The Glasswright

By A. C. Williams

The shoebox rattles. A crystalline scratching sound tinkles inside the worn cardboard. I clutch it in my aching, bandaged fingers as I stand trembling in the yard of the old livery stable at the edge of the village.

It’s my last option.

If he can’t help me, no one can.

One step at a time, I ascend the worn, grassy path to the glasswright’s workshop. I leave the fierce, dry cold behind me as I cross the threshold.

Furious heat breathes life and feeling back into my frozen limbs. The harsh winter’s chill usually keeps me numb and makes it easy to ignore the aches and pains of scrapes and bruises, but here near the warmth of the forge, the cold recedes, making my fingers bleed more, and leaving me in agony.

This may be a bad idea.

“Oh. Hello there.”

I clench my shoebox with rigid fear as the kind voice reaches me. I swallow hard and try to bear the glasswright’s scrutiny without flinching.

He’s a short, balding man with a dark bushy beard and warm brown eyes. He wears a thick leather apron and rough gloves woven with opalescent dragon scales.

I try to speak, but my voice has left me.

Calm down. Just explain.

But if I try to tell him what happened, I know I’ll cry, and I can’t cry here. Not in front of an artisan. He won’t help me if he understands how useless I am or what I’ve done.

The scent of hot ash and warm leather washes over me as the glasswright kneels down to look in my eyes.

“What do we have here?” He holds out his gloves and gestures toward my shoebox.

I blink back tears.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

I sniffle and pry the lid off the box, showing its contents to the glasswright. His eyes soften.

I don’t want his pity, but it’s what I deserve.

From the uncountable shards in the bottom of the shoebox, it’s impossible to explain how beautiful the ornament used to be. It had been priceless, but it had also been fragile. And me? Well, I’m clumsy.

“It was my inheritance,” I whisper. “Every generation of my family, every mother and grandmother before me, protected it. Kept it safe. Passed it on. And I broke it.”

I set the box on the ground and crouch over it, reaching inside to take out two of the larger broken pieces.

“It was shaped like a star, and it shone like moonbeams.” I press the pieces together, heedless of how the sharp edges cut into my skin. “Now it will never shine again.” I reach for another piece and try to press it into the others.

My fingertips bleed. The glass is stained with blood from all my useless repair attempts.

“I can’t fix it.” Tears well up in my eyes. “I’ve tried. No matter what I do and no matter who I ask, I can’t make it like it used to be.”

The glasswright kneels. “That is an impossible task, child.”

He takes the box from me. The chorus of glass chimes and sings with every beat of his boots against the ground.

“Sir?”

The glasswright tips the box over on his sturdy wooden workbench, its smooth surface allowing the pieces of glass to shine in the wild light of his forge. He flashes a beaming grin. “But I do impossible things.”

The man turns to his forge and jabs a long rod into the crucible, and from it he pulls a fiery lump of molten glass, clinging to the end of the rod. He spins the rod, the shapeless ball of glass shimmering orange and red, and he lays it on top of my shattered ornament.

“Sir.” I stand, clenching my aching fingers. “I have no coin to pay you.”

The glasswright glances over his shoulder at me. “I don’t need coin, little one.”

He rolls the hot glass along his bench, picking up every last piece of my ornament until each one is studded in the fiery knurl of glass.

Next, he flings open the doors of his furnace. Heat washes over me, hot enough to burn, but he stands firm, twirling the rod over the superheated flames within.

He rolls the rod, lowers it farther into the fire, draws it out. He spins it in a graceful dance, stabs at it with pliers and knives, before he gently guides it back into the flames.

Then, the glasswright removes the shimmering hot glass once more and turns back to me. The broken pieces of my ornament sparkle within something new. A star, yes, but not like it was. Brighter with more stunning spikes and an iridescent sheen across its surface.

He taps the end of the rod, leaving my new ornament on the bench. He sits it up with his gloved hands, and I stare at it in wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “But it’s not like it was before.”

“Impossible, remember?” the glasswright says. “But what it used to be has made this new version stronger.” His smile is broad, his beard slightly smoking from the force of the fires.

“Sir,” I whisper. “If you don’t want coin, what can I give you?”

The glasswright pulls off his gloves, and one calloused thick-fingered hand wraps around mine as he kneels. His touch is warm, like his workshop and his smiling eyes.

“You’ve already given it to me.” He gently squeezes my bandaged fingers. “All I needed, little one, was for you to ask.”

My new star shimmers and shines on the glasswright’s bench.

For the first time since I entered his shop, my fingers don’t ache in the warmth.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A.C. Williams is an author and entrepreneur who loves cats, country living, and all things Japanese. She’d rather be barefoot, and if she isn’t her socks will never match. A proud Hufflepuff, she takes her coffee with cream, her pizza with pineapple, and her stories with spaceships. Follow her travel adventures with Hermes the Frog on social media.

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