House of Glass

by Jen Christie

  It seemed that my happy life was taken, too. I was left painfully alone and penniless, as both my father and the source of our living and our savings—his boat—were gone. I sold my father’s market stall to another fisherman, and the meager amount of money that I received was all I had to my name.

  A month after my father’s death at sea, a letter arrived for me. It was from my aunt, my father’s sister, a woman I had seen only briefly once or twice when I was younger. I opened the envelope and read it while I sat at the kitchen table, a few meager pieces of salted fish my only dinner. As I read, the words sank in quickly and my hands began to shake.

  When I finished reading it, I stood up, grabbed the old suitcase from under my father’s bed and placed all of my belongings inside. I said a quick prayer, went to bed and waited for the morning. I never slept. At dawn, I was to take the ferry to the other side of the island. My aunt had secured a housekeeping position for me on the estate of Lucas St. Claire.

  Chapter Two

  The ferry was waiting, its engine purring, and gulls flew above as I boarded it. I sat by the railing, clutching my suitcase to my chest as if it were a lifejacket, and watched the sights of our small marina fade in the mist as we headed out over the bay. My future lay out there, obscured by the fog.

  Thankfully, the waters were smooth, and the sun hovered in the sky, nothing more than a silver disc behind the vapor. I heard the engines of other boats, far away and muffled. The ferry floated as if in a dream.

  Gradually, the wind picked up, and the fog cleared.

  There, before a curtain of blue sky, was the island, and in the center of it was the house of glass. It was like a diamond, perched on the cliff, twinkling, taking me back to the days with my father. A strange, flushed sensation enveloped me. Had it really been ten years?

  Now, dark clouds drew together and the image was gone, but not the memories of that day, ten years before, back when my life was simple and happy.

  So much had changed since then. I was now twenty years old, no longer a child. I would live in the house I that I once dreamed about, not as a wife, but as a servant. I had lost everything that I once loved so deeply and had come to depend on. Lucas St. Claire had lost much as well, and he was now an outcast, living under suspicion ever since his wife disappeared. I was deep in my thoughts and surprised when the boat bumped against the dock.

  We had arrived at the main harbor of St. Claire. When I stood to leave, the mist seemed to curl about my legs with tendrils as strong as fingers. Instinctively, I touched my necklace. I wonder now if it was trying to help me, to hold me back from the chain of events that would soon sweep me away. But, I shall never know, because I stepped out of the boat and off the dock and kicked loose of the mist.

  The docks were bustling with people, the smell of salt and fish, and the cries of the fishermen as they solicited their day’s catch. I passed my father’s stall and said hello to Roberto, the fisherman who bought my father’s stall and he gave me a kind wave in return.

  A tightness gripped my throat when I passed the old market stall, but I forced myself to continue on. I walked off the dock, and past the harbormaster’s office where captains and merchants were negotiating loudly. When I left the gates of the harbor, I stopped for a moment and looked up at the road ahead.

  There was no cart coming for me. I began to walk, but the going was slow. The breeze that was usually present at the docks died away as I climbed and entered the dense canopy of trees that swallowed the road and led higher and higher. Sweat gathered on my brow and I stopped often to mop it away.

  Occasionally, a bird would call out. Here and there the trees opened up to reveal the ocean far beneath me. After what felt like a lifetime of walking, the gates loomed before me. I had arrived at Devlin Manor.

  I could not move.

  I don’t know what I was so afraid of. It was only a gate. My feet, however, refused to go along with that simple fact. Maybe it was the stone lions, perched on the pillars and staring at me, maybe it was the anxiousness of my first employment. Maybe it was something else entirely. I shall never really know. The gates were open, welcoming me. I chided myself for my foolishness.

  I picked up my black suitcase, giving a small grunt with the effort, and stepped through the gate into my new life. Just like that, I emerged from the darkness and onto the cleared and manicured estate of Lucas St. Claire. It was the highest point on the island, and I could see far into the distance, all the way to the horizon where sea and blue skies blurred together.

  I took a few hesitant steps, noticing that my scuffed, black boots were a stain against the perfect green of the grass. The road that wound through the island jungle was long forgotten, with only the bright promise of a green carpet that stretched in front of me until it reached the walls of Devlin Manor.

  An image of the first time I saw the estate arose in my mind, when I had seen it from afar, from a small boat that bobbed in the open waters. At the time it seemed to me a gray, hulking shadow at the top of the mountain, a fortress overlooking the waters. Now that I stood before it, I knew that my first impression was correct.

  Massive stone walls, made of crushed shells rose two stories into the air. Small windows stared straight ahead, their views blinded by shutters that were fastened tight. A series of wide steps led upward from the lawn until they reached two black mahogany doors.

  It was a forbidding house. My eyes darted around, longing for some reassuring sights.

  My gaze came to the gardens, to the right of the building. There were walls of hedges, neatly trimmed, with a row of pink flowered hibiscus in front of them. I could see trees beyond the hedges, night jasmine and those eerie banyans, with their long roots dripping from the branches.

  I realized that I was staring like a fool and remembered the instructions from my aunt’s letter. I was to go and knock and the back door, the servants’ entrance. I walked along the outer edge of the building, running my hand along the rough stone, feeling the shells as they scraped against my skin. I found the door just off the wide terrace at the back of house, overlooking the ocean. I rapped three times and a stout man opened the door. “Yes?” He spoke in a tone that indicated he was bothered.

  “I am Reyna Ferraro.”

  “And?” He hovered over the door.

  “I am here for employment. To see Mrs. Amber.”

  “Hmph. One moment please.” He turned around and shut the door behind him.

  I waited, standing straight as an arrow until a middle-aged woman with brown hair that was pulled into a bun opened it again. “Reyna?” she asked in a sharp tone, but I saw from the look in her eyes that she recognized me.

  It had been many years since I had seen my father’s sister, but I still felt the familiar nervousness around her. “Aunt Louisa,” I said.

  She turned around, held the door open for me, and waited. “Here you call me Mrs. Amber.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot.” I quickly added, “Mrs. Amber.” There was no Mr. Amber, but my father was explicit when he told me as a child to call her Mrs. Amber.

  She wore all black, right down to her black leather shoes. The only spot of color she had was a gold chain that hung from her neck and held a ring of keys that jangled as I walked past her.

  She led me down a narrow hallway lined with windows that gave brief glimpses of the ocean as we walked. The waves were white capped and choppy in the distance. “You understand that you’re only here because of your father.” She spoke in a crisp manner and walked even more so and I found myself hurrying my pace to keep up with her.

  “I understand.”

  “Because I took pity on you. With your father—”

  I interrupted her. “I know. It was hard. Things have changed so much.”

  We turned the corner into a pantry of sorts. Cans of food lined the walls and at the far end, there was a door. Mrs. Amber lifted the key ring from her necklace, found the right key and unlocked the door, and we stepped into the room.

  Mrs. Amber
had to crowd into the front of the small room so I might enter with my bag. There was a single bed with a blue comforter, a dresser with a mirror above it, a table beside the bed and a small square window, situated right above the bed, that looked out onto the courtyard and the delivery door that I had just entered. “It’s perfect, thank you,” I said to her. “When shall I report to duty?”

  “You already have.” She paused a moment, and ran the key ring up and down the necklace as she peered at me. She was younger than my father, her hair still a rich brown, and her eyes were dark as raisins. “A quick word of advice if you would like to get on here.”

  “Of course.” Early, vague memories of her came rushing back, with her stiff demeanor, her brusqueness and curt disposition.

  “First and foremost, you will see nothing. If you don’t know what I mean you soon will. Whatever happens here, and let me be clear, whatever happens here, you don’t see any of it. You don’t discuss it with anyone, not another servant, a guest or a friend. Do you understand me?”

  A chill swept over me. “Of course,” I said. “I understand discretion.”

  “This goes beyond discretion.” She took a quick, sharp glance at me. “You’ll know soon enough. But keep your mouth shut and you’ll be fine.”

  “Second. Your employment is conditional from week to week. If you perform as expected it will never be a problem.”

  “Fine.”

  “Lastly, the door to your room will be locked behind you at 8:00 p.m. sharp and opened again at 6:00 a.m. No exceptions. If you have an emergency, you can ring the bell.” She nodded at a rope that descended through the ceiling. “But only for an emergency.”

  I looked at the rope, which hung like a dead snake. “Where does it lead?”

  “To my room. One last thing. A young woman, pretty, like yourself.” She cleared her throat. “Just like all the rest. Well, keep your head down and don’t get any ideas.” Her expression was stiff. “It’ll only end badly.”

  “I wouldn’t dare to.”

  She continued on. “I’ve seen them, like yourself, coming here young and fresh, giving him eyes. None of those girls last a month. They are always sent back. And then it’s too late. Well,” she looked at her wristwatch, “unpack. Lunch will be in an hour.”

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  She eyed my figure. “I need to get you a decent uniform. Your dress is almost to rags. Let me see what I have. I’ll be right back.”

  The door shut behind her, and for a foolish moment I thought she would lock it. But of course, she didn’t, and I set about unpacking. The dresser was clean, and I put my clothes away.

  A short time later, Mrs. Amber returned and walked into the room without knocking. She carried two dark garments in her hand and placed them on the bed. “Here. These should fit. Put one on and then meet me in the kitchen to help prepare lunch.”

  After she left again, I picked up a dress. It was a somber gray, short sleeved, with a white collar. Practical. A servant’s uniform. I donned it and went to the kitchen.

  Lunch was quick, and I met the staff. The rest of the afternoon, I shadowed Mrs. Amber from room to room, listening to her orders. Not once did I see Mr. St. Claire.

  There was an odd thing that happened, though. We were in a bedroom and I was helping her clean beneath a bed, when the glint of something caught my eye. It was wedged between the leg of the bed and the wall, and a trick of the light made it almost seem to wink at me. Whatever it was, it gleamed gold and bright.

  I pulled it out. It was a brooch, fashioned into a peacock. It was delicate and finely crafted, the tip of each feather festooned with a different colored jewel. I saw a ruby, an emerald, and jewels of every color of the rainbow. Yet for its delicacy, the piece had weight and felt solid in my palm.

  Mrs. Amber snatched it from my hand. I didn’t even know she was behind me. “Where did you find that?” she asked. There was a note of shock in her voice.

  “Right there, beneath the bed. It was wedged between the leg and the wall.”

  “After all this time.” She stared at the jewelry for a moment. “It was Mrs. St. Claire’s. I haven’t seen it since before she disappeared.” Mrs. Amber slipped the brooch into the pocket of her dress.

  Later, I helped Mrs. Amber prepare the servants’ dinner. As we worked the women talked about Mr. St. Claire and I listened intently, and at each mention of his name I inadvertently touched my necklace. He was coming home that night, at any moment, and we were to be ready to work. He would be arriving with his business partners. I offered to help, thinking it was finally a chance to see the man that I remembered.

  Mrs. Amber was quick to deny my wish. “No, I have another task for you after dinner.”

  I sat at the scuffed wooden table in the kitchen, eating quietly. Around me, the servants were talkative, excited at the return of Mr. St. Claire. I was not familiar enough to be included in the conversation, though everyone was polite. When we were done eating, I helped to clear the plates.

  After dinner, the kitchen was empty, but I saw through the window that Mrs. Amber was sitting outside on the servants’ patio. She called out to me. “Reyna, come outside for a moment,” she said.

  I opened the door and stepped outside. The sun was fat and fiery orange, and was sinking slowly into the ocean.

  Mrs. Amber was sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette. She was more relaxed than usual, and I grew hopeful that she might show kindness to me. “I need you to do me a favor,” she said.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Do you know about the glass cottage?” she asked.

  Sweet anticipation bubbled inside me. A thought, no—a wish— that I had buried deep inside me burst into life.

  “Yes,” I offered, trying to sound casual, and I felt like a fisherman casting my line into the sea, waiting for a bite.

  She took it.

  “When Mrs. St. Claire first came here, she had it built for herself.”

  When she started to speak, I felt giddiness like that of a child rise inside of me. I became quiet, still, and listened intently, nodding my head every now and then, urging her on.

  It seemed to work, and she began to tell me about it. “Lucas approved, of course. She had the sand shipped over special. Designed the house herself. It was hers. Not Mr. St. Claire’s. He hated it. Still hates it, for that matter. It’s closed now.” She paused, and shook her head grimly. “What with Celeste’s disappearance, Mr. St. Claire wouldn’t let anyone near it. Those were bad times.”

  Her voice dipped low and I leaned in to savor every word. “You should have seen the fight between Mr. St. Claire and Celeste.” Mrs. Amber looked at me, and shook her head rapidly, like she was clearing cobwebs from her mind. “Listen to me, rattling on like some gossip after I preached at you about discretion.”

  I was so disappointed that she stopped talking. Every word she uttered circled in my mind, and I knew I would mull over them for days to come. “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I won’t breathe a word of it.” I wouldn’t, either, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t think on it or daydream about it.

  She nodded. “I need you to return the brooch to the cottage. Not one of the servants will go anymore.”

  The tone of her voice had changed, and it startled me.

  “Myself, I’m too old and those stairs scare me now.” She said the words quickly, apologetically. “Anyway,” she went on, “down at the edge of the lawn, there is a trail that leads into a scrub of trees and then a stone staircase. Keep your eyes sharp—you have to look for the first step. It feels like you’re stepping off a cliff, and you are, in a fashion, but just trust in it. Once you do it, it’s easy after that. Follow it until you see the cottage on the bluff. Go inside.” She lifted the keychain from her necklace and slipped off one key. She handed it to me, along with the brooch, and gave me a wary look. “Don’t touch anything. Not one thing. He’ll know,” she warned, looking me straight in the eye. “In the bedroom—you can’t miss it, right acr
oss that damned glass floor. Place the brooch on the dressing table. Don’t forget to lock the door again, and bring back the key.” She leaned back, and took a deep drag on her cigarette. “You need to hurry, there’s not much light, and you don’t want to be there in the darkness.”

  I had well remembered the glass house from that night long ago with my father. Our view from the boat was of a beautiful jewel. I had often created fantasies about that house and the woman who was the lady there. Right then, as I walked across the grass, my old boots moved as fast as when I was a child. I could feel the lure of the magical house as if it were beckoning me.

  I walked to where the trees gathered at the edges of the manicured lawn, barely able to restrain my urge to run. There was a dirt path peeking out from the foliage and I felt the wind as it travelled unopposed from the sea up the trail. I turned and gave one last look at the forbidding stone house I was leaving behind, the perfect lawn, the English garden, and I eagerly stepped into the wild brush that lay between me and the stone staircase. Me and the glass house. The ground sloped downward, giving a hint to the cliffs that lay beyond.

  The path itself was neglected, weeds and vines blurring the edges between wilderness and civilization. I hurried along, intimidated by the clawing, reaching tendrils of the coral-tipped vines. The sun was nearly gone below the horizon, and the slanted light blazed across the tops of the trees, but left all else dark and shaded. As I walked, the breeze was strengthened, and the trees thinned until they were wind-bent and haggard. When the trees stopped suddenly, and there was nothing but a sheet of sky in front of me, I knew I had reached the cliff.

  A ball of fire jumped before my eyes, and I reared back in fright. As I watched, the fire came higher, and I could see that it was attached to a torch, which was held by a young woman who was climbing the stairs. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you. The new girl. I saw you at dinner. You might not remember. I’m Annie.” She made as if to hold out her hand and the fire swirled a bit, and I saw that she was older than me, not much, and had wide, brown eyes that reflected the gleam of the fire. “Sorry about that,” she said, as I cowered a bit. “I’m just lighting the torches.”