ELLIE

Glass shattered against the wall of the workshop as the remains of my most recent project crumbled into a pile on the floor.

I couldn’t get the slippers right. This had been my eighth attempt in the month since I’d left the castle. Yet I couldn’t seem to replicate the shoes I’d once been so proud of.

That wasn’t even the worst part.

I couldn’t seem to get anything right. If I tried to cast a glass saucer, I’d heat it in the furnace too quickly, and hours of work would split in two. When I tried to etch flowers into a teacup, my fingers would falter, ruining the piece. Even the windows I helped my father make came out warped and uneven.

“Ellie, darling?” my father’s voice called from the workshop door I’d thought I’d locked. It creaked as he entered. “You’ve only lit one lantern.”

It was true. I preferred to work in the dark these days. Perhaps it comforted me to blame my regression of skills on not being able to see well enough to scrape an intricate design, to blow a perfect bulb in the glass.

Perhaps I was in denial, but I was content to abide there.

It was gone. My skill with glass was gone. I’d known it then—when I’d made the decision to spare Evander’s life during the third trial.

That which is most precious to you.

The pitiful part was that I couldn’t even bring myself to regret it. Because as much as I hated him for not wanting me like I wanted him, as often as I imagined his face as my target when I hurtled my failed projects at the wall, I couldn’t take it back even if I had the chance.

Evander was alive. Alive and pining after another woman. But alive all the same.

I’d stopped reading the daily paper, so I wasn’t sure whether he’d announced his engagement to Cinderella yet. I didn’t really want to know if he had.

I’d broken my mother’s favorite vase trying to get to the door when I’d heard someone knock last week.

It had been our milk delivery.

I couldn’t even make her a new one.

My father sighed and sat next to me on my workbench. There wasn’t enough room for both of us, and I had to scoot over and allow one leg to hang off the edge. His arm pressed against my shoulder, and it reminded me of how close I used to stand to him as I’d watched him work when I was a little girl, like I could absorb his talent and skill by just being near him.

He gestured toward the ever-growing pile of glass on the floor across the room. “Do you ever intend to clean that up?”

“No, I just plan to erect a monument to my failures.” The words came out crueler, mopier than I had intended the joke to sound.

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

I choked out a dry laugh. “Why’s that?”

“You could have sulked in bed this whole time. I’m glad I taught my daughter that if you’re going to mope, you can at least have something to show for it.”

I huffed, picking at my fingernails. “You mean a pile of broken glass?”

“Something beautiful is going to spring out of that pile, I assure you,” he said, and when he turned his wrinkled face on mine and smiled, I knew he believed it to be true.

I leaned my head against his shoulder, taking in the familiar scent of tobacco and firewood.

“Do you regret severing your bargain?”

The question took me aback. For all practical purposes, my father had always pretended that I was a little boy. He’d never once pressured me to marry or even acknowledged that I might someday like to do so.

“No. I will not be bound to someone who wishes to be bound to another.”

“But you loved him, did you not?”

My shoulders tensed. “Are you saying I should have married him out of love, even though he loved someone else?”

“No, no, no. I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?” I sat up straight, rubbing my sweaty palms against my forehead.

“I’m saying that perhaps you haven’t allowed yourself the room to admit that you are hurting.”

“I think I know better than anyone that I’m hurting, Papa.”

“Hm.”

I groaned. “You can’t just say something like that, then say, ‘hm.’”

“I think you’re holding onto that anger in your heart.”

My heart sank. “Are you saying I should forgive him? Aren’t you supposed to take my side?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I will forever take your side. I hate to see you like this. But you’re going to continue to hurt if you continue to harbor hate in your soul.”

I pursed my lips, irritated that somehow, my father was implying I was in the wrong here. “He deserves to be hated.”

“Maybe. But do you deserve to have to carry hate with you?”

I frowned and fidgeted on the bench. “Maybe. At least it makes it feel a little better.”

“I think you’ll grow to find that the little bit of relief you get is an illusion.”

I sighed, having nothing left to say. My father rose to leave and kissed me on the forehead. But when he reached the door of the workshop, he turned back around and smiled, staring at the pile of glass on the floor. “You used to do that when you were little, you know. My little Ellie, the perfectionist. Everything always had to be just so, or you thought you’d failed.”

My eyes stung, and I blinked hard as a painful lump formed in my throat.

“You were quite bad at glassblowing, you know. For a long while.”

I let out a strangled laugh, hardly able to hold back a sob. “I think your comforting skills might be getting a little rusty, Pa.”

As if he hadn’t heard me, my father continued, “But you were convinced you were going to be the best glassblower in all of Dwellen. Surpassed me, even.” I dared to look at my father. His brown eyes gleamed with pride in the lantern light. “I’ve always been so proud of you, Ellie. But I do miss it—you being little and needing my help. Teaching you about glass, watching your skills develop—those are some of my favorite memories.”

My heart swelled with mingled pain and loss and nostalgia until I felt it might burst.

“I’d never wish this upon you—losing everything you’ve worked so hard for. But Ellie, watching you struggle, watching you fight…” A rim of silver pooled on the edges of his eyelids. “I wouldn’t mind teaching you again.”