The Fire in the Glass

by Jacquelyn Benson

  They stopped in front of a pair of tall, fine houses built of washed limestone that stood out, pale and bright, against the red brick facades to either side. Elegant fan lights accented the doors, which were both painted a rich, deep blue, positioned between faux columns marked in bas-relief. They gave the structures a distinctly Grecian air as though the two houses were in fact a single temple to some ancient god, built with opulence and good taste, and lovingly cared for.

  It looked very fine, like the sort of place where someone of Lily’s social standing was unlikely to be welcome.

  Estelle skipped up the steps to the door on the right. A gleaming brass plaque was mounted on the limestone beside the blue panel. It was marked with a series of characters Lily thought must be Chinese. Instead of knocking, Estelle simply turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  “It’s never locked,” she called back over her shoulder as she went in, as though that were sufficient explanation for why she was walking unannounced into someone else’s house.

  The prospect of following paralyzed Lily, freezing her in place at the bottom of the steps.

  The door remained open, letting the winter chill inside. Estelle clearly expected Lily to follow. What else could she do? She could hardly wait outside, nor did it make much sense for her to knock herself when the door stood half-open and her companion had already breezed inside.

  With a breath, she stepped over the threshold.

  She found herself in a fine, high-ceilinged entry papered in green damask. Rooms opened to either side. Ahead of her, a set of stairs rose to an open landing.

  The decor was spare but tasteful, accented by items a bit stranger and more unique than usual.

  A marble bust of Isaac Newton sat on a plinth by the entry to what appeared to be the drawing room. On the opposite side, on a small accent table, what Lily suspected must be a genuine Ming vase held a spray of dried blossoms. It was elegantly painted with waving blue fronds of pond weed and swirls of moving water amongst which the bright orange forms of goldfish swam. Mounted on the wall was an enormous iron shield, every inch of its round surface embossed with graceful warriors astride long-legged horses, holding spears and swords as they charged into battle.

  Where were they? Was this simply the home of some acquaintance of Estelle’s, or something else?

  She didn’t ask, still wary of why Estelle had brought her here, given the timing of when she had made the appointment—right at the end of their uncomfortable game the night before.

  If I told you that you were in danger, would you believe me?

  “Helloooo,” Estelle sang.

  She was answered by a heavy crash resounding from somewhere above. It sounded to Lily as though someone had been thrown into a wall. Estelle didn’t seem to notice.

  A figure stepped into the doorway to Lily’s right.

  He was tall, his advanced age clear from the deep lines on his face. His white hair was cut close as a soldier’s, his mustache also trimmed with military precision. His posture displayed an unusual fitness and energy for one of his advanced years.

  “Miss Deneuve.”

  “James!”

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I’ve brought a friend to meet Mr. Ash. Lily, this is James Cairncross. James, Miss Lily Albright. Is the master of the house in?”

  “He’s training,” Mr. Cairncross replied. Lily noted the Scottish burr of his accent. “But I imagine they’ll be finishing up shortly.”

  As though to emphasize his point, another thud echoed down from upstairs, heavy enough to rattle the steel shield against the wall.

  A new face appeared at the end of the hall, that of a lanky young man whose features revealed him to be of Asian descent. He wore the livery of a chauffeur, though his coat was unbuttoned and his cap set at a slightly rakish angle.

  “Sam, would you let Mr. Ash know he has a visitor?” Mr. Cairncross asked.

  “Sorted,” the young man replied, his accent pure East End Cockney. He bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  A smaller, slighter figure replaced him, clad in a dark gown and an apron.

  “Mrs. Wu, could we have tea in the library please?”

  The older woman nodded and then slipped away.

  “If you would join me, ladies?” Mr. Cairncross made an elegant bow, gesturing them into the room behind him.

  Lily glanced from the walking stick in her hand to the umbrella stand by the door, where it clearly ought to be left. She felt an odd reluctance to part from it in a place that instinctively unsettled her.

  After all, she was legitimately injured. She would claim the privilege of the lame, however temporarily she might hold that position, and keep it with her.

  The mention of a library had evoked visions of a glorified gentleman’s study in Lily’s mind, but the space she found herself in was something else entirely. It was immense, running the entire length of the house, with wide windows looking out over both the square and an expansive back garden. The ceilings were even higher than those of the hall, rising a full two stories of walls completely lined with shelves, every one of which was fully stocked. A system of wrought-iron ladders and balconies circled the room.

  It was not just books that the library held. A glass case displayed a series of carvings and tablets, including one small sheet of hammered gold. Another cabinet near the front of the room consisted entirely of very slender wooden drawers, one or two of which were open, revealing what looked like yellowed parchment scrolls tucked inside.

  The shelves that did hold books were clearly stocked with something other than volumes on horticulture picked up by lot for purposes of decor. The age and size of the books varied greatly. The desk in the corner, positioned next to an honest-to-goodness card catalog, made it clear that this was no showroom but a genuine working library.

  More unusual artifacts decorated the space. Lily’s gaze roved across a curved sword in a beautifully enameled sheath, a multi-armed idol with the face of a demon, and a ball of ivory carved into the most astonishingly intricate designs with other equally ornate spheres encased within it.

  An orrery that put the earth at the center of the universe rested on a nearby table, its old brass gears carefully polished.

  The room was silent save for the regular ticking of a great antique clock set in the corner. The noise was calming.

  Wine-red leather armchairs with brass studs were arranged around a fireplace which clearly existed for show rather than function, heat being provided by the scrolled iron radiators set around the room.

  Mr. Cairncross held a chair out for Lily before taking a seat for himself.

  “How is your health, James?” Estelle asked.

  “As well as can be expected. And how have you been? We haven’t seen you around here in quite a while.”

  Estelle waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve less need of it than some. I’m terribly well-adjusted.”

  The response was strange. Well-adjusted? What did that have to do with whether or not one visited this place?

  Mrs. Wu, whom Lily had deduced must be the housekeeper, came in carrying a heavily-laden tea tray. She set it down on the coffee table.

  Mr. Cairncross’s eyes lit up.

  “Mrs. Wu, you’ve made lotus seed buns. You are a treasure.”

  “You’ve brought too many,” Estelle announced, eyeing the pastries. “You know you needn’t have put one there for me. One does not maintain a trim figure after forty by indulging in confections.”

  “Too thin,” Mrs. Wu muttered, shaking her head as she departed.

  “You must try one, Miss Albright. They are quite delectable,” Mr. Cairncross insisted.

  Lily picked up one of the pastries. It was very pale but felt soft and light. She took a bite, then tried not to sigh out loud. The bun was airy as a cloud, wrapped around a smooth, sweet, nutty filling.

  She felt herself settle more comfortably into her chair.

  Sam came in.

  “
They’re near done upstairs.” He spied the tea tray. “Lotus buns! Nai Nai wouldn’t let me take one from the kitchen. Said they was for the house.” He scooped up the remaining pastry, which disappeared into his mouth with a single bite.

  As the bastard daughter of an actress, Lily had little direct experience with how fine houses treated their servants, but she was fairly certain it was completely out of line for a chauffeur to pop into rooms with house guests and steal snacks from them. Yet Cairncross showed no sign of shock or disapproval, more a grandfatherly sort of amused indulgence.

  She certainly wasn’t going to call any attention to the anomaly herself. In a game of social status, Lily was unlikely to come out the winner.

  Another shudder of impact drifted down from upstairs, rattling the cups in their saucers.

  “Let us know when Mr. Ash is available, please,” Mr. Cairncross said.

  “Bob’s your uncle,” the young man replied, then jogged from the room.

  “Tea, Miss Albright?” the librarian asked.

  “Thank you.”

  “Milk or sugar?”

  “A little of both.”

  “I’ll take mine black,” Estelle cut in.

  “As I know well, Miss Deneuve,” he replied.

  Lily sipped her tea.

  “Your library houses quite an unusual collection,” she noted, filling the natural lull in the conversation.

  “Over 5,000 items in the catalog, spanning roughly 3,000 years and sixteen languages. Five dead, ten living. One of indeterminate status,” Mr. Cairncross replied with obvious pride. “Mr. Ash has spent the greater part of his life traveling throughout the world—I was privileged to join him for a good part of it—and sent most of these home in the course of his journey. That’s a Sumerian hymn to Ishtar over there,” he said, pointing to one of the tablets in the glass case, then moving his teacup to indicate other items in the room. “Tenth dynasty Chinese puzzle ball. Seventeenth century psalter encrusted with ten carats of emeralds and rubies. The Hindu goddess Kali—she’s always given a second look.”

  Lily glanced at the titles on the nearest shelf. The Lives of the Saints sat beside a volume on the powers of Sufi ascetics. Above it were a few bindings marked with characters she couldn’t read.

  “There’s more in the vaults downstairs, including a few goodies I have to keep locked away for health and safety reasons,” Mr. Cairncross continued.

  “You mean they’re very fragile?” Lily asked.

  “No. I mean they’re fairly dangerous.”

  “James is The Refuge’s official librarian. Get him started and you’ll have trouble making him stop,” Estelle warned.

  “The Refuge?” Lily echoed.

  The pair exchanged a look. Lily could read the subtle warning in Estelle’s glance. So, it seemed, could Mr. Cairncross.

  “Technically, the name is zìzhīzhīmíng bìfēng gang. You’d have seen the characters by the door. The literal translation is ‘The sanctuary of coming to fully know one’s self’, but as that’s rather a mouthful and only Ash, myself, and the Wus can manage the Mandarin, it mostly goes by The Refuge.”

  “You’re talking about this house,” Lily guessed slowly.

  “Yes, darling. The house,” Estelle confirmed.

  “More or less,” Mr. Cairncross qualified.

  Another look was exchanged and Lily felt the wariness that had been banished by the warmth and comfort of the library creep back in. She was reminded that she hadn’t the foggiest idea what she had walked into here. What sort of private home sported an elaborate name in a foreign language and included a librarian among its staff? If Mr. Cairncross was indeed staff—a status that would have precluded his serving as a surrogate host, as he clearly had for the last half hour.

  Estelle set down her teacup.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said, rising and slipping out of the room.

  The move did nothing to assuage Lily’s unease.

  She considered the cup in her own hands. Part of her wanted to put the half-drunk tea back on the tray, make an excuse to Mr. Cairncross, and simply walk out of the house. She could make her own way home from here, even with the stitches in her thigh.

  Then it occurred to her that the room she sat in might very well hold the answer to a question that continued to haunt her, however much she tried to push it from her mind.

  “Mr. Cairncross . . .”

  “Yes?” he replied, sipping his tea.

  “You said you speak Mandarin.”

  “I do.”

  “How many other languages do you speak?”

  “Fluently? Seven. But I can get by in half a dozen more. And there are the ones I read, of course. Bit of Sanskrit, the odd hieroglyph. I’ve always had a knack for tongues. Useful talent for a librarian, I suppose.”

  “Have you ever heard the word alukah?”

  Cairncross frowned.

  “Unusual word for a young lady to have stumbled across.”

  “So you know it?”

  “It’s Hebrew.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Blood drinker,” he replied.

  Lily felt the hairs rise on her arm.

  Blood-drinker—the accusation that had rasped from between Estelle’s pale lips. It was another link to the stories in the papers, to a horror that slipped into the bedrooms of sleeping women in the night and left them drained of their vital fluid.

  “You mean like a vampire?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no such thing as vampires,” she replied automatically, echoing Estelle’s words from the night before.

  “Tell that to the one I encountered in Trieste,” Mr. Cairncross retorted. “Might I inquire where you came across the word?” His gaze was sharply curious.

  Lily was saved from answering as Sam came back in.

  “He’s ready for her now. Said he’d see her in the reflection room.”

  “Interesting choice,” Mr. Cairncross murmured. “Thank you, Sam. I’ll show her in.”

  He rose, unfolding his long frame from the chair.

  “If you’ll follow me, Miss Albright.”

  She wondered if she should hold back for Estelle, but Mr. Cairncross was clearly waiting for her to join him. And why shouldn’t she? There was nothing here for her to be afraid of. At worst, she was about to walk into an awkward social encounter with an obvious eccentric, a situation Lily was quite capable of navigating.

  She rose and Mr. Cairncross guided her back into the hall. He stopped at the far end. A stairwell down to the ground floor echoed with the clatter of pots from the kitchen. On the opposite side, to Lily’s left, was an opening veiled by a thick black curtain.

  The dark fabric stood in stark contrast to the rich green of the wallpaper. A small wooden bench rested by the doorway. Under it, a mat held a single, perfectly polished pair of Oxford shoes, set neatly side-by-side.

  There was no sound from the far side of the door, only a slight draft that stirred the bottom of the curtain, the cool air spilling out over Lily’s ankles.

  “We generally remove our shoes before going in,” Mr. Cairncross said, with just a hint of apology in his tone.

  Lily froze with indecision. The notion of removing her shoes made her feel oddly vulnerable. Still, if she was in for a penny . . .

  She sat down on the bench and slipped off her boots, trying not to noticeably wince as the stitches tugged at her thigh.

  “Best of luck,” Mr. Cairncross said cheerfully, nodding at the curtain, then turning to stride back to the library.

  Standing alone in her stockinged feet, walking stick in her hand, Lily faced the darkness.

  The sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could go home, she reminded herself, pushing the weight of that assurance against the chill that seeped out over her toes.

  She pulled back the curtain and stepped inside.

  FOUR

  IT WAS THE QUIET that struck her. It was not silence, but stillness—a cal
m, contemplative hush.

  The space itself was empty. White walls divided by dark exposed beams rose to a paneled ceiling. The floor itself was bare of any rug or carpet, just exposed boards polished to a sheen. The only furnishings in the space were a few simple wooden benches, lined against one wall, and a rack that contained a stack of small rugs, rolled into neat tubes. The outer wall of the building was not a wall at all, but a row of windows that rose from floor to ceiling and could be slid open on warm days to let in the air from the garden they looked over. The glass was closed today, the garden still bare, cloaked in lingering winter. The soft gray light that spilled in through the glass was the only illumination in the room, the simple oil lamps set in sconces on the walls unlit at this hour.

  The most startling feature of the space was the water.

  It ran from a tap in the far wall down a channel set into the middle of the floor, the shallow depth of it lined with copper. The stream, perhaps a foot wide and three inches deep, flowed across the width of the room until it disappeared under one of the windows facing the garden. The soft trickle of it was the only sound in what would otherwise have been total silence.

  A man stood in the center of the room.

  He was not a tall man, his build slight. He was older, his hair and beard almost entirely gray. He wore a finely tailored suit in charcoal gray, an entirely respectable ensemble save for the fact that his feet were bare.

  He stood straight and still, facing the garden.

  Lily coughed politely. He turned. An emotion she had not at all expected flashed in his eyes—recognition.

  “It’s you.”

  “I’m sorry. Have we met?” she asked.

  “No, Miss Albright. We have not.”

  It was the logical answer, of course, but Lily still had the distinct impression that the man standing across the channel of water knew her.

  He bowed, the movement practiced and gentlemanly.

  “Robert Ash, at your service. Shall we sit?” He motioned to one of the wooden benches.