“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 across 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.”
“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