning.

My mother
was lovely.  This woman is nothing like her.

The woman now
caught her eyes on Wren, who was not always overlooked for being pretty,
especially when one was so close.  Her eyes were blue and kind, her skin pale,
and when her hair was not covered in soot, it was a lovely golden color that
spiraled down her back.  Her lips were sweet, and they always seemed able to
find a smile to lift another’s spirits, even when she was unhappy herself.  It
was as if the core of her soul was visible on her face, revealing her inner
beauty as a rare and perfect pearl.

“Well, aren’t
you lovely,” the woman commented to her.  Wren put on her best disposition,
telling herself that this was it – this was her chance to make a good
impression.

Show her
that you’re smart and competent.  If she’s not looking for a daughter, surely
she might be interested in a nanny if she’d rather call Max her son.  Henry
could make himself useful through work.

But before she
had gotten the chance to speak further, the woman had looked over at her
husband for approval, and Wren saw her downfall there in his eyes.  He had been
staring at her the whole while, gazing intently like a hungry wolf wanting to
gobble her up.  Wren had not even noticed, but his wife saw it now, and she did
not like it one bit.

That was the
end of the encounter.  The woman grabbed her husband’s arm and pulled him away
from them.  Wren was helpless against it.  Her hope sank like a stone in the
deep, cold well of despair.

“That went
beautifully,” Henry muttered as the couple passed by.  “They usually have to
see me first before they run away.  Nice job on that one.”

Wren didn’t
respond to her brother’s chiding.  She swallowed down that rejection; told
herself to be brave.  Beside her, Henry grew quiet again, looking sullen as
usual, and eventually Max had hidden himself behind her dress fully so that he
could not be seen by anyone.  Still, Wren waited, glancing pleadingly at the
others who had come to visit, trying to keep her smile even though she felt
like crying.

No one else
gave them any attention.

2

The day went
by with no result, just as so many days before.  Afterward, it was back to
chores at the Home – washing and cooking and wiping up coal dust.  Soon enough,
Wren was back in her bed, staring at the drab ceiling of the attic dormitory
that housed all twenty of them – boys and girls alike – wondering once again if
she would get out of here before she was old.

Another
day, that’s all,
she thought
.  I’m not any worse or better for it. 
She
had to think of it that way, or else she might eventually give up.

She had
succumbed to the curse of the fifteen-year-old girl – too pretty for her own
good, caught between being a child and woman, and because of that, no one
wanted to embrace her. The ones who
did
want to draw her in desired to
for reasons that she wasn’t willing to lay down her dignity for.

For thirteen
years, she had been her mother’s daughter.  She had been taught what was proper
for a lady with morals and manners, was trained to be an efficient wife and
mother, as society dictated.  Her life hadn’t been all fun and games, but she
had been comfortable and safe with her family.  She’d expected her only trouble
to be preparing herself for suitors in the coming years, but the family had
fallen on hard times after Max was born.

Her father had
lost his job over an adulterous scandal that had sent them all reeling.  The
family name had been dragged through the mud.  None of his old colleagues would
risk associating with him after that, and months passed without income.  Wren’s
mother had grown cold and distant toward them all, slipping away into unhealthy
bouts of depression.  Some days, she couldn’t even remember her daughter’s
name.  She neglected her baby as much as the rest of them, and Wren had taken
to raising the boy herself.  Her father couldn’t find another position and
turned to drinking.  Eventually the accounts were wiped, the family money gone,
and there was only one other option.

Miss Nora paid
a small price for the children, who would bring money in to her from the
factory – unless she might sell them off for a higher price to someone willing
to
adopt
.  Wren’s mother had hugged her and kissed her goodbye on the
steps, but Wren was convinced that her mother wasn’t really there inside that
body.  The woman had gone away a long time before that.