Glass Slippers

Chapter One

“For Elle- One Glass Swan

60 cm. tall, 30 cm. wide. 1 week. Will Pick-Up.”

 

I turned the crisp order form over in my hand, ensuring its authenticity. Papa chuckled from the table.

“It’s real Ella, I assure you,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

Mama’s hand on my shoulder settled me into my seat. She kissed the top of my head. “Breathe, my dear.” She filled her cup with more of the steaming fragrant liquid.

I sucked in a shaky breath, and released it, the words blurring on the parchment. “For Elle,” I read. “It is real. Someone really requested my work. By name. Sort of.”

Papa raised his mug with a smile. “To Elle! The most successful glassblower in all the land!”

The kitchen thundered with laughter. I couldn’t help getting up and doing my manly strut around the kitchen, flashing a few of my most masculine poses.

“Alright you boys, it’s time for work,” Mama said, taking Papa’s mug and kissing him on the cheek. “Wonderful breakfast my darling, thank you.”

When neither of us moved, she gave us a little “shoo” motion. “Go on. I’ll be in soon.”

Panic clutched me. “You’re not going to help me measure? What if I don’t make it big enough?”

Mama rolled her eyes, “Oh Ella, get in there. If it’s two small, we’ll just put it in the shop. It can’t be perfect the first time, right?”

There was no arguing with her after that. She’d already turned away and was tidying up from breakfast. I looked to Papa for his support, but he stood and waved me over.

“Don’t be afraid to start, my girl, remember—”

“I know, the sooner I fail, the sooner I can learn how to succeed, blah, blah. But this is different. I can’t— “

He lifted his brows, and I closed my mouth, letting him lead us into the attached smithy. Instantly I was hit with the comforting haze, the warmth, the scent of burnt coal, iron, heated glass, and a twinge of chemicals. The forge beckoned me, the glow of its open mouth calling out. It was small, but so was the smithy. And it was my favorite place in the world.

I set to work measuring out the sand, soda ash, wood ash, and lime. My body working by muscle memory, before I realized it I was rolling the blowpipe over the molten glass, the beautiful glowing blob getting bigger and bigger. The brilliant orange transfixed me, so bright and pure. I was hypnotized as I rolled the blowpipe rhythmically.

“Papa,” I craned my neck over my shoulder, but Papa was no longer in the smithy. I scoffed and pulled the blowpipe from the forge. “It’s too big, I know it.” I snatched the pair of tongs in my free hand as soon as the pipe was resting on the anvil.

The blob was heavier than I anticipated, being the biggest I’d ever attempted. My face pinched and frowned as I rolled the pipe back and forth with one hand, balancing it on the anvil, as I maneuvered the molten glass with the tongs in my other hand. A long neck first. Easy. Easy. Careful not to let it droop, I worked quickly. Rolling, rolling, always keeping it moving. Must work quickly. Pushing my shaking bicep muscle from my mind, I began working the feathers.

“You’re over thinking it, dear,” Mama’s soft words came from behind. “You only need a few feathers, not all of them.”

I nodded and adjusted my technique. It was still too fat.

“Lengthen the body a bit, it’s a bit too round still.”

“She’s got it,” Papa whispered from behind.

A couple more feathers. It was cooling rapidly and getting harder to work with. “Should I fire it again?”

“What do you think?” Mama said simply.

I put the tongs down and carried my delicate masterpiece to the forge to be bathed in fire.

“Hot enough to work it only,” Mama reminded.

I was already pulling it out and continuing to work it. This process continued for two days. Heating, shaping, heating, shaping. It was nearly overheated and broken twice, but it survived long enough to be considered a swan. But it could be better. It was still too blobbish. And swans were supposed to be graceful.

The heat of the forge laughed at my doubt. I wondered what my doubt must smell like to the fire as I rolled the swan over in the flames. I pulled it out, examining it, reworked it.

“You have a whole week, honey,” Mama said, looking up from her stained-glass window pane.

“I know, but—” The shattering reached my ears before I’d even registered the weight had slipped from the blowpipe. A whole day of work lay in endless shards on the dirt. The smithy was silent and I couldn’t bring myself to meet my mother’s eye.

Papa came to the doorway, the look of pity already on his face. He looked to the pile, then to me, then to my mother, and back at me. “Well…that’s the first failure done. Better to get them over with quickly. Now you’ve got nothing to fear.”

I removed my heavy gloves and ran my hand over my face, as if I could rub out the rage lines.

“Deep breath, my girl,” Mama said. “That was a wonderful first attempt. What did you learn?”

An exasperated sigh fell out of me, nearly taking all of my spirit with it. My hands dropped to my hips and I stared at what was once my swan. “To concentrate more. I think I got ahead of myself getting so close to the end. I may have rushed.”

Mama nodded, accepting my answer. “But did you enjoy it? Did you learn if you like making swans?”

The smile tore at my cheeks unconsciously. “I loved it. It’s a lot harder than my miniatures surprisingly.” I retrieved the broom and began cleaning up my shattered creation. Papa immediately moved to get the dustpan.

“We’re out of sand, dear. Maybe a walk would help you to cool off?” Papa nodded encouragingly. “Better bring back extra,” he said with a wink.

“Funny, Papa,” I said, smirking despite myself. “Come on, Brutus.” The sleepy French Mastiff lumbered to his feet, shook himself awake, and bounded over to the stack of buckets against the far wall of the smithy. After a moment of thought, he selected one, taking its handle into his large jaw, and padding over to me proudly, dropping it at my feet and then returning to select another.

“Good boy,” I said, scratching him behind the ears. I tugged on my cap to aid with concealing my face. “Let’s go to the beach.”

The image of the shattered swan shrouded my vision as I made my way to the beach, empty buckets dangling by my sides, Brutus trotting along happily ahead.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—” I mumbled, as I collided into a gentleman who made no attempt to move aside for me. I kept my gaze on his feet, though he was a shorter man so it was quite awkward with me being so tall.

He huffed and continued along his direct path, waving an arm in my direction as though to ward me off like floating trash in the sea. I had already gotten too close.

Hunching did make me shorter, looking down helped, too. But it was mainly the soot on my cheeks that likely disguised me best. And the stink of smoke kept most people at arms length. My short reddish-brown hair was messy across my forehead, wild curls sprouting it in all directions from under my hat. No woman would leave the house with such an unkempt mop of hair, let alone this old leather cap.

And like all the others, the man didn’t realize I was a woman, and so plowed through me as he would any other street urchin. Even though I wasn’t an urchin. I was a blacksmith and glass worker. But I was fine with everyone assuming I was an urchin. I was before, and I would be still if it hadn’t been for Papa. I’ve tried over and over to think of how pathetic I must have looked for him to pluck me from the streets after the outbreak. I’d managed to survive several months on my own after my parents perished. I learned how to be quiet and invisible. I learned to occupy the shadows of spaces people gathered. Where there were groups, there was always leftover food and too many people to notice a small child. But Papa noticed.

I’ve yet to hear him speak as softly as I recall him speaking to me that night in the dark alley. I was around seven years old. It wasn’t the dangerous soft voice I’d learned quickly to be wary of. It was different, but still I remembered the feel of my cheek pressed to stone as I tried to make myself as tiny as possible, to hide my face and my gender. I yelped when his hand gingerly rested on my shoulder. I barked and kicked and flailed in fear, even as a small part of me knew it was alright.

The hand instantly left me but I kept my eyes closed tight, instinct having taken over, and ready to disassociate. Yet my clothes weren’t removed and no hand covered my mouth. In fact, the man simply moved from a crouched position to sitting ass-first on the muddy cobblestone in that alley with me. I allowed myself to stop flailing and opened my eyes. I hadn’t seen kind eyes like his since my birth papa’s. Like two great deep calming pools, they held me, actual pools even gathering in his eyes. I wasn’t sure why he was crying as he observed me.

“I’m so sorry I frightened you,” were his first words to me.

I’d never been apologized to by anyone on the street. They kicked me, ignored me, accused me of robbing them, scoffed at me, and advised the guard watch me closely. They’d use me for pleasure, abused me for pleasure, tricked me for pleasure. Never once did anyone apologize. The apologies were always coming from me. For being too dirty, for being in the way, for begging for scraps, for looking at them as they ate or shopped or abused me, for offending their nostrils at any time. They told me I deserved to be beaten, to be raped, to starve, to go to jail, even to die. I was a beggar, worse, I was a girl; I learned I was nothing before I learned anything else. Saw I was nothing when I looked in their eyes.

But this man’s eyes didn’t hold contempt or disgust or lust. I didn’t know the word for what his eyes held at the time. Now I know it must have been compassion that his eyes held, sympathy, perhaps even empathy.

“My name is Bernard.”

I remember my body unfurling to the sound of his voice. Soft but strong, like a father’s voice should be. I forced myself to sit upright, but I pushed myself further into my corner, into the shadows, out of his reach.

“Is it alright if I sit here? I won’t touch you or prevent you from leaving.”

I don’t remember the conversation well. I don’t think it lasted very long, although it could have. Perhaps he sat with me for an hour in that alley, convincing me he wasn’t a threat. Perhaps it only took ten minutes. I just remember the feeling. His entire presence was like a warm blanket around my shivering, emaciated, bruised body. From the way he winced as his gaze found my bruises, to the soft smile he offered me when I caught his eye.

“What’s your name?” Norbert sat cross-legged, the mud soaking his pants, but he didn’t seem to notice.

I remember crying, flinging myself into his arms, I don’t even remember if I told him my name. He held me, just like papa once did. The more I softened into him, the more he cradled me. The more I was racked with sobs, the more he rocked me. Looking back, I may have finally grieved my parents that night in the alley with Norbert, never knowing he intended to be my new papa. He’d meant to go and find a boy to help in his shop. Orphans roamed the street, he had his choice of strong young boys. He chose the scrawny, half-starved, feral girl.

I’d asked him why many times over the years. Each time he gave a different answer, but he never gave the truth, which I knew was pity. It helped my case that he and his wife had lost a little girl of their own before she came into this world, but even if they hadn’t, something told me he still would have stopped in that alley for me.

The scent of the sea air suddenly sharpened as the ocean came into sight, bringing me back from my reverie. The beach would be pretty busy this time of day, now that the sun had past its highest hour. Overhead, the clouds melded into the sky, casting streaks of pale pink against the lilac backdrop.

I slipped off my shoes and popped one into each of my apron pockets, then took up my buckets and made my way out towards the water, Brutus bounding beside me happily. Despite the broken swan souring my mood, I found myself smiling as my toes squished into the soft sand. Still slightly warm on the surface, and cooler as my foot sank deeper. It was the temperature change I loved most. Each step I found the broken swan taking up less of my mind, as I focused on the feel of the sand particles absorbing each step.

Children squealed up ahead. Two toddlers, a young boy and girl, were chasing the waves, running to escape them when they came back to shore. Their giggling was infectious and I lowered my head to hide my own giggle, dropping to the sand to fill my buckets.

My gaze kept drifting to the laughing children, their joy so wild and free. They were completely absorbed with the waves, the sand, the delight. The boy then fell, but before he could start crying, the girl went to him and sat beside him. Or rather, she let herself fall beside him. And then she burst out laughing, just as a small wave lapped over them, reaching to their necks, too high even for my comfort. The girl only laughed harder. The boy’s whimpers turned to laughter, inspired by her. They began to play in the wet sand now, as though only realizing its existence. I dug my own hands deep into the soft, moist sand as I watched them play. Then the shouting came.

A woman ran up to the children, and lifted the little girl from the wet sand. The boy remained, rolling around in the wet sand, unaware of his partner’s absconding. I grit my teeth as I watched from beneath my brim, as her mother swatted the mud from the child’s legs and body, dumping water on her to rinse her, all the while chastising her for how dirty she had gotten.

I pulled my attention away as to not be noticed. My sight landed on a couple sunbathing. I wondered about their age. Were they younger than me? Were they engaged? Were they just friends? My curiosity is satiated when he whispers something in her ear which prompts her to get up and sit instead in the chair under the umbrella. She may have quipped something to him, for his voice rose in response, “…too much sun!” I didn’t catch anything else, for my attention was arrested by someone new.

Leo.

He was strolling along the shore, his pants rolled up to just past his ankles. His dark hair in need of a trim, brushed his collar and hung in his eyes. His pockets already had wet spots from the shells he picked up as he walked.

“Only ones that are unique,” he once told me when we were children. Which confused me, because his pockets were always bulging. But he insisted each one was unique from the others.

He would be around twenty-one now, same as me. And he’d definitely become a man. He was tall, lean, and hints of muscle were peaking in every place his clothes tightened; around his thighs, his waist, his…manhood. I gulped with difficulty but couldn’t tear my gaze away. Despite his billowy white shirt being open at the neck revealing his tanned collarbone, his rolled sleeves clenched at his large forearms every time he reached down to retrieve a shell.

I lowered my head as he looked in my direction, timed perfectly to hide the giggle that had come on. I couldn’t stop imagining him running back and forth from the shore to empty them in a hole he’d dug specially to store his treasures. He had to have collected at least twenty or thirty shells by the time the field trip had ended that day. It had been the best day of my life up till then. The sun, the feel of the water, and Leo running out to find shells and bringing them back to me to point out their beauty. How Leo called out to me when I got what he felt was too far from shore. I, of course, ignored him, lost in the sweeping feel of the ocean, a feeling like nothing I had ever experienced. The weightlessness of it. Like I was one with the water. Feeling its power, but also, being part of it. Surrendering to it was the best part, even as the other children began to panic if they got too far out. If only they’d just gone limp, they’d have been just fine. I found myself shaking my head even then as I filled my buckets. A few more scoops oughta do it.

I couldn’t resist another look. I had to see how full his pockets were today. I had lost track of him in my efforts to hide my face, but I sensed he was turned away. I peeked up through my shaggy curls just in time to see Leo bend over to retrieve a shell. But as he did so, three more fell from his pockets, just as the tide was coming in. His small sounds of concern broke me, and in my attempt to silence my laugh, I half snorted, half blew a raspberry as I lowered my face in horror.

Oh god. Please don’t have seen me. Don’t have heard that sound. Couldn’t have heard it, not over the waves. Not over his concern for his shells. I broke again, now imagining him chasing after more shells in the tide, each time he bent over to retrieve one, more falling out. Just like when he was a boy. He hadn’t changed at all. I am practically inside my recently dug hole, but it is no good. My body is shaking with laughter.

“Are you alright?”

I froze, the voice just above me.

“Son,” he tried.

I flinched. I knew most took me for a young man, it was the idea after all. Still stung. With Leo in particular. It had been years after all since I’d left school suddenly. I couldn’t hold it against him. I’d been a “boy” then too. Yet, with him, I’d always been reminded deep down that I was a girl.

“Elle?”

My eyes bulged. It was much harder to hide being a woman when I was out in public. And now that I wasn’t a child. How did he recognize me? My face was still dusted with soot, hair matted from sweating. Thankfully I was wearing a cap and my heavy leather apron.

I slowly dragged my gaze up to him, squinting in the sun behind him. His face was silhouetted, but I could see the surprise in his eyes. Also, the smile that took over his face.

“It is you!” He gaped and stumbled back slightly, a few shells falling from his pocket. “It’s been years!”

He reached out a hand and I took it without thinking. His muscular forearm tensed as he pulled me to my feet. He pretended not to notice my scarred arms, though my red cheeks may have defeated the purpose of his politeness.

“Do you remember me? It’s Leo, from our school years. Though I remember you didn’t stay long.”

I hadn’t quite been able to meet his eyes again, though our height was nearly identical. I hunched my shoulders, hoping to minimize my breasts even further under my apron. I rarely interacted with the public. I worked from the shadows of my smithy, behind the store. My mother handled customers. And no one ever spoke to me when I left the shop, which was only to collect sand or go on other small errands for the shop. I kept my head low, I was just as invisible as I was when I lived on the streets. This…this had never happened. I kept my eyes on his sandy feet.

“It’s good to see you again, Leo,” I said. “I didn’t mean to laugh—”

Leo chuckled. “You always laughed at me! That’s how I knew it was you!”

I was grateful for the soot helping to disguise my likely beet red cheeks. “Well you always did try to collect too many.”

“How can I pass up such beauty? And they’re all beautiful!” he said with an impish grin. His eyes seemed to dance over my face for a moment, as though noticing something.

Time to go.

“Well happy collecting. I best get this sand to my master,” I said, trying to lower my voice a bit more. “If I’m late I’ll get the switch.”

“I wouldn’t want that. So that must mean you’re working in your father’s shop. I assume he’s teaching you the trade and that’s why you left school so early.”

I nodded and bent to pat Brutus who’d come bounding up, wet and sandy from playing in the surf. “That’s right. I’m a…” I considered lying but before I could stop myself, it came out. “I’m working quite a bit with glass now. Moved on from just horseshoes and pots.”

“Glasswork, really?” He snapped up my hand again. “You do have the small hands for detailed work.”

I yanked my hand free without realizing how rude it must have seemed.

Leo brushed past the moment quickly. “ I’d love to come by and see your craftsmanship. What’s the name of your shop?”

“Oh, uh,” I debated telling him the truth. I thought about this man often, too often. If he were to see me again, he may discover the truth, no matter how much soot covered my cheeks. There was a reason I worked in the back and never served the storefront. But if he visited, he would surely request to socialize. It was impossible. He’d already noticed my small hands. And the way he just looked at me, there was something in his eyes. Something searching. “The Tin Horse,” I lied.

“The Tin Horse, great! Well I’ll come by soon. It’s great to see you again, Elle.” He slapped my shoulder jovially, nearly knocking off my hat.

I scrambled to keep it in place and risked a glance up at him. “You too, Leo. See you around.”

I picked up my buckets and made my way further down the beach, Brutus following faithfully. I couldn’t deny the pang in my gut. Regret. Though I was glad I fooled him, there was a part of me that wished he saw the truth. If he knew I was a woman, would he be interested? I shook the foolish though from my mind as I passed more sunbathing women. If I was a woman I’d be forced to sit and sunbathe till it was decided that I’d had enough sun, forced to keep neat and tidy, forced to be delicate. No, I wanted a future. I wanted freedom. I wanted to work my craft.

If sacrificing love was the price to pay, I would gladly pay it. This was my chance. An opportunity that I would never have as a woman. I released the regret with a sigh and began my journey home, more determined than ever to finish the swan.