Mccormick Templeman - The Glass Casket

Tom was staring at her, his jaw gone slack, when the girl lifted her face to him. Her gaze now upon him, their eyes locked, each seemingly unable to look away. It was as if he were seeing an old friend for the first time in years.

Her face was gentle, confused, as she looked at him, and then suddenly the ridiculousness of their staring match was upon them, and they both broke into startled, unrestrained laughter. The intimacy of the moment—the shared intensity followed by the shared foolishness—did something strange to Tom’s heart, and he found himself in thrall to the mysterious creature.

But then the girl’s cheeks flushed crimson, and lowering her eyes, she turned away.

“Her name’s Fiona Eira.” A voice at his elbow startled Tom. He turned to see Rowan’s big eyes peering up at him, and he had to smile.

“She’s breathtaking, isn’t she?” Tom asked, returning his gaze to the girl, who was now running her fingers along the smooth stones that lined the well.

“She’s my cousin,” Rowan said.

“Really?”

“Apparently,” she said, her bluebird eyes squinting up at him through pale lashes.

Looking at Rowan, Tom found that despite the differences in coloring, he could see a definite family resemblance. Perhaps that was why the girl seemed so familiar.

“What’s she like?” he asked.

“I don’t know. My father’s forbidden me to speak to her, but that doesn’t mean I can’t spy on her, does it?”

“It seems strange of your father to tell you to avoid her. That doesn’t sound like him.”

Rowan raised her eyebrows. “It’s the whole family. He won’t see them. He’s instructed Emily not to let them in, and I’m supposed to ignore them should I meet them in the square. He thinks they’re after money.”

“But the girl is your cousin. Surely she can’t bear you any ill will.”

“Surely not,” said Rowan, watching her cousin, black tendrils of hair framing her luminous face.

“Then you should speak with her,” Tom said.

“Yes, Tom. I’m the one who wants to speak with her,” Rowan said, and then she grinned at him with such knowing that he felt a blush rising in his cheek.

That evening, when Tom returned home to his mother, who was pouring ale for the men of the village, he found his brother reading in the corner, chestnut hair falling over his dark eyes.

“Jude,” he said. “Helping out as usual, I see?”

“I caught your dinner.” Jude grinned. “What else do you want from me? And while we’re doling out criticism here, where have you been?”

“Out,” Tom said, avoiding eye contact.

“Taking the air, then?” Jude asked, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Just having a walk down to the well? See something you fancied, did you?”

Tom laughed. “Fine. You’ve got me. I went to the square, and there I happened to see Rowan’s mysterious stranger. She’s quite beyond description.”

“There’s no need to describe her. I’ve seen her myself. What’s more, I saw you and Rowan staring at her like she was one of those insects you two used to trap in jars.”

“If you’ve seen her, then you know what I mean,” Tom said, his voice soft, reverent. “A man could hardly look upon such a creature and fail to have his heart stolen.”

Jude shook his head. “Alas, the slant of her cheek does nothing to move me. Rowan, on the other hand …”

“You don’t even like Rowan.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate her beauty. Don’t tell her I said that, by the way.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “I’ll ask you please not to speak so of my friend. She’s a proper lady, one not meant for your wandering eye.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jude smiled and returned to his book.

Tom turned to see that his mother was looking especially harried, her blond curls hanging limp to her chin. Concerned, he moved to help her.

“What can I do, Mother?” he asked, and he caught Jude making the motions of being ill.

“Ah, my boy, you can wipe down the counters, you can,” she said, handing him a rag. “Was your brother giving you grief, then?”

Tom leaned against the bar. “The family that just moved into the village, have you met them yet?”

Elsbet raised her eyebrows. “The girl I haven’t met, but I’ve met her mother. I dropped off a basket of scones this morning. The woman was very kind. She said she’d be over to see us as soon as she had a moment, but the glassblower, he couldn’t see fit to come to the door for a simple hello.”

“He’s a glassblower?” Tom asked as he moved the rag in careful circles atop the oak bar.

“Mmm.” Tom’s mother nodded. “I’ve heard he’s quite skilled—gifted, even—but what’s that beside some common courtesy? Couldn’t be bothered to say hello, though I could see him sitting right there by the fire. He doesn’t seem to think we’re worth his time. I can tell you one thing, though,” she said, leaning into the counter. “The mother, Lareina’s her name, she’s quite lovely.”

“She’s the stepmother,” Tom corrected, working his way down the bar.

“Neither is the girl’s parent, my boy.”

“Really?” Tom, surprised, set his rag down and sat upon one of the high barstools. “Rowan didn’t say.”

“Sure,” Elsbet said, brushing the curls from her eyes. “The girl belonged to Rowan’s mother’s brother and his first wife, but that one died when the girl was small—sickness of the blood. And then only last year, he died as well. The glassblower is some distant friend of the family, swooped in to provide and protect, but he seems a rough sort to me. Not sure I’d want the kind of protection he could give.”

“Mother, you don’t even know them.”

Elsbet shrugged, and picking up Tom’s rag, she began pushing it along the counter in steady sweeps, going over what Tom had already done. “I know people in general, Tom, and that’s worth more than knowing any one person any day of the week. Now be a love and gather some wood for me, will you? Don’t stray too far into the forest, though. I don’t care what your brother says. There are wolves breeding in those trees.”

“Mother,” Tom sighed.

“Get on, now. The stove won’t light itself, child.”

That evening as Rowan walked home, she kept her eyes on the trees. She trusted her father when he told her that the village beliefs were no more than superstitions, yet she could not deny that there was a magic to the forest—perhaps not goblins and fairies, but it held an otherworldly beauty for her, and even at dusk, she usually found herself taking the path that skirted its bewitching wilds rather than walking through the center of the village. She considered the woods her second home. And while she would never hazard them at night, she and Tom had spent most of their childhood running through the trees and combing the forest floor for insects. In the summers they would swim in Seelie Lake, and resting on its shores, they would gaze up toward Cairn Hill to the slate outcropping of Lover’s Leap—perched as it was above the waters, it was where widows went to weep. But now the villagers were losing their heads over a wolf, the forest declared dangerous even during the day, and Rowan felt anxious and displaced.

When Rowan reached her home, she could see the candle lamps burning in the window of her father’s study. As she stepped into the foyer, Rowan caught a whiff of a scent that always made her think of her mother. She knew there was no way she actually remembered her mother’s scent—she’d died when Rowan was only hours old—yet sometimes, Rowan could have sworn that she did.

Rowan knew very little about her mother. Her father, still grief-stricken after sixteen years, refused to discuss her, and if Rowan ever asked any of the villagers about her, they would sweep their eyes away, not wanting to answer, not wanting to make a child pine all the more for a mother she’d never known. Her only knowledge of her mother was through her dreams. She came to Rowan when she was sleeping—of that the girl was certain. In her favorite dream, they were in her mother’s room. The light from the window seemed to sparkle, and her mother moved her shining face close to Rowan’s. In one hand, she held a wooden egg; in the other, a rope woven of pure gold.