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House of Glass
Jen Christie


Theirs will be a shattering affair.The glass chalet has enchanted Reyna since childhood. Built upon the cliff face at Devlin Manor, the luminous curiosity dangles over the Caribbean like a diamond pendant. Wondrous to behold from the water, the house is even more astonishing up close, as Reyna quickly learns when she comes into service at the estate.Left untouched as a shrine to the beautiful and tempestuous Celeste St. Claire, the glass house beckons to Reyna. It exerts the same sensual pull upon Lucas St. Claire, the mercurial master of the manor. Both are powerless to resist. When the two meet within, their need is as transparent as the walls surrounding them.But that passion may be indulged at dear cost. Seduced by the shimmering cottage–and the tortured man who built it–Reyna risks joining its former mistress in oblivion.







Theirs will be a shattering affair.

The glass chalet has enchanted Reyna since childhood. Built upon the cliff face at Devlin Manor, the luminous curiosity dangles over the Caribbean like a diamond pendant. Wondrous to behold from the water, the house is even more astonishing up close, as Reyna quickly learns when she comes into service at the estate.

Left untouched as a shrine to the beautiful and tempestuous Celeste St. Claire, the glass house beckons to Reyna. It exerts the same sensual pull upon Lucas St. Claire, the mercurial master of the manor. Both are powerless to resist. When the two meet within, their need is as transparent as the walls surrounding them.

But that passion may be indulged at dear cost. Seduced by the shimmering cottage—and the tortured man who built it—Reyna risks joining its former mistress in oblivion.


House of Glass

Jen Christie










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To John


Table of Contents

Prologue (#u9d477818-e5f7-515e-b988-7507d7abcb11)

Chapter One (#u68544613-6b86-58bd-bfc2-e94a614e2b80)

Chapter Two (#u636ea214-6881-58fc-9937-3970e2507a61)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

St. Claire, August, 1932

A storm blew over the island last night.

We were safely tucked away behind the thick walls at Devlin Manor. Lucas entertained us all night, keeping the children distracted with tall tales and games. I knew that I was safe with my family, but I could not shake the strange apprehension that gnawed at me, and only increased as the night went on.

Each band of rain, each blast of wind that rattled the shutters pushed me further back in my memories, further back in time, to a night, more than twenty years ago, and a night that I thought was safely buried in the murky depths of history.

At the height of the storm, a gust of wind came that was so violent, so angry, that the howl of it carried through the house, echoing down the long halls and up to the tall ceilings. An image came to my mind, one that I had fought to keep away. It was of her.

Celeste.

When the dawn came, I threw open the shutters to see that the sky was once again a mollifying shade of blue and the wind was meek and apologetic. Palms rustled in the wind. Birds alighted from their dark, secret spaces. But the storm had shifted the coastline, exposing the marrow of the rocks. As I looked more closely from my perch, there, on the largest of them, I saw something…shiny. Shading my eyes from the dawn, I squinted and saw something that I had not seen in many, many years.

I didn’t need to walk down to the shoreline to know what it was. But I went, anyway. I had to see for myself if it was real.

It was. Celeste had returned. Her golden body still sharp with youth and beauty, while mine had begun to soften. The same after all these years and the beating tides.

Why now?

Did she think that I had forgotten?

Never. I went to the statuette and lifted it, wondering how something less than a foot high could do so much damage. I hoisted it into the air, that perfect golden miniature of her, and threw it back into the sea where it belonged.

Memories like jewels no matter how long or how deeply they are buried, always shine when exposed to the sun.


Chapter One

1902 – The Island of St. Claire

I will never forget the morning that my life changed forever. Dawn broke in a thick fog and I walked to the docks beneath a pinkish haze of sunlight to wait for my father’s return. Like ghosts from the mist the fishermen emerged on their boats, floating into the harbor. It all comes back to me so clearly that I can still smell the briny aromas of the pier, still hear the barks of the men as they called to each other. Finally, I recognized the familiar shape of my father’s small boat, and I gave a squeal of joy when I saw the bow riding heavy in the water. I may have been only ten years old, but I knew very well how important a good catch was.

My father always said that being born on St. Claire was a stroke of good fortune, that we didn’t need riches because life in the West Indies was treasure enough for any person. However, when the catches were meager and my belly hungry, I doubted his words. But on that morning, to see the sight of his boat with heaps of gleaming silver fish in the hazy light, I knew my father was right, and there was no better place on earth to call home.

I helped my father unload the boat, and sat beside him mending nets as he sold his catch. Once I was finished the day was my own, and I entertained myself by walking around and watching the other islanders as they worked. I passed baskets of starfish and octopus, and walked beneath small sharks that had been caught alongside the fish. The sharks dangled by their tails, upside down, their sharp teeth just over my head.

I settled, like I always did, on my favorite spot at the very edge of the pier, and dangled my legs over the side. Glancing into the water through my bare feet and tan legs I saw my likeness reflected back at me. Unkempt, wild dark hair framed my face. I never had a mother to chase me around and comb it. It blew in the breeze, a wind-knotted mess of long dark curls.

Cries of excitement surprised me, and I looked up to see not a fishing boat, but a pleasure vessel; a great sailboat had entered the harbor. The boat was almost as long as the pier I sat on, and the mast—two of them actually—had sails folded on themselves and cinched down. The flag of St. Claire waved proudly in the wind, the familiar reds and blues a welcome sight to my eyes.

It was then that I noticed a man at the helm. A wave of black hair, a rugged face, the man was clearly in charge, his hands gripping the steering wheel, guiding the sailboat to dock. That was how I first saw Lucas St. Claire, commanding and in charge. His voice called out in a baritone and the dockhands scrambled to secure the ropes. He landed the vessel perfectly, and it barely bumped against the dock, the bow not ten feet away from where I sat.

A pink hat bobbed up and down as I watched the man help a woman climb from the boat. Her pale pink dress rippled in the breeze. Funny that of all my memories to fade, it should be the memory of Celeste St. Claire that is hardest to remember. I do recall she was beautiful, that much I can recount easily, and that she had pale skin and golden hair.

I stole another glance into the water, comparing my likeness to hers. My skin would never be pale like hers. Like a true island child mine was bronze from the sun. My heart beat with the blood of Spaniards and Africans, the French and even the Danes. Looking back to my reflection and my red cotton romper, comparing myself to the lady and wondering how she could look so cool in the heat.

While I mused on the dock another reflection came into my view. A man’s. Ripples and waves obscured his face, but I could see his dark hair and tall frame and feel his shadow cooling my skin.

“Do you see your future in the water?” he asked me. I turned around, my hands gripping the rough boards for balance. It was the man from the boat, and he spoke to me in a far more gentle voice than he had barked orders to the dockhands. I must have looked shocked, because he laughed, and it was a rich, hearty sound.

Up close, he was taller than any man I had ever seen. He had to bend to reach my level, and when he did I could see that his jaw was as straight as the horizon. He was probably twenty-five years old, and very much a grown-up, especially to my immature eyes.

He held out his hand to lift me up from my perch the way a gentleman escorts a lady. I was befuddled and awestruck for a moment. But behind him she caught my eye. The woman in pink. She was walking toward us. She moved so quickly that she seemed a blur. I felt the shade of her wide brimmed hat darkening over me as she passed. She was so intent on something—I can’t say what—but she rushed toward it, and with a careless step she bumped against me.

I tottered for a moment. At first it seemed that I might be okay, and then with an ungainly wobble, I lost my balance and fell toward the water. The dark liquid that was spread out below me caused such fear in me that I screamed and waved my arms.

The man, though, reached out and righted me. In what to me seemed like an impossible feat, he leaned over the side of the dock and yanked me back from the water. I was aware of only his touch. Back on the dock my body slammed against his, and he was more mountain than man, and did not budge at all. Sounds came rushing back suddenly, and I was certain the whole dock could hear my heart beating.

“Are you all right?” he asked me.

Before I could answer, the woman in pink, whom I would come to know as Celeste St. Claire, pulled on his arm. “Come, Lucas. The heat is too strong for me,” she said. Her voice was light and firm.

He looked at me again, waiting for a response.

I gave a small nod, too nervous to speak.

“Come on,” the woman pleaded with him before shaking her head in exasperation. “Honestly, I don’t know why you bother.” She heaved on his arm, pulling him away, and the crowd on the dock widened, parting for the couple and then closing around them.

I caught a last glimpse of him as he walked away next to a bobbing pink hat. But, he turned around and looked at me. Then, he broke away from the woman and walked over to me again. He bent down, took my hand and pressed something into my palm. I looked up in time to see the crowd swirl around him again.

I stood there watching, people jostling into me, all the business of the docks carrying on about me. It was only when I was absolutely, completely certain that he wasn’t coming back again that I opened my hand and looked at what he had given me.

It was a shell. Small and shiny, sand pink on the outside iridescent on the inside. Simple. Perfect. His gift to me.

I was so excited that I went running to my father, bursting into the stall where I surprised him. “Papa!” I cried. He was resting on a stool, and at the excitement in my voice he shot up to standing, a panicked look on his face. I pointed into the crowd, at the man who had just given me the shell. He was speaking with the woman in the pink hat and he looked angry. “Look! Look at that man! That woman! Over there.”

“What about them?” asked my father.

“The man gave me a shell.” I whispered, my voice full of awe.

“A shell?” My father burst out laughing. “Did he? Lucky you then. Do you know who he is?”

“No.”

My father nodded. “He is Mr. St. Claire. A powerful man. He has many ships and sends things all over the world.”

“He named himself after the island?” I asked, incredulous.

My father laughed again, and tousled my hair. “No. It is the other way around. The island gets its name from him, from the family. He lives in an enormous house at the top of the island.

“Maybe I will marry him and live there one day.” I had a childish vision and hope.

“Ah, you break my heart. I thought I was your one and only.” He leaned down and scooped me up, giving me a hug. “Besides he is already married.”

“To that lady in the pink?”

“Yes. And they live in a manor on top of the mountain.”

A sensation, a tingling feeling of giddiness unfurled inside of me. “You mean a castle?”

“You should see it,” my father said excitedly. “It is almost impossible to believe.”

“Take me to see it,” I begged him. The intensity in my voice surprised me.

“It’s all the way on the other side of the island. I still have fish to sell.” He swept his hand over the containers, proving his point.

“Oh please, Papa,” I said. “There are only a few fish left, the stragglers, the ones that nobody will buy. Please?”

He sighed. “How can I say no to my little girl? Come and help me clean up and we’ll close the shop.”

I jumped up and kissed him.

A short time later our small boat slipped from the marina and out over the shallow waters that wrapped around the island. The sun was a few finger-widths above the horizon and its rays had softened. Small waves slapped against our boat as we glided along, giving off hollow echoes. The island was wild and mountainous, covered in a blanket of green trees. Tall spikes of rocks burst out of the cover of the island, a hint of St. Claire’s volcanic past.

We passed over the eastern tip, came around the cape, with its hidden dangers of rocks and coral that passed as dark shadows beneath the water. If our vessel were any larger, we would have to ride farther out, in deeper waters. A shipwreck, long abandoned and bleaching in the sun, lay half-submerged. Just beyond it there was a beach, with a fine ribbon of white sand and palms that beckoned in the wind, a lure to land-hungry seafarers.

We rowed on until we came to a place on the island that I didn’t remember seeing before. The cove formed a wide horseshoe, and there was only the smallest strip of sand. The rest of the shoreline was rocky and the water foamed as it rose and fell around the outcroppings. My eyes were pulled upward, up the steep cliff, which was crumbling in some places and in others seemed very solid, with natural shelves and caves. Only at the top, where the land evened out, could I see a flat expanse of green.

My father stopped rowing. The world was suddenly quiet, with only the wail of an occasional seagull carrying through the air. We drifted for a moment, taking in the scene before us. The sun was just one finger above the horizon, and streaks of pink and orange stained the sky.

I drew my gaze along the outline of the island, where the strip of green at the top was. I could just make out a hulking shadow of darkness. “I see it!” I exclaimed. “It’s a castle.”

“Not a castle, really. An old fortress,” corrected my father. “Long, long ago, it held troops who would watch over and protect the island.”

My eyes were trained on the building, and I could see that the stretch of green was a manicured lawn, an impossible thing on an island like ours. The fortress seemed so huge and ominous, so imposing that I wondered aloud, “Why in the world would they live in a fortress?”

“That I don’t know. I think there was a house for the family at one time.”

“Do you see those flames?” I asked.

“What?” He was surprised. “Oh, I see what you are looking at now, they are lighting the torches.”

A small globe of orange hovered at the top of the cliff. I could make out the shadow of a person that appeared to be a woman holding the torch. She was at the steepest point of the cliff. A chill swept over me. She was so close to the edge…

The fire lowered and I cried out in fear, thinking that whoever it was had fallen. But no, it was an illusion, and the fire only moved slowly down the cliff.

“Do you see the stairs?” asked my father. “Watch.” His tone was patient and indulgent. “Watch.”

The flame floated lower. Suddenly, there was a flare, a bursting intensity of light, and one fire became two. Like lava dripping down the face of the rock, the flame descended, illuminating a staircase that was hewn into the rock. Just above the ocean the last flame came to life and all at once there were a thousand flames, an impossible crisscross of light and color.

“What is it?” I asked.

We could see illuminated in a ring of fire what appeared to be a house of glass.

If the torches were a necklace of fire, the cottage was the jewel. It dangled just above the shoreline, brilliant in the dusk.

I gaped at the image, trying to unlock the mystery of how a house of glass could be perched on such a precarious spot. A thin skeleton of white pillars and supports provided a clue, but the building, although small as a bungalow, was a marvel to behold. A feeling swelled inside me, of warmth and wonder, appreciation and awe. “It’s so beautiful,” I whispered.

The house shimmered in the setting sun. It almost seemed to shift in place, a trick of the eye.

“Reyna…” My father’s voice came to me from somewhere far away. “Reyna… We have to go. It’s almost dark and we can’t be out on the water at night.”

“No,” I begged. “No. Please, Papa, can’t we just stay a little while longer?” Some part of me thought that the house would do that unusual thing again, that trick of the light, and I wanted to see it.

“I’m sorry, my sweet. But, the tides are changing, pushing us toward the rocks. We have to go.” He dropped the oars, turning us away from the magnificent house. I felt a pang of sadness as we moved away, and only when we were almost back to our side of the island did my joyful mood return. I still had the shell, clutched in my small hand.

When we reached home, my father helped me bore a hole in the seashell that Mr. St. Claire had given me. We threaded a strip of leather through the hole and my father placed it over my head. The shell warmed the base of my throat. “A jewel fit for a queen,” he said, and I could tell by his playful tone that he was teasing me.

I never missed a day at market after that. I would wait, fingering my necklace nervously, watching the entrance to the harbor for that one distinctive sailboat, though it never came. But I was always ready, my necklace never removed. Though at first I begged my father relentlessly, he never took me to see the glass house again. Eventually, my requests died away, and I was left with only a memory.

* * *

It is a testament to my happiness that ten years slipped by in barely an instant. 1912 arrived, and I turned twenty years old. No man I had ever met could compare to the memory of Lucas St. Claire. I focused solely on my father, helping him whenever I could.

The world seemed poised on the tip of technology and industry, and when my father bought a new boat, one with a motor, it seemed as if the future was right before us.

Not a month later, my father left to fish in the dead of night. I remember rousing from sleep just long enough to feel him kiss my forehead goodbye before sleep claimed me again. That is my last memory of him, a cloudy wisp of a memory. He headed out like he had so many times before, but he never returned.

It seemed that my happy life was taken, too. I was left painfully alone and penniless, as both my father and the source of our living and our savings—his boat—were gone. I sold my father’s market stall to another fisherman, and the meager amount of money that I received was all I had to my name.

A month after my father’s death at sea, a letter arrived for me. It was from my aunt, my father’s sister, a woman I had seen only briefly once or twice when I was younger. I opened the envelope and read it while I sat at the kitchen table, a few meager pieces of salted fish my only dinner. As I read, the words sank in quickly and my hands began to shake.

When I finished reading it, I stood up, grabbed the old suitcase from under my father’s bed and placed all of my belongings inside. I said a quick prayer, went to bed and waited for the morning. I never slept. At dawn, I was to take the ferry to the other side of the island. My aunt had secured a housekeeping position for me on the estate of Lucas St. Claire.


Chapter Two

The ferry was waiting, its engine purring, and gulls flew above as I boarded it. I sat by the railing, clutching my suitcase to my chest as if it were a lifejacket, and watched the sights of our small marina fade in the mist as we headed out over the bay. My future lay out there, obscured by the fog.

Thankfully, the waters were smooth, and the sun hovered in the sky, nothing more than a silver disc behind the vapor. I heard the engines of other boats, far away and muffled. The ferry floated as if in a dream.

Gradually, the wind picked up, and the fog cleared.

There, before a curtain of blue sky, was the island, and in the center of it was the house of glass. It was like a diamond, perched on the cliff, twinkling, taking me back to the days with my father. A strange, flushed sensation enveloped me. Had it really been ten years?

Now, dark clouds drew together and the image was gone, but not the memories of that day, ten years before, back when my life was simple and happy.

So much had changed since then. I was now twenty years old, no longer a child. I would live in the house I that I once dreamed about, not as a wife, but as a servant. I had lost everything that I once loved so deeply and had come to depend on. Lucas St. Claire had lost much as well, and he was now an outcast, living under suspicion ever since his wife disappeared. I was deep in my thoughts and surprised when the boat bumped against the dock.

We had arrived at the main harbor of St. Claire. When I stood to leave, the mist seemed to curl about my legs with tendrils as strong as fingers. Instinctively, I touched my necklace. I wonder now if it was trying to help me, to hold me back from the chain of events that would soon sweep me away. But, I shall never know, because I stepped out of the boat and off the dock and kicked loose of the mist.

The docks were bustling with people, the smell of salt and fish, and the cries of the fishermen as they solicited their day’s catch. I passed my father’s stall and said hello to Roberto, the fisherman who bought my father’s stall and he gave me a kind wave in return.

A tightness gripped my throat when I passed the old market stall, but I forced myself to continue on. I walked off the dock, and past the harbormaster’s office where captains and merchants were negotiating loudly. When I left the gates of the harbor, I stopped for a moment and looked up at the road ahead.

There was no cart coming for me. I began to walk, but the going was slow. The breeze that was usually present at the docks died away as I climbed and entered the dense canopy of trees that swallowed the road and led higher and higher. Sweat gathered on my brow and I stopped often to mop it away.

Occasionally, a bird would call out. Here and there the trees opened up to reveal the ocean far beneath me. After what felt like a lifetime of walking, the gates loomed before me. I had arrived at Devlin Manor.

I could not move.

I don’t know what I was so afraid of. It was only a gate. My feet, however, refused to go along with that simple fact. Maybe it was the stone lions, perched on the pillars and staring at me, maybe it was the anxiousness of my first employment. Maybe it was something else entirely. I shall never really know. The gates were open, welcoming me. I chided myself for my foolishness.

I picked up my black suitcase, giving a small grunt with the effort, and stepped through the gate into my new life. Just like that, I emerged from the darkness and onto the cleared and manicured estate of Lucas St. Claire. It was the highest point on the island, and I could see far into the distance, all the way to the horizon where sea and blue skies blurred together.

I took a few hesitant steps, noticing that my scuffed, black boots were a stain against the perfect green of the grass. The road that wound through the island jungle was long forgotten, with only the bright promise of a green carpet that stretched in front of me until it reached the walls of Devlin Manor.

An image of the first time I saw the estate arose in my mind, when I had seen it from afar, from a small boat that bobbed in the open waters. At the time it seemed to me a gray, hulking shadow at the top of the mountain, a fortress overlooking the waters. Now that I stood before it, I knew that my first impression was correct.

Massive stone walls, made of crushed shells rose two stories into the air. Small windows stared straight ahead, their views blinded by shutters that were fastened tight. A series of wide steps led upward from the lawn until they reached two black mahogany doors.

It was a forbidding house. My eyes darted around, longing for some reassuring sights.

My gaze came to the gardens, to the right of the building. There were walls of hedges, neatly trimmed, with a row of pink flowered hibiscus in front of them. I could see trees beyond the hedges, night jasmine and those eerie banyans, with their long roots dripping from the branches.

I realized that I was staring like a fool and remembered the instructions from my aunt’s letter. I was to go and knock and the back door, the servants’ entrance. I walked along the outer edge of the building, running my hand along the rough stone, feeling the shells as they scraped against my skin. I found the door just off the wide terrace at the back of house, overlooking the ocean. I rapped three times and a stout man opened the door. “Yes?” He spoke in a tone that indicated he was bothered.

“I am Reyna Ferraro.”

“And?” He hovered over the door.

“I am here for employment. To see Mrs. Amber.”

“Hmph. One moment please.” He turned around and shut the door behind him.

I waited, standing straight as an arrow until a middle-aged woman with brown hair that was pulled into a bun opened it again. “Reyna?” she asked in a sharp tone, but I saw from the look in her eyes that she recognized me.

It had been many years since I had seen my father’s sister, but I still felt the familiar nervousness around her. “Aunt Louisa,” I said.

She turned around, held the door open for me, and waited. “Here you call me Mrs. Amber.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot.” I quickly added, “Mrs. Amber.” There was no Mr. Amber, but my father was explicit when he told me as a child to call her Mrs. Amber.

She wore all black, right down to her black leather shoes. The only spot of color she had was a gold chain that hung from her neck and held a ring of keys that jangled as I walked past her.

She led me down a narrow hallway lined with windows that gave brief glimpses of the ocean as we walked. The waves were white capped and choppy in the distance. “You understand that you’re only here because of your father.” She spoke in a crisp manner and walked even more so and I found myself hurrying my pace to keep up with her.

“I understand.”

“Because I took pity on you. With your father—”

I interrupted her. “I know. It was hard. Things have changed so much.”

We turned the corner into a pantry of sorts. Cans of food lined the walls and at the far end, there was a door. Mrs. Amber lifted the key ring from her necklace, found the right key and unlocked the door, and we stepped into the room.

Mrs. Amber had to crowd into the front of the small room so I might enter with my bag. There was a single bed with a blue comforter, a dresser with a mirror above it, a table beside the bed and a small square window, situated right above the bed, that looked out onto the courtyard and the delivery door that I had just entered. “It’s perfect, thank you,” I said to her. “When shall I report to duty?”

“You already have.” She paused a moment, and ran the key ring up and down the necklace as she peered at me. She was younger than my father, her hair still a rich brown, and her eyes were dark as raisins. “A quick word of advice if you would like to get on here.”

“Of course.” Early, vague memories of her came rushing back, with her stiff demeanor, her brusqueness and curt disposition.

“First and foremost, you will see nothing. If you don’t know what I mean you soon will. Whatever happens here, and let me be clear, whatever happens here, you don’t see any of it. You don’t discuss it with anyone, not another servant, a guest or a friend. Do you understand me?”

A chill swept over me. “Of course,” I said. “I understand discretion.”

“This goes beyond discretion.” She took a quick, sharp glance at me. “You’ll know soon enough. But keep your mouth shut and you’ll be fine.”

“Second. Your employment is conditional from week to week. If you perform as expected it will never be a problem.”

“Fine.”

“Lastly, the door to your room will be locked behind you at 8:00 p.m. sharp and opened again at 6:00 a.m. No exceptions. If you have an emergency, you can ring the bell.” She nodded at a rope that descended through the ceiling. “But only for an emergency.”

I looked at the rope, which hung like a dead snake. “Where does it lead?”

“To my room. One last thing. A young woman, pretty, like yourself.” She cleared her throat. “Just like all the rest. Well, keep your head down and don’t get any ideas.” Her expression was stiff. “It’ll only end badly.”

“I wouldn’t dare to.”

She continued on. “I’ve seen them, like yourself, coming here young and fresh, giving him eyes. None of those girls last a month. They are always sent back. And then it’s too late. Well,” she looked at her wristwatch, “unpack. Lunch will be in an hour.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

She eyed my figure. “I need to get you a decent uniform. Your dress is almost to rags. Let me see what I have. I’ll be right back.”

The door shut behind her, and for a foolish moment I thought she would lock it. But of course, she didn’t, and I set about unpacking. The dresser was clean, and I put my clothes away.

A short time later, Mrs. Amber returned and walked into the room without knocking. She carried two dark garments in her hand and placed them on the bed. “Here. These should fit. Put one on and then meet me in the kitchen to help prepare lunch.”

After she left again, I picked up a dress. It was a somber gray, short sleeved, with a white collar. Practical. A servant’s uniform. I donned it and went to the kitchen.

Lunch was quick, and I met the staff. The rest of the afternoon, I shadowed Mrs. Amber from room to room, listening to her orders. Not once did I see Mr. St. Claire.

There was an odd thing that happened, though. We were in a bedroom and I was helping her clean beneath a bed, when the glint of something caught my eye. It was wedged between the leg of the bed and the wall, and a trick of the light made it almost seem to wink at me. Whatever it was, it gleamed gold and bright.

I pulled it out. It was a brooch, fashioned into a peacock. It was delicate and finely crafted, the tip of each feather festooned with a different colored jewel. I saw a ruby, an emerald, and jewels of every color of the rainbow. Yet for its delicacy, the piece had weight and felt solid in my palm.

Mrs. Amber snatched it from my hand. I didn’t even know she was behind me. “Where did you find that?” she asked. There was a note of shock in her voice.

“Right there, beneath the bed. It was wedged between the leg and the wall.”

“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 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.




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