The Ghost in the Glass House

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

About the Author

CLARION BOOKS

215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003

 

Copyright © 2013 by Carey Wallace

 

“The going from a world we know” is from THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON: VARIORUM EDITION, edited by Ralph W. Franklin, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.

 

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

 

Clarion Books is an imprint of
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

 

www.hmhbooks.com

 

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Wallace, Carey, 1974–

The ghost in the glass house / Carey Wallace.

pages cm

Summary: In a seaside New England town in the 1920s, twelve-year-old Clare finds refuge from the cruelty of her society friends in a mysterious glass house inhabited by Jack, a charming and playful ghost who cannot remember his real name or how he died.

ISBN 978-0-544-02291-1 (hardback)

[1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Aristocracy (Social class)—Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 4. New England—History—20th century—Fiction.]
I. Title.

PZ7.W15474Gho 2013

[Fic]—dc23  2012051330

 

eISBN 978-0-544-02392-5
v1.0913

 

 

 

 

for Alexandra and Daniel

 

 

 

 

The going from a world we know

To one a wonder still

Is like the child's adversity

Whose vista is a hill,

Behind the hill is sorcery

And everything unknown,

But will the secret compensate

For climbing it alone?

 

                    —
Emily Dickinson

C
LARE
F
ITZGERALD HAD SEEN SO MUCH
in the twelve short years of her life that she could almost always guess what was going to hap-­ pen next.

So when she came around the side of their new summer home and saw the strange glass house winking at her from the stand of trees at the foot of the yard, she was caught between two feelings. She knew the first one well: the annoyance of a seasoned traveler who is confronted by a cabaret that has just opened at an address where she expected to find a reputable bank, or a reputable bank that has just opened at the address of a former cabaret. The other feeling, just as strong, took her longer to name because it was so rare. But after a moment she admitted to herself that it might be wonder: a deep thrill of suspicion that, despite everything she and her mother had seen, they had not yet exhausted all the world's mysteries and treasures.

At first glance, the glass house was a riot of reflections: sky and cloud, white brick, the pale underbellies of leaves. Then it resolved into a simple dome held together by copper beams gone green from exposure to wind and rain. It sat about fifty paces from the big white brick house she and her mother were moving into that day. A stand of young maples shaded the glass walls, which were further screened by climbing roses that crept all the way up to the slanted panes of the roof.

As a rule, Clare preferred to take her pleasures in small doses, bit by bit, instead of gulping them down whole, as her mother did. Under normal circumstances, she might have circled the whole yard, inspected the surrounding gardens, and taken the measure of the glass house from a dozen different vantage points before she made her approach. But sometimes life forced her to make exceptions. Today was one of them.

Clare had escaped only a few minutes earlier, in the confusion surrounding the arrival at their new summer home. If she lingered too long now in any one place, her mother would almost certainly take her captive again. Clare didn't know when she'd be able to get away next. And she'd never seen anything like the strange glass house glinting in the trees.

She glanced down briefly at the uncomfortable velvet and cardboard slippers her mother had insisted she wear on the train, with the cheerful hope that they might suffer some mortal damage in the course of her explorations. Then she cut straight down the substantial rise where the big white house was set and crossed the rolling lawn, through silver magnolias, redbud, and disheveled lilacs, to the grove that sheltered the glass house.

Under the maple branches, the air was filled with bits of pollen that glowed like tiny embers. As her eyes adjusted to the shade, she realized that the glass house didn't have corners like other buildings: it was an octagon, eight sides fastened together, so that the room it formed was more like a circle than a square. The leaves of the climbing roses were so thick that she couldn't see anything inside: just tantalizing flashes of color blurred by the glass.

Furthermore, it didn't seem to have a door.

Clare started around one side, found nothing but wide panes covered with vines, then doubled back. Her brow had begun to furrow with disbelief and frustration when, on the far side from the big house on the hill, she discovered a narrow pane of glass, about the height of a man, not so overgrown with vines as the rest. Unlike all the other glass, which was weather-stained but unmarked, this pane was etched with an oval pattern so intricate that Clare thought she saw half a dozen false letters in the crabbed loops and curls. But when she looked closer, none of them resolved into actual words.

A moment later, she discovered the handle of the door, half hidden by the same vines that curled over the mossy flagstone at her feet and met in a canopy over the green copper door frame.

The handle was copper green as well, more like a paddle than a knob. She turned it down to release the latch as she peered through her own reflection at the mysterious shapes inside.

The door didn't budge.

She pulled the handle up. No luck.

Then she saw a small neat cut in the embellished metal below the handle: a keyhole.

The glass house was locked.

Frowning in concentration, Clare circled the building, looking for a key box or a hiding rock or even a stray garden fork with tines long enough to tease the lock open. When she didn't find any of these, she settled on a short hardwood twig, about the same size as a bone from her hand. She hunched under the handle and fiddled the twig this way and that, listening for the telltale click of the mechanism as it swung free, a trick she had learned a few summers before when her mother had befriended the ship's detective on a trip across the Atlantic.

The ship's detective was a pale, gangly scholar with a boy's face and prematurely gray hair who had been given the job by his uncle, a member of the shipping company's board, due to his complete unsuitability for any other work. He'd spent the voyage under the misconception that Clare found his responsibilities as a detective boring while her mother found them fascinating: an almost perfect inversion of the truth. As a result, he would only speak to Clare's mother about his work when he believed Clare was asleep. So Clare had spent the week feigning sleeping fits on the lounge chairs of the second deck as he regaled her mother with the exploits and methods of the modern bank robber, jewel thief, and bootlegger, all of which he'd culled from various publications on the topic and not from personal experience, which he spent the bulk of his formidable intelligence trying to avoid. But despite Clare's rapt attention on those bright afternoons, the lock on the door to the glass house held fast.

Clare dropped the twig into the glossy myrtle that hid the roots of the roses, cupped her hands around her eyes, and pressed her face to the glass.

Inside, the vines cast gnarled shadows over a confusion of furniture arranged on overlapping oriental rugs, which produced a visual effect so jumbled that for a moment Clare couldn't tell where anything began and anything else ended. The sun, with no interference from shutters or drapes, had taken its toll on all the fabrics, brightening some, erasing others. Now, at full noon, it made the whites blaze. Piercing glints shot from the domed case of an anniversary clock and the tarnished surface of a silver vase. Then a hodgepodge of mismatched, castaway pieces began to fall into place: a pair of mulberry leather smoking chairs. A delicate sea-green divan with a back that swelled up over the curve of the seat like a wave about to crash on the beach. A low table with several mysterious drawers. A buffet crowned by the anniversary clock and vase, cluttered with candlesticks and books. And, just to the left of the locked door, the black shadow of a grand piano, positioned so that the player would play with her back to the big house, looking through the propped cover into the half-tamed forest that overtook the yard a few strides beyond.

Clare glanced up at the big house to make sure she had not been discovered, then pressed her face back to the door, half surprised to find that everything inside remained just as it had been. The glass house was so strange that she wouldn't have blinked at seeing exotic birds now perched on the piano lid, or all the furniture suddenly replaced by a scrap of a white desert, with a lone Bedouin disappearing in the distance.

She'd learned about the desert from one of her mother's friends, Mr. Pedersen, after his visit to Arabia, and she had been captivated by his claim that in the desert, the silence was so complete that he had spent an entire leg of one solitary journey singing aloud to reassure himself that he had not gone deaf. Since then, she had begun to imagine a desert that could appear to her anywhere, like a reverse mirage, whenever their travels overwhelmed her. As she and her mother rushed to catch a train that shuddered and hissed in preparation for departure, Clare would look up at the mirrored windows of a sleeping car and suddenly know that a beautiful desert lay within, in full darkness, complete with stars, but without a sound except the sand that whispered underfoot. Or as she followed her mother down the dim hall of a club for lunch, shivering under the thin taffeta of a fancy dress, she'd catch sight of a few grains of white sand spilling through the crack of a closed door: a sure sign that the strong desert sun waited for her within. Once or twice she'd actually struggled down the length of a train or snuck into a club's private rooms to test these intimations and found only a Pullman bunk and an empty library. But these disappointments didn't discourage her. Instead, they felt like clues: false leads crossed off a list that would one day bring her to the edge of the real desert, wherever it lay in wait.

Still, the glass house remained resolutely as it had been. Clare straightened and let the sun blot out the room with the reflection of trees and sky. She tapped idly at the glass, three impatient raps with the tip of her index finger.

A moment later, as if in answer to Clare's absent scrap of code, the glass tapped back.

Instantly, Clare cupped her hands and pressed her face to the door.

Inside, everything stood exactly as it had. The only motion she could catch was a shiver in the shadows as wind stirred the leaves overhead. She looked for anything that might have knocked against the glass: a loose chain, a trapped bird. If something had, she couldn't see it.

“Hm,” she said aloud.

She narrowed her eyes, her face still pressed to the glass. Then she tapped again, more deliberately: one, two, three.

This time, when the glass tapped back, the vibrations tingled in her forehead and palms.

She sprang away. For a few breaths, she glared at her own reflection, tangled in the weird etching.

Then she lifted her chin to hide her fear and ran back up the hill to the big house.