Roses and Black Glass: a dark Cinderella tale

by Lenore, Lani

  “I’m fine,” she said to him, but he still wouldn’t go away.

  “You have never ever cursed at me,” he told her. That was probably true. She was usually very good at keeping patient, but she felt she couldn’t be blamed for it now. Still, she supposed it had been uncalled for.

  “I’m sorry for that.”

  “What’d she say to you?” he asked, brushing off her apology.

  Henry had his moments when Wren was certain he didn’t use his brain at all, but he was smart enough to have figured this out. When Miss Nora had kept Wren in her office, it hadn’t been to chat about the weather.

  She didn’t want to dump this burden on him, but she guessed she didn’t have much of a choice now. He had already seen her distress, and he knew that it wasn’t going to be good news. He had a right to know.

  “Those people from yesterday want to adopt Max.”

  To her surprise, Henry didn’t get angry immediately. He sat there, letting it soak in.

  “But not us,” he confirmed.

  She shook her head sadly. “Nora already approved it. They’re supposed to come back for him by the end of the month.”

  Henry was quiet, but she could see how his fists were clenched. She wanted to tell him that fighting wouldn’t work this time, but she only sat there with her arms around her knees, looking somber.

  “She said something about me too, didn’t she?” he assumed, his voice unnaturally calm. Wren sighed, knowing she had to give in.

  “She doesn’t think she’ll be able to find a place for you after what happened, and if not, she plans on sending you away to work in the mines.”

  “Damn it,” Henry said under his breath, but she was still able to hear. He was quiet as he let the anger well up in himself – until he finally burst. “We have to leave here.”

  “Where are we going to go, Henry? Everything is ruined. No one will want us now!”

  “We can live on our own!”

  “We can’t!” The sharpness of her tone seemed to shock him, but she had finally reached her limit after all this time, and she could not be stopped. “You might think that living on the streets, stealing and picking pockets to survive, will be fun but what about Max? That’s no sort of life for a young child. We’ll be alone in a sea of faceless orphans and we’ll die that way! No one cares about us! No one wants us! I’ve been trying to make the best of what we have here, but now—!”

  She stopped, not because she had said everything she needed to say, but because her sobs had sprung up again, making it impossible for her to go on. Wren felt alone and heartbroken. Even the ones she had tried to keep close seemed far away from her now.

  Wren couldn’t tell if any of that had gotten through to Henry, because she couldn’t bear to look at his bruised face. They sat quietly, hearing the drip from the leaky faucet echo within the hollow room. It had a trembling, melancholy sound. When he spoke again, she had her answer.

  “What about all those things you used to say about us going somewhere else?” he asked. “Maybe there is somewhere that we can go – in the woods, or across the ocean…”

  “Those were fairytales,” she told him, crushing his fantasy beneath the weight of her words. “We’re both too old to believe that now.”

  Henry didn’t say anything else, and Wren didn’t look at his expression, but she knew that he was hurt. She could hear the gusts of his breath exiting his nostrils as he pouted angrily. Then, he abruptly got up and left the washroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Wren let him leave her, even though she knew he was furious – even though she knew he might walk out onto the street and never come back. She didn’t have the energy to stop him, and maybe it was better this way. They were all going to be separated – it was fast-approaching now – and maybe it would be easier if she quietly gave up her stock in them and let this happen.

  Wren sat there for a long time, even though she was supposed to be back at her chores, but she stayed for as long as the quiet would last, alone with her fear and sorrow and self-loathing.

  Nothing matters at all now, she thought. Nothing at all.

  3

  That night in the gloom of the dormitory, Wren could not find sleep for the jungle of worry that had sprung up around her. Though she’d told herself that the burden of her brothers was simply too much to carry anymore, she had been glad to find that Henry had not fled, but was now sleeping in the bed next to hers. Max was still oblivious to his fate, which would be good enough for as long as it lasted, but Wren could not stop worrying about what was going to happen to their family.

  She kept having visions of Maxwell crying for her at night after he was taken away, seeking her but not being able to find her, and then eventually forgetting about her completely as he grew older. She imagined Henry in the darkness of a mine shaft, dirty and alone until falling rocks would take his life before he was even a man.

  And what of her? Without them, would she be taken on by an unscrupulous lout who only wanted to abuse and molest her – or until she was pregnant with her own child which she would be forced to give up because she couldn’t afford to feed it?

  Wren closed her eyes tightly, trying to shut those images away, but they kept returning, flashing across her, making her head ache and her stomach churn.

  So horrible…

  You must stop. Just go to sleep. There is nothing that worrying will do.

  The whole ordeal was exhausting her, and she felt more tired than she had in a long time. Taking a deep breath, she gave in and let her eyes flutter to a close. She tried to keep herself still and relaxed, looking for some distant island in her mind, fancying that she heard the melody of a flute serenading her from somewhere beyond the ocean.

  Chapter Four

  1

  Wren was imagining the gentle sound of waves on a shore, rocking her to sleep. It was peaceful for a while with the water sighing as it rose up beautifully and collapsed on itself, but as she continued to listen, the wind became a roar in her ears, whipping around her in curling gusts. There was a sound of thunder in the distance, grumbling lowly in the heavens, and she knew that a storm was not far away.

  She woke up with her face in the sand and her gown feeling damp around her legs. Tiny grains were stuck to her face, and she passed her fingers over it to brush off the grit as she sat up with a start, blinking to focus on her surroundings. It was night; the moon was enormous above her, taking up most of the space in the sky, flanked by a million winking stars.

  Where am I?

  She was certain that she’d fallen asleep in her bed at the Home. How could she have woken at the beach? She hadn’t even been to the ocean in years – not since she was very young, and certainly before her parents had cast her off.

  I must be dreaming. Yet everything around her had such vibrant life. The waves were tossing on the sea which stretched out for miles ahead of her. She could smell the salt, feel the bite of the wind nipping at her. Wren shivered, rubbing her bare arms to generate heat. The moon’s eerie blue glow covered everything, allowing her to see down the shoreline without need of a lantern.

  She looked around, down the length of the beach, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else, and she might have scolded herself for being out in the middle of the night. The beach was empty – with good reason – and she was alone.

  Then she heard it – the familiar sound of the reeds playing that haunting melody. It was closer now than it had ever been before, and she knew it was the same song she had been hearing in her sleep. It was calling her nearer to it, and how could she disobey now that it had brought her this far?

  Wren began to walk down the shoreline, her bare feet pressing into the firm, wet sand. The eerie notes of the flute drew her closer until she saw the dark silhouette of some precarious boulders, topped by a small glowing light that drifted to and fro like a candle flickering in the wind. She felt that she had seen that light before.

  That was when she saw him for the first time. He was only a shadow si
tting atop the rocks, but she was sure that he was the source of the music. When the song stopped, she knew he had seen her too.

  He slid down and landed on the sand so agilely that she didn’t hear any disturbance when his feet touched down. The light stayed behind, perched on the rocks, and eventually it died down to nothing and vanished. The boy approached her in the moonlight, and as he did, she was gradually able to make him out.

  Who is he? She wondered and yet, while she was wary of strangers, she could not help going nearer to him. Maybe he could help her. He could at least tell her where she was so she could get back to the Home.

  They stopped a few feet from each other, but he didn’t speak, and she wasn’t sure what to say to him either. His face was partially hidden by a hood and she could not tell how old he was or what he looked like, only that he was a few inches taller than she was. As Wren looked him over, she realized how unusually he was dressed.

  He was in doeskin pants and dark leather boots that reached to his knees, but strangest of all was his long coat that was made entirely of waxy leaves, sewn together in rows. The hood was of leaves as well, the points jutting out around his face like sharp teeth. The coat was open, and he was wearing no shirt underneath. She could see his bare chest, firm and strong, youthful.

  Wren nearly blushed to see his flesh, but she was much too fascinated by him to turn away in embarrassment. He was the only one around, and she needed to focus on discovering her circumstance.

  “Excuse me, but could you help me? I think I’m lost.”

  He didn’t respond immediately and she found herself wondering if he even spoke English. Clearly, he was not from the city. He looked positively wild! She determined to herself that this was what he was – a wild boy – though how this could be so with the gray city spanning so far, she couldn’t say. Would a boy like this even know how to speak? Wren wondered these things, but she got her answer when he opened his mouth, still giving her a hard stare.

  “You’re a girl,” he said, bewildered. Even though he spoke English, his accent was different from hers. He was definitely not local.

  The boy considered her with utter confusion – she could tell by the tilt of his head, even though she could not see his face. She thought it was a very strange response.

  “Yes,” she admitted, as if her long hair and gown didn’t make it obvious enough that she was female. “Do you know how I got here?”

  He began to step closer to her, circling around to get a better look. She turned in place to watch him as he did so, unwilling to take her eyes off him.

  “You don’t seem to be a wanderer, so you must be a dreamer, but it’s strange. You’re a girl. Very unusual…”

  Was he talking to himself? If he was talking to her, Wren wasn’t sure how she should respond.

  “I’m sorry,” she said finally, for lack of understanding. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She examined him again as he came back to stand in front of her. His silence made her just a bit uneasy. Would he help her, or not? Wren noticed something protruding from his side, and her muscles tensed when she realized it was a sword, lashed to a belt of vines. She was startled by that, and instinctively took a step back.

  “You have a sword,” she said as if he needed to be told. “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t have anything.”

  “I would never hurt a girl,” he said solidly as if she had insulted his honor. She almost wanted to apologize, but he was speaking again before she got the chance. “Besides, I couldn’t harm you if I wanted to. You’re not really here.”

  “What?”

  “Look,” he said, pointing at the ground. She looked where he directed her but didn’t understand what he was showing her at first. All she saw was his long shadow, stretched across the sand beneath the light of the moon – but it was alone.

  I don’t have a shadow, she realized. It was true. His was there and, since she was standing in front of him, hers should have been there too, but there was nothing. Wren looked all around herself, but her shadow was nowhere to be found.

  “They don’t attach themselves to the dreamers,” he said.

  “They what?” His words were so ridiculous that she didn’t understand them. She felt she should correct him. “Shadows don’t attach to things. They are already attached.”

  Clearly she thought that she knew more than he did about this, but he didn’t back down.

  “A shadow is a shadow, but that is a mimic,” he corrected her, pointing at his shadow, which didn’t move – except as he moved. “It’s an imp that attaches to a host.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly that she had trouble doubting him.

  “Is it dangerous?” she asked dumbly, silently hoping that he was right about one not seeking her out.

  “No,” he told her. “It’s just damned annoying sometimes.”

  He spoke accusingly, then she saw him smile a little, and she got the impression that he was talking about her instead of the shadow. Was she getting on his nerves? But she hadn’t done anything!

  “Well, I’m glad I don’t have one then,” she said, her nose in the air. Who did he think he was, insulting her like that? They had only just met.

  They stared at each other for a few moments in silence, but Wren was not ready to back down from this. She heard a short laugh come out from beneath the hood.

  “A girl – and with bite. Not what I was expecting to call here,” he considered. “I suppose it’s good that I can still be surprised after all this time.”

  Call? She didn’t understand. As she was preparing to attack that, he pulled back his hood to scratch his head, thus revealing himself to her. She could see his face clearly now, and this did not help her choice to be frustrated with him, for she hadn't failed to notice that he was handsome – in an unkempt sort of way.

  His hair was lightened by the sun, untamed and windblown, cut at several different lengths and sticking up all over. There were two streaks of red paint – at least she perceived it to be paint – trailing from his cheekbone and disappearing somewhere between his smooth chin and the square of his jaw. She could see now that his eyes were blue, set in a tan face, and in his amusement, he was smiling attractively at her. It was the coy smile of a boy who recognized his own seductive power.

  There was something about that grin that made her almost forget who she was. She had to try very hard not to smile back. She was only able to break out of it when he moved, taking a few leisurely steps across the sand.

  “If I’m not here, then what am I?” she demanded to know, once she had come out of her trance. “You said ‘dreamer’…”

  “This is your dream self,” he explained, stepping nearer to her so that they were shoulder to shoulder. His closeness made her heart speed. “You made it past the sea of dreams to find this place, but your body isn’t really here. You can see Nevermor, but you don’t belong in it.”

  Nevermor? Was that what this place was called? She wanted to ask, but the way he was looking at her face made her hesitate. He seemed to be caught in his own daze as he looked at her. What was he thinking? Wren stared back into his eyes, and neither of them spoke until he snapped free of it visibly.

  “My home,” he said, holding out his arms as if to present it to her. “It’s the place where dreams go.”

  “Dreams,” she said thoughtfully. “And what do you use the sword for?”

  “To keep away the nightmares,” he said easily.

  Wren thought all this was very unusual. She knew she was certainly dreaming now. Yes, she was asleep. There was no other explanation.

  “I didn’t expect to find someone like you,” he mused thoughtfully, pacing across the sand as he examined her. “It’s very strange.”

  “Who are you?” she asked him. Shouldn’t he have introduced himself by now?

  He turned back to her, frozen for a moment as if that was a forbidden question that she shouldn’t have asked.

  “I don’t have a name,” he told her. Wren wasn’t sur
e why, but she thought he looked a bit confused by her question. Was it that difficult?

  “Well, they must call you something,” she insisted.

  He hesitated. Didn’t he want to tell her his name?

  Perhaps it doesn’t matter. This is a dream, after all. My dream.

  “They call me the Rifter,” he answered finally. “That’s all.”

  The Rifter? That’s an odd name…

  “Rifter, then,” she said, testing it out. “Why are you out here?”

  “I told you I live here. Did you forget?”

  She sighed in dismay. “I mean, why are you out here on the beach? I heard your music. I think I was following it.”

  “Oh that,” Rifter said dismissively, waving it off. “I’m waiting for someone. Have been for a few nights now.”

  “It seems rude of them to keep you waiting. Who are you waiting for?” Straight after, she wondered if she should have been so nosy.

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe you.” He paused, looking her over a moment. He didn’t seem convinced. “But that doesn’t seem likely.”

  He had only insulted her further. She wasn’t good enough to be the one he was looking for?

  “In fact,” he started again, “I’m not really sure why you’re here.”

  “Am I unwelcome?” Rifter looked back into her eyes, and what she saw there was unreadable. There was confusion, uncertainty – maybe even a hint of sadness.

  “I’ve just never called a girl before,” he said, as if he didn’t know what to do with it.

  I don’t understand this boy.

  “How can you not know who you’re waiting for? And if it was me, wouldn’t you know?”

  He gave her a hard look which made his blue eyes narrow to accusing slits. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I – do not,” she sputtered, taken aback.

  “Yes you do,” he pointed out, nodding as he realized it himself. “Everything you’ve said to me has been a question.” He looked at her suspiciously. “I don’t like too many questions, especially from dreamers.”