It was true. I’d been forced to swallow my fit of laughter when the palace couriers had visited our cottage a month ago with news that the Crown Prince of Dwellen was to host a ball come the next mooncycle. The intention of the event had been clear in the invitation: the prince was in want of a wife.
Rather, the king was in want of his son being in want of a wife.
It hadn’t been all that strange that the prince was throwing a ball to solve his bachelorhood, which I figured had much more to do with the new social pressures to become a qualified heir to the throne than a desire to conform to the “subtle snare of monogamy,” as he often referred to marriage.
What struck me as odd was that I, a human, should be invited.
As it turned out, only human women had been invited. Apparently having a human bride was all the rage in fae social circles ever since the King of Naenden had fallen in love with a human woman (for the second time, people seemed eager to forget).
I’d promptly declined the invitation, of course, claiming duty to my aging parents as an appropriate excuse. Never mind that my parents were healthier than most humans half their age.
The invitation hadn’t been that specific.
In truth, I hadn’t the faintest desire to attend. The same morning of the courier’s visit, I’d received my first official order for decorative plates from an innkeeper in town, and the sum he’d offered had been sizable. Missing a ball where I might have had to pretend to actually like the immature prince had been a small price to pay for the thrill that had raced through my veins at the weight of the bulging money purse the innkeeper had handed me just yesterday.
It wasn’t as though my family was poor. At least, not in my lifetime. My parents came from modest means, but my father had been talented and my mother supportive, and now most of the windows in Othian were supplied by my father.
And me, of course, though most everyone seemed to forget that.
But that was about to change.
The thrill of the money in my palms had stoked an ember in me, one I was desperate to fan. I had made that money. Not my father. Someone had found my work beautiful enough to spend quite a bit of money on it, and that was the high I was eager to chase. Not the hand of some prince who would likely take on a dozen mistresses as soon as the honeymoon was over.
Mama’s words broke me from my trance. “Well, it seems the woman the prince set his sights on wasn’t so naïve, either. According to the paper, she danced with the prince all night, so much so that none of the other girls had a chance to even speak with him. Then she ran off around midnight.”
I downed the rest of my oats. “Serves him right. I bet that’s the first time he’s ever had a woman reject him.”
Mama scowled. “If that is the case, he doesn’t seem to be taking the hint. He’s got an entire platoon of his father’s guard out searching for her. And all they’ve got to identify her is a shoe.”
This sparked my attention, and I remembered I hadn’t finished the article before getting into this conversation. What a ridiculous notion—that the prince’s current object of adoration was so entirely unique, even her shoes would fit only her feet.
I snorted. “What do you bet that there’s a thousand women out there trying to sand their feet down just to fit into it?”
My father took a sip of his coffee. “Well, they’re going to have a difficult time making it stretch, considering it’s glass.”
I choked on my oats. “It’s what?”
My father’s deep chuckle echoed through the room. “Ridiculous, right? Glass slippers.” He rolled his eyes. “Even you haven’t thought of such a thing, and you’re always trying to invent new ways to fashion glass into objects it was never intended to be.”
My mother handed me a goblet of water, which I attempted to slurp once my chest had stopped spasming from inhaling the oats. “Mind if I take another look at that?”
Papa shrugged and handed me the paper, which I searched over and over for any further description of the glass slippers. I found none, however, and eventually gave up. “I’m going to get started early this morning.” The newspaper crumpled in my shaking hands as I placed it back on the table.
“You sure? You haven’t even had your coffee yet.” My father frowned, but it was Mama who placed the back of her hand on my forehead and said, “You’re not ill, are you?”
One would have thought that my leaving the breakfast table before my first cup of coffee was the sign of an international incident.
I nodded and shook Mama’s hand off. “I’m sure.” Then I bolted from the room as quickly as I could manage without raising more suspicion.
The dewy grass soaked my morning silk slippers as I traipsed across our yard in my robe. The sun was just beginning to rise over the grassy hillside, and Mama’s chickens clucked as they scampered through the grass.
It wasn’t until I reached our workshop, a large wooden shed that looked lopsided from all the additions Papa had built over the years, that I realized I had forgotten to grab the key from my room. I almost turned around to fetch it, but a sinking sensation thudded in my stomach. The large wooden door stood before me, taunting me. I reached out a trembling hand and pushed.
The door opened.
My lungs must have fallen out of my ribcage.
Someone had been here. Someone had broken in.
I turned the knob of the gas lamp next to the entrance and a flame appeared, lighting the workshop. Relief flooded my bones as hundreds of glass windows glittered back at me in the firelight. I leaned my hand against the entryway to steady myself. Whoever had broken in hadn’t touched father’s windows. At least, if they had taken any, it hadn’t been enough for me to notice. Not enough to crash our business.
But the windows weren’t what had me traipsing out here in my slippers.
I wove my way through the wooden tables where my father and I had neatly organized our creations and made my way to the back of the shop, where a single furnace and blow pipe served as my shop. My workspace—after-hours, of course—once I’d fulfilled all my regular orders.
It was here that I’d spent what probably equated to months of my life laboring over the fancy glass plates I’d made with the local inn in mind. Where I’d practiced on our bowls. A few panes of glass, covered by burlap, leaned against the back wall. Underneath were my first attempts at painting glass, and though they were so messy and simplistic that I vowed never to show them to anyone, I still kept them.
If the intruder had looked under the burlap, they must have agreed with my embarrassment, because they hadn’t bothered to take them.
So far, nothing seemed out of place. I clutched my chest and tried to calm myself. If there really had been an intruder, surely some of our equipment would have gone missing, and I hadn’t noticed anything out of place. Maybe there hadn’t been an intruder at all. I’d been working long hours into the night all this past week trying to get the innkeeper’s order fulfilled. Yesterday, I’d allowed myself a break from work, as it was the weekend. Father had rested, too. Perhaps I’d simply forgotten to lock the workshop door.
That would be a problem in its own way, of course. Papa would be displeased at my irresponsibility. Maybe even forbid me from working after hours until I learned my lesson. Though I knew it hurt him to discipline me, he’d always been a boulder of will in that regard, reminding me the Fates had entrusted him with the duty of raising not just a child, but a woman who would take over his business one day and needed to learn responsibility.
But all that would be fine, just as long as the shoes were still here.
I leaned down and pulled a metal box out from under my workstation.
The box was too light.
