Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(36)
That the slipper seems to sear its way through the velvet pouch at her hip and into her very bones, that she thinks about it night and day, puzzles over its meaning, longs for answers . . . these things are not important. They are a private matter that she will reconcile one day, perhaps, when peace has returned to the land.
She sighs and, to keep from retorting anything further, toys again with the letter in her hand—it’s the latest missive from Aurora. She recalls flushing with something like embarrassment as a servant read it aloud to her this morning. In it, Aurora claims that Heath is everything she dreamed of and more. That they’ve located a safe house along the southern border of Deluce. Isbe is happy for her sister, but . . . Aurora’s happiness feels foreign to her, far off and fictional somehow.
Is it really so hard to imagine Aurora has found true love? Perhaps not. Perhaps what’s hard to imagine is that she has found happiness without Isabelle. And perhaps it’s not so much that it’s hard to imagine but that it’s impossible to accept.
But then, hasn’t Isabelle gone and done the same, with William? Or has she? Isbe never put much stock in true love before, and something about the idea seems almost distasteful to her. Although her blood thrills every time he returns to the palace for even a brief stay—a night here or there—she’s not sure she likes what has become of her, now that she’s someone’s wife. She has gotten too soft, somehow, too blown off course by her emotions, and William is the chief reason for that: the heat of his body alongside hers, the weight of his trust, the enormity of his expectations, the way she still sometimes finds herself floating in his silences like a bird borne on a wind, waiting to see where his thoughts will carry her own.
It’s a slow erosion of everything she used to believe was true about herself. She might need other people for things like reading messages and guiding her hand and describing the scenery, but she does not need anyone else in order to feel herself whole. Or at least, she didn’t need anyone like that, before William.
She forces down the lump that has suddenly risen in her throat.
She’s relieved to know, at least, that her sister is safe. Aurora—her Aurora, soft, kind, thoughtful, and always with the best intentions—has found a way to shelter herself from the worst of the war. Isbe can’t help but think her sister is kind of like the glass slipper: something to be protected at all costs.
The viscount lives in a large manor adjoined to his famous glasshouse, which produces much of the window glass used throughout the kingdom. The estate is surrounded on three sides by a thick forest.
By the time Isabelle arrives, the carriage wheels crunching along a pebbled path, the angry spring rain has let up.
“The trees, Miss Isabelle,” Byrne comments, holding her by the elbow as they exit the carriage and pass through the grounds. “Look as though ’ey’ve got a thousan’ hands where ’ey should’ve a head!”
“Pollarding, it’s called,” says a polite-sounding manservant who has emerged to meet them on the gravel path. “Master has received your message. He’s awaiting your arrival in the glasshouse.”
He leads them down a winding path. The scent of the glasshouse greets her before they enter it: charred wood and a lightly floral smoke. The servant leads them inside and gives them a seat in the foyer of the bustling open workroom while he locates his master. Tools and prongs clatter loudly all around them as fires are stoked and wood is axed and materials blown into molds and workers bustle about. The glasshouse hums with production and energy, with movement and heat and flame.
“My new queen,” Olivier says, materializing before them, his voice not obsequious but genuine. Isbe is almost taken aback by it. His voice sounds young, especially for one of the fae, and a little feminine. “To what do I owe this visit? Your message was quite mysterious.”
“We can’t afford the risk of interception. I’ve come on a matter of some importance,” she replies.
After asking Byrne to wait for her, she follows the young viscount through the glasshouse, trying to imagine the high ceilings as he describes them proudly, like in a cathedral, with wooden beams arcing across the top. She tries to imagine too the many earthenware ovens, called beehives for their domed shapes. The tufts and blasts and hisses and clicks of the workroom form a collective buzzing.
“I apologize for the din, but I tend to think it provides the perfect backdrop for a private conversation,” Olivier admits. “One can’t be too careful. That is the lesson of the glass, after all.”
“The lesson of the glass?”
“Precision. Caution. Care,” he answers with a hint of love in his voice.
“We may as well come to the point of my visit,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “All of these workers.” She gestures at the noises and movement around her. “Surely we could put them to better use.”
“Better use?” He balks. “You know, Highness, the recipe for our world-famous forest glass may seem quite simple to the likes of you: just two parts river sand, one part beech ash. However, what it becomes is anything but.” He pauses. “There is no art more blessed than to form what is both beautiful and fragile, Highness . . . what could be undone at a whim by the same hands that made it.”
“Those hands could learn to hold a poleax in the name of Deluce.”
He is silent for a moment. “Do you want to know why I got into this way of life, Highness? It is a faith.” He stops and she pauses beside him, surprised. “You see,” he explains, “to me, a fresh-blown pane of forest glass is like a new morning. A brief commitment to the possibility of wholeness.”