by Jen Christie
It felt unreal, this horrible thing that was happening. I grabbed the knife the man was using and walked toward them. Mr. St. Claire watched me intently.
There was the tiniest space between the man’s neck and Mr. St. Claire’s hand, and the fabric was pulled taut. I slid the knife between the skin of the two men, placed it under the cloth, and pulled. The cloth resisted.
The man’s face was purple, and he had ceased fighting.
Mr. St. Claire stared at me with his ice-blue eyes.
With a wild yank, the knife sliced through the fabric and the man collapsed into a heap on the floor. I stood frozen in place, my chest heaving. The knife slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor, and all the while Mr. St. Claire’s eyes never left mine.
I backed away, unable to break his gaze, and I couldn’t even think to take a breath until I was dizzy and almost fell. Finally, I looked away, feeling as if I had surrendered some part of myself to him and it would never be returned to me.
The red-haired man was gasping for breath, rolling around on the floor and coughing. Mr. St. Claire leaned over the man. “You were right. The girl is slow.” Mr. St. Claire looked straight at me as he spoke and seemed unaffected by the wild episode.
The men looked between him and me, and I imagined that I resembled a frightened bird, ready to take flight. But then one of them, the well-dressed Mr. Azoulay, spoke up. “If that’s our entertainment for the evening, well done St. Claire,” he said. He had a pleasing accent that was hard to place in the world.
The men laughed and the moment seemed to pass. A bit later Mr. St. Claire spoke again. “Mrs. Amber, could you ready the spare rooms for these men?”
“Certainly.”
After we fed the men, Mrs. Amber gave me a look, and I followed her out of the room and down the hall. We were almost to the bedrooms when I heard footsteps behind us, and turned to see Mr. St. Claire striding toward us, his right leg lagging only a fraction of a second behind. He passed by me so quickly that a gust of air swirled around me. He went to Mrs. Amber and whispered something into her ear.
“Of course, sir,” she said. “Every night.”
“Very well then.”
There, in the dark hallway, just beyond the light of Mrs. Amber’s candle, he walked by me again, and when he did he reached out and grasped my arm. It was the tiniest gesture, meant to move me gently out of the way, but when his hand touched me, I gasped.
“Pardon,” said Mr. St. Claire.
I nodded, and scurried away to fall in line with Mrs. Amber and Annie. I could feel his gaze upon me, waiting for me to turn around. It took all of my might, but I didn’t look, didn’t give in to the urge to do so, although it burned inside me.
* * *
Later that night, there was a scratching at my door. It woke me from a sound sleep. The handle was turning. The slow and deliberate sound raked me with fear. I lay perfectly still, breath hitched, body frozen, and fervently hoped that the lock would hold. The faint, orange flicker of a candle glowed from beneath the door. The handle began to turn.
I bolted from the bed and yanked on the cord that dangled from the ceiling. There was no sound, no bell that I could hear ringing from deep within the walls. Over and over I yanked, and the only sound I could hear was the turning of the handle.
The wood of the door creaked as someone pushed against it, and just when I was certain that a scream would escape my lips, I heard Mrs. Amber’s voice. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Mrs. Amber. I…ah, yes, I think I am lost.”
The voice was familiar, I recognized it as one of the men from earlier that evening, but I couldn’t quite identify which man it was.
“You’ve been here many times, right?”
“Ah…yes.”
“Well, perhaps you were confused. These are the servants’ rooms. If you follow me, I’ll lead you to yours. Come with me.” She chattered on as they walked away, until their voices trailed into silence.
It took a long time for my nerves to settle, and just as I was falling asleep, I heard a woman’s laugh, ever so softly, coming from the courtyard. I was certain that I heard wrong, but once it rang out again, I went to the window and peered out.
Annie was out there. I recognized her petite form, her dark hair shining under the moonlight. She was kissing a man, but whom? Not Ketterling, no, this man was far taller. The man had dark hair. A bolt of jealousy struck me when I thought it might be Lucas St. Claire. Don’t be foolish, I told myself, and quit acting like the ten-year-old girl from the dock.
A dog, a silver-gray dog came out of the night and approached them, its long tail wagging. The man’s leg shot out and kicked the animal, and it slunk away into the darkness. I crept back into my bed and tried to sleep.
Chapter Three
It was cool when I woke the next morning. There was only a thin streak of gray light that fell on my bed from the window. I raised my fingers to it, trying to warm at least some small part of me. It struck me as ironic that in early summer, on an island in the West Indies, a house could be so cold. It was almost as if the stone enclosure soaked up all the good, warm rays of the sun before they could reach me.
I dressed quickly, pulling my uniform from the chair where I had folded and placed it last night. A key clattered to the floor. The key to the glass house.
All the chill in my body immediately disappeared, replaced by a delicious warm feeling. I still had the key, and Mrs. Amber had forgotten it. I had forgotten it. I pulled the dress over my head, debating on what to do.
I should give the key to Mrs. Amber right away. I should. But my heart wanted to go back to the glass house, and my body wanted Mr. St. Claire to be there. I tucked the key back into my pocket. I would leave it there for the time being, and make the decision later. If Mrs. Amber asked about it, I would tell her the truth. That I had forgotten it.
I heard Mrs. Amber shuffling down the hallway, and when her key turned in the lock and the door opened, I greeted her. “Good morning,” I said.
She looked me up and down and gave a quick nod. “Mr. St. Claire has requested the wing where his offices are situated to be cleaned. I am sending you.”
At the mention of his name, my head snapped up.
“The men you saw last night will be there. Others will come and go, but they will be meeting all day. Keep your nose down, and don’t attract attention. Not like last night.” She shot me a warning look. “Dust the fixtures and wash the floor and then report back to me.”
We ate a quick breakfast and then I followed Mrs. Amber down the hallway. She stopped at the supply closet and pulled a bucket, a mop and a broom from inside it. She handed them to me. Inside the bucket were old rags and a tin of cleaning polish.
We passed the huge mahogany doors in the great room and continued on, beyond the dining hall and down another corridor, its stripe of red carpet the only color to be seen. Iron sconces offered meager light that flickered over paintings of sailing ships that were fighting for survival on heavy seas.
“You’re dawdling,” Mrs. Amber reminded me.
“Sorry.” I raced to keep up. “Did the St. Claires always live here?”
“Not always, no. There was another house. I can’t remember what happened. Ancient history now. Now, here we are.”
We turned a corner and entered a wing that opened up to reveal a huge room overlooking the gardens, and beyond that, the sea. The room was filled with dark leather furniture and dominated by a rich Persian carpet. There was a stone fireplace, wide enough to stand in, its insides charred and blackened from countless years of use.
There were double doors at the far end of the room. Muffled voices carried in air. I could discern one voice in particular, and it made my heart race.
Mrs. Amber angled her head, listening. She may have disliked gossip, but she certainly wanted to know everything that was going on. “There’s a disagreement among the merchants,” she whispered.
“I can tell,” I replied, just as quietly.
> Mrs. Amber seemed to consider her own advice from the other day. “Well, remember, just like I said. This shouldn’t take long.” She pushed the supplies she had been carrying toward me. “Come and find me when you are done.”
“I will.” I started to dust.
The voices rose from behind the door again, and I heard Mr. St. Claire’s voice, booming above all the other men. “I control all of the trading routes,” he said commandingly. “Every single one comes through my port to re-provision. Whether from Madagascar or New York. So gentlemen, I set the terms.” A roar of discontent blasted the air, and I could tell that whatever the terms that were being discussed, they were not in the men’s favor, but rather, in Mr. St. Claire’s.
Just a moment later the door burst open and the men came pouring out. I was nearly caught eavesdropping, but they didn’t seem to notice and they raced by me, stomping across the floors and down the halls, where their voices rose again in anger. I waited anxiously for Mr. St. Claire to appear. But he didn’t. There was only silence.
I continued to work.
The floors were difficult. The carpet had a fringe that I was afraid the mop would damage, so I worked around the perimeter of the carpet on my knees, scrubbing with my hands. I heard a footfall. Then another. Measured. Certain, even with one step a bit slower, a bit off.
I knew who it was, and did my best to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. I kept my head down and my hands moving. A pair of black, highly-polished shoes appeared just in front of my hands. I stopped cleaning the floor and put my hands in my lap.
I could see myself reflected in the shine on his shoes. I could even see him looming above me, like a raven about to descend on its prey. I was perfectly still.
He was perfectly still.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I lifted my gaze, seeing his fingers first. The sensation of them gliding over my skin came rushing back in a memory. I looked yet higher and saw the wide expanse of his chest, now covered in a crisp, white shirt. But I knew the feel of his naked skin beneath the cloth.
I wanted to look higher, but I couldn’t. I was too nervous.
He coughed. A small clearing of his throat that pulled my eyes upward. His mouth was curled in the slightest upturn of triumph. His eyes were waiting for mine. Before I knew what I was doing, I was standing, trying to step away.
My foolish heart. Without thinking I reached out to touch my shell necklace. Everything would have been fine had I not given in to that urge. I was rising to my feet, awkwardly, and the unconscious movement of my hand unbalanced me. The world tilted sideways and I heard noise like the ringing of a bell, a small clattering of metal on wood.
His arm shot out and grabbed my elbow, and just like that my world was set to rights. Except there was a price. A high one. His hand on my body. His eyes, not on me, but on the floor, on the key that lay there, glinting.
He bent over and picked it up.
My breath stopped. It stopped.
He held the key in the air and looked at me, his gaze both accusing and inviting at the same time. “Were you planning something, Reyna?” he asked in a low voice. “Something I should know about?”
I took in a huge gulp of air, but it wasn’t enough. My hand flew to my mouth and I gasped. “I forgot to return it to Mrs. Amber,” I said in a rush, but I felt color rising on my face.
“A simple explanation. But your body tells me differently.”
He was right. I lowered my hand from my mouth. I couldn’t get enough air, and the white trim of my uniform was rising up and down with each breath.
He held the key between his fingers. Then he took my hand and opened it, and pressed the key into my palm. The metal was cold against my hot skin. “Here,” he said. His hand lingered, warm and strong as it covered mine. “I’m sure you will want to return this to Mrs. Amber as soon as you can.” His words were firm, sending a clear message. But, his eyes didn’t leave mine, and in them I saw his desire. It was a very different message than the previous one.
“I will.” I clutched the key in my palm.
He walked away, down the long hallway with the red carpet, a lone, solitary figure beneath a mountain of stone.
* * *
I saw Mr. St. Claire again later that afternoon. Annie and I had been called to the terrace to serve before-dinner drinks to the men who had arrived the previous night. I saw the red-haired man whose life I had both jeopardized and saved, and he looked at me with flat, remorseful eyes. I saw Mr. Azoulay and Mr. Talbot talking and I approached them with a tray of two drinks.
Mr. Talbot grabbed his quickly, but Mr. Azoulay’s eyes rested on me when I stopped in front of him with my tray, topped with only a single glass of wine left. He looked away, and then looked back sharply at me, as if something about me surprised him. He leaned forward and said in a strange manner, “You look like a girl that knows something she shouldn’t.”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
He chuckled. “Nothing my dear, just an instinct. Tell me, have you been to see the house of glass?” He said the words in a flourish of movement.
“Why do you ask?” My answer was quick, almost too quick, and must have seemed defensive.
He quickly added, “I only ask because in a roundabout way, I am directly responsible for it.”
“How so?” I asked him, still holding the tray before him.
“It is a long story,” he said. “But let me just say that it was me who shipped the sand over. The sand that made the house of glass.”
“You shipped it over?” I was surprised.
“Yes, I come from the Canary Islands, just off Morocco. Celeste—you know, Mrs. St. Claire—” he looked at me knowingly, conspiratorially. “She loved her jewels. Well, I told her about a place where I come from—the Canary islands you’ll remember, there is one small spot on the island. A bed of sand from an ancient lakebed that has long dried up…that has the finest sands in the world. So fine, that it could craft glass more perfect than a diamond. It is said that they use those sands for making things of the dark arts, you know what I am talking about?”
I shook my head.
He continued on. “You should have seen her, she was so excited to hear about it.” He waved his hand in the air. “Of course, it was her idea. A house of glass. But I provided the spark, and more important, the sand.” He laughed delightedly, almost proudly. “Of course, she got her wish. Mr. St. Claire could never refuse her. I brought over a whole barge of the sand. It was a fortune I tell you. That is how the house came to be.”
All of that time I had stood listening to him, I held the tray in front of me, so distracted that I had almost forgotten about it. Mr. Azoulay reached out his hand to take the drink, but another, bigger, stronger hand interceded and pushed the poor man’s out of the way, claiming the glass first.
“I think this is my drink,” said Lucas St. Claire. He stepped arrogantly, intimidatingly between Mr. Azoulay and myself. His body language was very much a threat and Mr. Azoulay stepped back and held up both hands apologetically. “Of course it is. Everything at Devin Manor is yours,” said the man.
Mr. St. Claire responded, “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
Mr. Azoulay replied, “I’ll order another drink then,” and he raised his hand to signal to Annie. When she slid up to him, he quickly grabbed her by the elbow, “Have I told you the story about the diamond fields of Madagascar?”
“No, sir,” she said indulgently and smiled at him.
“Well,” he replied. “Allow me to be the first.”
Mr. St. Claire’s firm grip swept me into the shadows. “Now I find you listening to stories?” he asked. He pulled me against him and I was grateful for my empty serving tray, which now acted as a shield. My boldness of the previous night had fled, and in its place, I had been reduced to skittish raw nerves.
“Only stories about the house,” I said.
“Take care that you don’t believe everything you hear.” I think there was more than
a warning in his voice; there was almost a plea. “You might hear dark things about me,” he whispered, and for just a brief second his face lost its hardness and looked weathered.
It was right at that moment that the terrace doors opened and Mrs. Amber announced dinner, and I broke away from Mr. St. Claire, returning the tray to its position for serving. I hoped that I looked unruffled.
Conversation at dinner was unhurried. Everyone was in good spirits and I wondered how these men could change so fast from discussions that rose to anger and then back again to the old stories of lifelong buddies. Mr. Azoulay entertained the men with a tale from his stop in Antarctica, and then the men retired to the study for drinks. Annie and I were relieved of our duties and when we walked back to our quarters, she confronted me.
“I see what you’re about,” she whispered angrily. “Talking to him, whispering to him.”
“What?” I said, my heart thumping.
“Maybe you’re only talking now, but I know what you are thinking. I see it in your eyes.” She was very animated, and had stopped in the hallway, pushing her finger into my face. “I have worked here for five years, and you can’t just show up and mess everything up. If you do, I’ll catch you, and I’ll turn you in faster than you can say ‘Devlin Manor’ and you’ll be out of this house for good.”
I was a bit in shock and didn’t quite know what to say.
She walked away, and left me in the cold, dark hallway.
I crept after her and found Mrs. Amber in the kitchen. After a quick meal, she led me to my room and locked the door, and the key in my pocked burned against my skin. If Mrs. Amber couldn’t stop me, Annie surely couldn’t.
It took forever for the house to quiet, for the night air to turn cold. I entertained myself with thoughts of the glass house and my pulse quickened at the allure of it. Going inside the glass house was like entering a diamond cave. Forbidden. Impossible.
When the crickets stilled and when I could feel the already cold and damp air thicken with the mists, I opened my window and climbed out onto the sill. The day might belong to the hard work of my hands, but the night belonged to my desires. I dropped from the window, the rough stone scraping my skin.
