House of Glass

by Jen Christie

  “It’s okay,” I said. “That’s quite a job to have.” I leaned a bit over the edge, noticing the white froth of the ocean before looking back quickly.

  “Hah, I’ll say it is.” I couldn’t tell if she was joking or scared, but she had high emotion, an almost nervous agitation. The color was reddish on her cheeks. “And you? You are going down to the house? To her house?” She looked genuinely confused.

  “Mrs. Amber asked me to return something.”

  “Oh.” She thought for a moment and added sheepishly, “I suppose since none of us will go into it.”

  “You won’t, either?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. I won’t go any farther than the bottom lamp. Even then I have to force myself not to look at the house.”

  “Why? Is it haunted?”

  “No. It’s just…just a bad feeling that I have.”

  “Oh.”

  “You better hurry,” she said. “I’ll see you on in a bit then?”

  “Yes.” I left her at the top of the rise, and stepped over the cliff. The stairs were crude and roughly hewn, and I knew that they were very old. The air was salty and pungent. A bolt of terror struck me at the steep scale of the stairs. I looked up toward the horizon and saw the other end of the island as it curved away. I thought of my home, somewhere over there. There was no return. Everything was gone. I had to make this job work. There was no choice.

  Down the steps I went, and the moist wind from the ocean fought against me the whole way. It was a precarious descent and I traveled with one hand on the wall in order to give me balance. The drop was steep and cragged, with pointed stones that waited patiently for a missed step.

  I came to the cottage, built on a natural shelf in the stone, and hanging over the edge. It was a bold design, with simple lines and a broad, sweeping form, almost like a wingspan. It was vermillion in the gathering dusk.

  I unlocked the double doors. Heat swirled out. It curled around my body, licked at my skin, and cajoled me to step inside. I gave in to it, to the warmth. I closed my eyes and savored it for a moment before I stepped over the threshold. And when I stepped a thrill went through my body. The bliss started somewhere deep inside me and bloomed like a flower, a precious desire that I wanted to last and last.

  I was only one step inside and already I was soaring. Wall-to-wall windows overlooked the sea and gave the impression of flight, of hovering in the heavens above the Earth. Standing perfectly still, I let the smells, the sights, the warmth of the house welcome me, chasing away any hesitation, any emotion other than rapture.

  The dining room was just beyond the entry, and a large teardrop chandelier hung over the table. In the center, facing me was a golden statuette. It was a nude, a reclining woman, whose long hair fell along the curve of her hips and skimmed the line of her breasts. She was reaching, her hand extended and open. The expression on her perfect face was expectant, waiting.

  The shadows were growing long. I needed to hurry. I could see the door to the bedroom and went down the few stairs into the sunken room. But when I saw what was beneath me, I stopped again, for my breath was sucked away.

  I stood on a floor of glass, and underneath, twenty feet below, were jagged rocks. A tiny strip of beach was there, and white-capped waves rolled onto the sand directly underneath me. “My God,” I breathed. There was only a thin plate of glass between myself and oblivion. I reveled in it, in the danger.

  I boldly stepped closer to the ceiling-high windows and looked out. There was a small deck that stretched away from the house, but I felt no need to step outside.

  I saw the whole world spread before me like a painting. I was enthralled.

  Reaching up my hand, I traced my finger over the glass. It was like velvet, and my fingertip left no trace behind. Everything that I ran my finger over— the island, the houses that dotted it, the waters below—it all seemed within reach, as if I could simply reach out and touch it and it would be mine. A picture of Lucas came to my mind and I laughed to think it could be that easy.

  Sunlight danced across the top panes of the house and everything around me was drenched in golden hues. The walls seemed somehow to tease color and detail from the world outside. I could even discern the rays of the sun as they descended into the depths of the ocean, like fingers plunged into the deep. The island seemed impossibly green, a forbidden, shimmering and fertile green. I instinctively knew that at night, with the cool blue and purple rays of the moon, the house would be at its finest.

  I had already lingered too long. I needed to hurry.

  The bedroom was off to one side, and I could see the door already open. I went inside, and the room was cooler, darker and had a neglected odor to it. In the rest of the house, the glass walls let in every detail, but here, in Celeste’s domain, the room was secretive. The walls were covered in thick velvet curtains and only a lonely sliver of dying sunlight streamed into the room. The dressing table was tucked into the far corner and the chair positioned as if time had stopped the moment Mrs. St. Claire vanished. There were still cosmetics on the tabletop—an open tube of lipstick, a hairbrush, a full-length mirror just next to the vanity.

  So this was her hideaway. It was so obviously a woman’s domain. With a lace-fringed comforter and pale pink pillows on the bed, it felt like I had stepped into her secret place. I wondered what about the ocean, the perilous view and the frightening floors appealed to her. Was it the same things that appealed to me? I supposed that I would never know.

  I walked to the vanity and looked for a jewel box, but there was none. There was, however, a string of pearls on the table. I traced my finger along the edge of those fat dollops of heaven, and felt a fine sheen of dust collect on my skin. It was sad and eerie, this place, as if time had stopped and was waiting for her. I decided to leave the trinket on the table and I turned to go, but then I hesitated, wanting to linger just another moment.

  There was a picture on the wall, and I stepped closer, analyzing it. Celeste St. Claire stared out at me with her chin raised, a defiant, almost arrogant look to her. Her hair was silver-white and styled into finger curls. Her beauty was apparent, but it was a cold beauty, self-aware. A dress hung from a hook on the wall. It was a floor-length silver silk gown. I ran my hand over the fabric, and the smooth silk caressed my skin in return. I lifted it and the dress lay languorously in my hand.

  I was, at that moment, possessed by a desire to be her—to be decadent and thoroughly intoxicating. Standing before the mirror on the dressing table, I pressed the silver gown against my body. It glowed in approval. I pulled my hair down from its bun, and a dark cloud dropped past my shoulders, heavy and thick. I shook it loose and pulled the curls forward, and foolishly tried to pose the way the lady in the statue did, hips jutted out, arm reaching.

  “Lovely,” said a voice. It was a deep male voice, jaded and mocking.

  I was startled and stumbled and a gasp gathered in my throat, but was squelched when I looked to the owner of the voice.

  The man was obscured in shadows, and a blade-width of darkness fell over his face. Only the straight line of his jaw and his full lips were visible. His body was tense and powerful.

  Then he came to me. There was a hitch in his gate that was forced. Even so, he ate up the space between us in a few steps and stood towering in front of me.

  Of course, I didn’t need to see him clearly to know that he was Lucas St. Claire. He loomed over me, hardened and angry. His eyes roamed my body and face with an awful, indifferent gaze, and then he reached out a finger and traced the line of my lips. I flailed backward, awkwardly, surprised at his boldness.

  “What are you doing here in my wife’s room?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

  “I—Mrs. Amber—”

  “Yes?” he interrupted. He pushed even closer, clearly enjoying my panic.

  “I was returning an item.” I took a breath. “Mrs. Amber told me to bring it here.”

  “I see.” He ran the back of his hand over a loose curl of my hair. “
And this?” His touch slid farther down the tendril of hair, past my shoulder, only inches away from the shell he himself had once given me. “A game of pretend?” He leaned forward and whispered, his lips barely touching my ear. “Shall I play, too?”

  For a moment I was stunned. Was this the man who had once showed me such kindness? No, this man frightened me. He was different, hardened.

  The heat from his body surrounded me. Or maybe it was the heat from the house, I wasn’t sure.

  A palpable ripple, a shiver coursed through the house. I could even feel it in the wall at my back. I looked at Mr. St. Claire to gauge his reaction, to see if he noticed it.

  He didn’t. He was intent on me, his hands still in my hair, his lips just above mine.

  It was only my nervousness. My heart was beating fast making me breathless. But despite my fear, I had the overwhelming urge to do something bold and I gave in to it. I reached up and slid my hand between the buttons of his shirt, my fingertips barely grazing his skin. I pulled him toward me.

  It was the only encouragement he needed. I don’t know what shocked me more—the boldness of my actions or the feel of his lips as they collided with mine. The sheer force and shock of it stole all the breath from my body. His hands went to the small of my back, and pulled me against him.

  I became aware of another feeling, a rising recklessness within me. The awareness coursed through me and I felt emboldened, and possessed of a single-minded will that was entirely directed at Lucas St. Claire.

  My body rose to meet him and my hands roamed across the wide expanse of his shoulders. There was a deep rumble from somewhere inside him and a thrill shot through me to hear proof of his desire. He crushed against me, strong and demanding.

  I thought that I could hear the surf crashing against the rocks below, rhythmic and loud, but then I realized that it was my breathing. This other, bolder part of me had given in, worse even, had taken over, and my body was in full agreement.

  I ran my lips along his jaw and his stubble tugged at my skin. His body was rigid, muscles tense with restraint, and when I pressed against him I felt him hard as a rock.

  The distant warning in my mind that I had been ignoring got louder then. I could no longer blot it out. I needed to stop. Too much depended on my job. Here I was, kissing the man I had been forbidden to touch. Lingering in a forbidden place. I had been this close to putting on the dress. What was I doing?

  I put my hands on his chest and pushed—pushed him away with all my strength. He did not move. I ducked and moved out from beneath him.

  “I’m sorry…” I stammered. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “No, you shouldn’t be here.” A slow smile spread across his face. “What happened? Did you get scared?” He took one step in my direction. “I could scare you in a different kind of way.”

  He was unhinged, not caring about anything, and the sharp lines of his face were marred by the jaded words that came next. “Is that what you want?”

  “No,” I said sharply. All the certainty that I felt from a few minutes before had evaporated. “No, that’s not what I want.” I only wanted to run.

  “You think I care what you want?”

  A realization dawned on me, fought up from the maelstrom of emotions and sensations that I was drowning in. He was full of hurt and anger, and something else, a recklessness. “I think you do care,” I whispered. I could think of nothing to do but escape. I backed away. “I think you care very much,” I repeated.

  “Do you?” He stepped back and leaned against the wall that I had just abandoned and crossed his arms over his chest. He chuckled, and it was a horrid sound. “Then you fool yourself.”

  I turned and bolted from the bedroom, across the glass floor, and the last thing I saw as I left the house was the gold statue of her, Celeste, the lost wife. He arm was reaching out to me and it seemed almost accusing. I slammed the door and ran up the stone stairs.

  * * *

  That very night I found out exactly why my door was locked behind me. After I had gone to bed, a group of men arrived, and I know for certain that they didn’t arrive by the gate, because I heard them climbing the stone stairs, drunk and rowdy, and I peeked from my window to see them racing across the lawn, carrying torches that flared in the wind.

  They banged upon the terrace doors and someone must have let them in, because then I could hear them inside the house. Their greetings echoed down the long halls until they reached my ears as a muted, threatening sound. It quieted after that, for a while at least, and I had almost drifted back to sleep when a roar of laughter came from somewhere deep in the belly of the house. Not a moment later, there was a knock on my door.

  “It’s Mrs. Amber,” came a muffled voice through the door. I heard a key scraping in the lock and she entered my room carrying a candle. She wore a robe, and I was surprised to see an old-fashioned sleep cap on her head.

  “Mr. St. Claire came and woke me. We need to feed and care for the visitors, the men that I am sure you heard banging around out there. So put on your uniform and follow me.”

  I leaped from the bed, changed and followed Mrs. Amber into the dark hallway. She went to another door and unlocked it. Annie, the maid I had met earlier, was already dressed and waiting for us. Annie nodded at us and she fell in line behind me, and we crept through the castle.

  Mrs. Amber whispered to me as she walked. “You’ll remember everything I told you earlier, Reyna, when you first arrived.”

  “Of course,” I whispered back. I tripped and fought to catch up to Mrs. Amber. She had a way of almost gliding over the floor, and for all her stoutness she was fast if not graceful. I sneaked a peek at Annie and she had an excited look in her eyes. But she revealed nothing to me as we entered the kitchen and began preparing the meal.

  We found the men in the great hall, sitting at a long table with all their heads huddled together over an enormous map.

  Mr. St. Claire wasn’t sitting, though; he stood above them, and was leaning over them, pointing to something.

  He was thin and tall, and his long arms reached easily over the men’s heads. He was marked with thick, unruly black hair, wide blue eyes and a cynical, almost sneering mouth. He was nothing like the man I remembered as a girl, not even close. He looked up and nodded at Mrs. Amber, and his eyes flitted over Annie until finally settling upon me. I saw the blue of his eyes, even in the dim light.

  They followed me as I crossed the room, and after I walked past him I couldn’t resist the urge to turn and glance back.

  He was still staring at me.

  One eyebrow raised, so minutely that it would not be noticed by anyone but me, but the look unsettled me.

  We took the men drinks and food.

  When I served Mr. St. Claire, he asked me, “What’s your name?”

  “Reyna.”

  “Thank you, Reyna,” he said, as I laid the plate in front of him.

  There was a lull in the activity, and Annie and I stood against the wall.

  “Who are they all?” I whispered to her.

  She looked at me and rolled her eyes impatiently. “Merchants,” she hissed back. “Shipping magnates. Like Mr. St. Claire.” She nodded toward one man. “That’s Mr. Azoulay.”

  Mr. Azoulay was dressed in a white linen suit and looked Spanish or perhaps Arabic. He reminded me of someone who seemed not merely a gentleman, but a worldly one, one who has taken on small affectations of many countries, and yet seemed to belong to none of them. He was dark haired, with a thick mustache that was pinched at the ends, and he wore a monocle.

  “Over there, that’s Mr. Ketterling, of the Ketterling Lines Company,” she said, pointing to another man who was balding, with a collar that was too tight and he kept pulling at. “Mr. Talbot over there.” She nodded at a tall man. “The rest I don’t know.”

  The wealthy men were easy to pick out, with their fine clothes and manners. They carried themselves in a manner that underscored their power.

  The rest, I gathered,
were hardened criminals or perhaps common sailors. They wore oil-stained and threadbare clothes and had jaded expressions on their faces. Their eyes were hungry and darting around, assessing everything in the room. I could only guess what would bring such different men together under one roof. I noticed Annie, too. Her pretty face was flushed, and there was a smile on her lips, like she held a secret pleasure, but it was impossible for me to tell who she wore it for.

  One man, a rough-looking man with red hair and a scar across his cheek, seemed intent on harassing me. When I put a plate of food in front of him, he tapped his glass with his knife and muttered, “Wine.”

  I poured him the wine, my hand shaking, and when two drops of the red liquid spilled on the tablecloth, he turned to me. “Stupid girl,” he said, and he looked at me with such malice that when he moved I thought he meant to strike me. In my haste to pull away, I knocked over his glass. Wine spread like red blood across the table.

  He cursed at me and then said, “Pick it up.”

  The room fell silent and all eyes were on me. I hesitated, not wanting to go near the evil man again, and he rose from his seat. “Stupid and slow, are you?”

  Mr. St. Claire exploded from his seat and in one swift movement was on the man, his long fingers wrapping a cloth napkin around the man’s throat. He pulled the cloth tighter and tighter and the man grabbed in vain at his neck, trying to break free. Mr. St. Claire looked at me and said in a low, calm voice, “If you want this man to live, you need to cut him free.”

  I looked at the man, and to Mr. St. Claire and then back again, trying to understand what was happening. “What?”

  The man’s face turned red and his arms and legs flailed, but Mr. St. Claire held him in a solid grip and the man couldn’t break free.

  Mr. St. Claire spoke forcefully to me. “I said, if you value his life, you need to cut him free.”