The Fire in the Glass

by Jacquelyn Benson

He stepped over the stream. Lily met him at the bench. She lowered herself down onto the far end of it. Mr. Ash seemed to sense her need for distance, leaving the space between them. The move offered her a touch of reassurance, lowering the instinctive wariness she had felt since she walked in.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  “Quite.”

  “This room is not normally used for conversation. It is intended as a place of silence and contemplation.”

  “It feels like a church,” Lily noted, then wondered if that might be taken as an insult.

  “It is modeled after one, in a manner of speaking. The room was inspired by a space in the South Cliff Temple in Wudang, China. As that was carved out of the living rock of the mountain, however, I had to make some changes here. And of course, the view is rather different.”

  “You’ve been to China?” She knew the answer already, of course, thanks to Mr. Cairncross, but she wasn’t sure how else to proceed, other than making some form of polite small talk. Not until she understood why she was here and who this Robert Ash was.

  “I have.”

  “What brought you there? Business?”

  “Grief,” he replied simply.

  The response was startling in its honesty, in how it so simply laid bare a vulnerability one did not normally share with new acquaintances.

  It left Lily unsure how to proceed. Was the courteous thing to do to ask after the source of that grief? Express sympathy? There was nothing in Mr. Ash’s tone or posture that indicated he expected either.

  “How much did Miss Deneuve tell you about this place?” he asked, filling the silence before Lily could decide how to do so herself.

  “Nothing,” she replied, allowing her own touch of blunt honesty.

  “So you do not know why you are here.”

  “She said she wanted me to meet a friend of hers.”

  “I see.”

  The stillness settled back in, filling the space left around the gentle song of the water.

  It should have seemed oppressive. A gap in conversation with a person one hardly knew was not usually a comfortable thing. It didn’t. It was as though some quality of the space itself worked to settle Lily’s nerves. She didn’t feel like she was paying a social call in some drawing room, but more like someone praying who had simply happened across another parishioner along the way.

  “Are you a Catholic, Miss Albright?”

  She was, in fact, a Catholic, a faith she had inherited from her Irish mother. Both the Irish and the Catholicism could be grounds for being looked down upon by a man of Mr. Ash’s standing. There were, of course, more significant social faults Lily would be considered guilty of, but those generally didn’t arise in polite conversation.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I wonder if you are familiar with any of the lives of the saints.”

  “Some.”

  It was perhaps an overstatement. Lily had never paid very much attention in church.

  “St. Alphonsus de Liguori?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It is said that his holiness was revealed in his ability to appear in two places at the same time. A phenomenon known as bilocation.”

  “How very interesting,” she replied politely, thrown by what felt like a very odd and abrupt turn in the conversation.

  “Then there’s St. Paul of the Cross,” Mr. Ash continued. “He reportedly had the ability to project sermons into the minds of people miles away and could read the inner thoughts of those souls he came into contact with.”

  The warning instinct flared again. She could not say why—Mr. Ash gave no indication that this was anything more than a casual exchange of information. Yet her pulse had risen, her senses sharpening to attention.

  “I see.”

  “There are many others. Accounts of holy men and women who could project their souls across great distances, or were invulnerable to pain . . . Similar stories are peppered through faiths and cultures across the globe, from Hinduism to Santeria. In Islam, such powers are called karamat. The word parallels our own ‘charisma’. Do you know what charisma is, Miss Albright?”

  “It’s a sort of charm,” Lily replied.

  In the theatre, charisma had meant everything. It was the difference between fading into obscurity and rising to stardom. She had so often heard that her mother possessed it—that unique, ineffable quality that made eyes want to linger on a form, a voice, a smile.

  “There is another meaning to charisma,” Mr. Ash said. “One that refers not to attractions of physique or character, but to something else entirely—a divinely-conferred extraordinary power. From the Greek khárisma—a gift of grace.”

  The cornered feeling rose again, that sense of something dangerous lurking in this room, something from which Lily would want to run, were she able to identify it for what it was.

  She shifted her grip on the walking stick.

  “There have always been charismatics. Look closely and you will see them scattered through the history of every nation, every faith. Some were exalted. Others were burned. Certainly there were more who walked quieter paths through life, leaving little if any mark in the records that are our knowledge of the past. But they have always been here.”

  Mr. Ash did not move. There was no change in his tone. He said the next words as calmly and simply as every other utterance he had made, since that first exclamation of surprise when she walked into the room.

  “You are the possessor of such a gift. Are you not, Miss Albright?”

  Panic flared, quick and urgent. How did he know?

  How could he know?

  No one knew. Since the day her mother had died, fourteen years ago, she had not told a single soul about the damnable power she possessed.

  There was no possible way that the stranger who sat beside her in this dim, quiet room could have found her secret out.

  If I told you that you were in danger . . . would you believe me?

  Words Lily had uttered the night before in a burst of spite, in the middle of a game she hadn’t wanted to play. They would surely have sounded like nonsense, the sort of thing any rational person would have dismissed as a leap of imagination.

  Estelle was not a rational person. Estelle was intuitive—deeply, penetratingly intuitive. Had she nosed some truth from between the lines Lily had uttered?

  If I were in danger, would you tell me?

  The question Estelle had asked at the end of the night, the one Lily had firmly pushed from her mind as she collapsed into sleep.

  She had been so careful for so very long. Had she made a critical slip?

  She mustered her resources, holding a firm facade of calm indifference. No one could know her secret—and no one would.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mr. Ash stood. He walked to the windows, his feet soundless on the bare floor. He looked out over the stark landscape of the winter garden.

  “My wife was a charismatic,” he said.

  Lily held herself still.

  “Her power was not something so straightforward as appearing in two places at once,” he went on, still gazing out the window. “I never truly understood it, not while she lived. It was only after . . . after a very long time searching across the world for answers to questions I wasn’t even sure how to ask that I finally grasped what she was.”

  He stopped there. Silence settled in. She could not see his face. There was nothing in his voice or posture that indicated this was anything but a bare fact that he passed along. In spite of that, Lily sensed that it was pain that caused the pause in his story.

  What brought you to China?

  Grief.

  She did not want to continue this conversation. It was dangerous—far, far too dangerous. The words spilled out of her anyway, drawn by some force more powerful than her fear.

  “What was she?”

  He shifted, turning back to her.

  “Are you familiar with the tao, Mis
s Albright?”

  “No.”

  “That is hardly surprising. It is not, unfortunately, a concept easily explained in an hour’s conversation. Suffice to say my wife had an ability to perceive the imperceptible.”

  “You mean spirits?” Lily asked, thinking of Estelle’s purported mediumship.

  “I mean purpose,” Ash replied softly. “The ineffable order of all things.”

  “What could that possibly look like?” Lily blurted in surprise.

  “Beautiful . . . and terrible.”

  “That’s how she described it?”

  “Evangeline was an artist. She did not describe anything. She illustrated it.”

  The notion fired her curiosity and at the same time, struck her as deeply unsettling.

  This was all a distraction. If she had been exposed, somehow, in this place, she would repair the damage and move on, as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  She stood, smoothing her skirts.

  “I am sure her work must have been remarkable,” she said politely.

  Mr. Ash spoke again, the words gliding across the room before Lily could make the easy transition to some acceptable excuse for her departure.

  “You are part of it.”

  The feeling returned, of being seen, like a cornered animal.

  “What on earth do you mean?” she asked, keeping her tone level and cool, refusing to show the tumult raging inside of her.

  “She painted you.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize I had met her.”

  “My wife is dead, Miss Albright. She died thirty-two years ago.”

  Her heart beat, thuds strong and urgent, the hum of it in her ears contrasting with the constant, gentle rush of the water that ran across the room.

  “That’s quite impossible, then,” she countered evenly.

  “Yes,” Mr. Ash agreed, “and also true.”

  “I am afraid you must be mistaken.”

  He showed no awareness of the sharpness in her tone, remaining quiet and resolute, as immovable as a rock.

  “It is you, Miss Albright. Right down to the yew staff you carry in your hand.”

  Her grip on the walking stick clenched reflexively.

  Nothing required her to give credence to his words. It was all a game, or some uncannily astute sort of madness.

  Worse than the fear was the other emotion the madness evoked in her, something far more disturbing than quick panic.

  Intrigue.

  She straightened her back. It was past time she got out of here.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Ash—”

  “Zìzhīzhīmíng bìfēng gang,” he cut in, the foreign words sounding easy on his tongue. “It is a reference to the thirty-third chapter of the Tao Te Ching, a book of wisdom by a Chinese sage named Lao Tzu. ‘To know others is intelligence. To know one’s self is wisdom. Mastering others is strength. Mastering one’s self is power.’ I created this place to provide a safe harbor for charismatics, individuals who possessed gifts they did not fully understand, to achieve zìzhīzhīmíng—to come to know themselves. You have seen the library. The collection is extensive and covers all aspects of extraordinary human experience, both historical and contemporary. There is also a training studio, where I work with more physical techniques of cultivating focus and the balance between mastery and acceptance.”

  “They said you were training when I came in.” The words spilled out, her curiosity getting the better of her. “The floor shook.”

  “A tàijíquán session. Though I teach tàijíquán primarily for its mental and spiritual benefits, it has applications as a form of self-defense,” he explained. “It is one of several practices I encountered during my years abroad that have potential application when working with charismatics. Others involve less direct contact.”

  Her mind spun.

  It was too much to absorb—that there had been others, like her, throughout history. That there existed an enormous library full of books that might be able to tell her more about who she was. That there were techniques and practices that could offer her . . . mastery. And acceptance.

  Ash’s words were rich with resonance.

  Something inside her yearned toward the notion, deeply tempted.

  No, she reminded herself forcefully. She would not go down that path. She knew what her power could do. More importantly, she knew what it could not, no matter what books she read. She could not fall into this. To explore the world that Ash revealed to her would lead her nowhere but to more pain, more suffering. More grief.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said, her voice steady though inside she felt she was shaking like a leaf. “I’m afraid I have to go.”

  “Of course.”

  Ash showed no hint of offense at the abruptness of her announcement. He moved closer, stopping just on the other side of the flow of water that divided the room.

  “Should you wish to return, Miss Albright, the door of The Refuge will be open. It will always be open to you.”

  There was nothing of common courtesy in the statement. Lily knew, with clear instinct, that Ash meant every word he had uttered—that the door to this place, his home, would quite literally be open to her.

  Why?

  The urge to demand an answer was overwhelming, firing her with an energy that was part desperate curiosity, part anger. Why would he make such an offer to a total stranger? Was it the painting—the image he believed his wife had made of her, years before she had been born? Or something else? What could he possibly have to gain from this?

  She would not ask it. It would only open another door and she was done with revelations today. She gave him a nod, one she recognized was barely polite, and turned to go.

  She had nearly made it when another thought occurred to her, one so overwhelming in its implications it stopped her in her tracks.

  Tàijíquán. A physical art of self-defense. Ash had stated that he was training when she came in and the house rattled with the impact of a body hitting the floor.

  For a body to hit the floor, it needed to be thrown. Which meant there were two bodies involved.

  She turned back.

  “Who were you training?”

  It was as much a demand as a question, the significance of how he might answer overwhelming any remaining shred of propriety she had clung to.

  For the first time since she met him, a brightness came into Ash’s eyes, the lines at their corners lifting.

  “I have told you that charismatics may be found throughout the length and breadth of history,” he replied. “Did you expect the same would not be true of the present? You are not alone, Miss Albright. You have never been alone.”

  The words struck with the impact of a canon.

  You are not alone.

  It was impossible. Lily had never been anything other than alone. It was who she was. It was all she ever could be.

  She took a step back, then another, then turned, at last, and pushed through the black curtain into the light of the hall.

  She quickly tugged on her boots, her heart thudding in her chest as though she were running a sprint—which she was, more or less. She was running away.

  The wound in her leg gave a quick stab of pain at the motion, which she ignored.

  She headed for the door, forcing herself to walk instead of openly dash.

  As she reached the entry, she began to feel foolish.

  She had just fled from a polite if strange conversation with an eccentric. That’s all it had been. Ash was just a mad but well-intentioned old man with a batch of wild ideas dancing around in his head. Lily had let her imagination, and her own paranoia, get the better of her. There was nothing here to be afraid of—nor was there anything truly extraordinary about this house. It was nothing more than bricks and wood and mortar, the rambling abode of some well-off lunatic.

  Estelle spotted Lily in the hall and came out of the library.

  “Where are you going?”

  The creak of a footfall sounded
on the landing above. Lily looked up and saw someone step out into the light of the hall.

  He was dressed in a loose shirt and trousers, some sort of sporting attire that revealed his well-built frame. Dark hair, a bit longer than was strictly fashionable, curled against his forehead, the tendrils of it damp with exertion.

  His black-gloved hands rested on the balustrade.

  He looked down at her with clear shock that mirrored the emotion flaring through her like a forest fire.

  “It’s you,” he said, the words a cough of surprise.

  “Lord Strangford,” she managed to reply.

  They stared at each other across the distance of the hall, the impact of seeing him robbing her of any coherent response.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she blurted, speaking to Estelle, though she was unable to take her gaze off of the man on the landing. “I have to go.”

  “Lily . . .”

  She ignored Estelle’s objection and walked out the door.

  Long strides carried her quickly down the length of the square. Forcibly ignoring the sharp pain in her leg, she pressed forward at something only a hair shy of a run, then turned the corner and dove into the ever-flowing chaos of Tottenham Court Road.

  She wove through the stream of humanity like a needle in a tapestry until the ache in her thigh rose to a burning agony, then ducked into an alley behind a bank.

  Her back fell against the bricks. She slumped down and let herself start to shake.

  You are not alone, Miss Albright.

  You have never been alone.

  FIVE

  CHICKEN, LILY THOUGHT. NO, she reconsidered. Perhaps it was a hawk.

  She lay on her back in her bed, puzzling over the shape of the smoke-stains on her ceiling.

  It was more or less what she’d been doing all day. After her return from Bedford Square, she had shut the door, tossed off her gown, and proceeded to determinedly push the rest of the world out of her mind.

  The chicken in the smoke failed to banish the memory of Estelle’s wraith-like form, the accusing finger pointed at the threatening darkness. The awareness that death stalked her from some unknown source and that Lily could do nothing to avert it.

  Nor had it done much to push Lord Strangford’s shocked gaze from her mind.