Sisters of Glass

by Naomi Cyprus

  She reached her own stall, rolled up the canvas, and shook out the tablecloth. She started setting up the stall with her father’s crafts: the glass balls with whorls of color inside, the elegant vases, and finally the little glass animals. There were cheetahs, elephants, ibex, and tiny white rabbits, so detailed that they almost looked alive. Her falcon was nowhere near as delicate as these, but one day . . .

  “You’re late,” said a voice. “I was getting worried. How am I supposed to steal all of your customers if you’re not here?”

  Nalah was already rolling her eyes as she turned. “Hi, Marcus,” she said.

  Marcus Cutter was leaning against the edge of his stall, sipping a glass of cold mint tea. He held a second glass out to Nalah, and she took it with a half smile.

  The Cutters were fabric Thaumas. Their stall was draped in scarves and gloves and socks and cushions stitched in every color of the rainbow. Marcus said his great-great-grandmother had come to New Hadar from a land north of Svalberg, a place where it snowed all year round and you could go for months without seeing the sun. Nalah thought Marcus had an overactive imagination, but he did have the Cutters’ slightly foreign look, with his green eyes and straight, silken hair the color of sand.

  “Want to see my new project?” he asked.

  Nalah sighed. Here we go again. “Look at what I made, Nalah! Isn’t it so great?”

  Not waiting for an answer, Marcus fished behind his stall and pulled out a delicate scarlet scarf. One end was embroidered with white flowers and blackthorn twigs. “I’m working with silk now,” Marcus boasted. But Nalah could tell it wasn’t any ordinary scarf—it was full of powerful Thauma magic. She could feel the power in it, tugging at her.

  “Are you crazy?” said Nalah, looking both ways to see if anyone had noticed them. “An enforcer could be watching!”

  “Oh, relax,” Marcus scoffed. “There’s nobody watching. I checked. And anyway, someone at the Hokmet personally requested this scarf.” He paused, and she knew he was waiting for a compliment. This was a big moment for him; silk thread was far too expensive to waste on an unskilled craftsman.

  So this was the special commission from the Hokmet, Nalah thought. Unbelievable. Nearly a year younger than me, and he’s working with silk. Meanwhile, I’m exiled from the workshop. It’s just not fair.

  “It’s very nice,” she said with difficulty.

  “I’m using some really exciting techniques,” Marcus said. “This is Class Twelve stuff!”

  Nalah shook her head in disbelief. Marcus definitely wouldn’t have been making it if the Cutters weren’t so well connected. No Cutter ever ended up on the Hokmet watch list. Her father was right. They had money, which meant they had friends. She reached out to touch the scarf, eager to feel its softness even though she had her gloves on. As she did, one of the embroidered white buds burst into bloom. Pretty, Nalah thought. “Hey, Marcus,” she said. “What kind of Thauma thread did you use for these flowers?”

  “The flowers are just decoration,” Marcus said, eyeing some potential customers who were approaching. “It’s the silk that’s Thauma. Keeps you warm at night and cool in the daytime.”

  Nalah was confused. She’d just seen the flower bloom when she touched it! “But—”

  “Good morning, ladies!” Marcus said to the tourists. “Have I got a treat for you!” He brought his voice down to a whisper, as if telling a secret, and pulled out a stack of folded squares of fabric from under his counter. “Lie-detecting handkerchiefs—scented or color-changing options. Great to have on a first date!”

  The tourists tittered and pulled out their coin purses.

  Nalah suppressed a laugh and sipped her mint tea. It annoyed her that Marcus had the freedom to skirt the regulations and live the way he wanted. But, at the same time, she admired him for it. Even if he wasn’t her ideal friend, Marcus was all right.

  The morning wore on, and the lunchtime rush came and went, filling the market with the scents of grilling lamb and stewing spices. As the crowd cleared, an open spot in the market caught Nalah’s eye. It was an empty table, draped with a dark gray cloth.

  “Have you seen Mrs. Kayyali today?” she asked Marcus.

  “Only just noticed, huh?” he said darkly. “Nope, she hasn’t been around since yesterday.”

  Nalah frowned as she picked up one of the vases to wipe away the greasy kebab fingerprints from her last customer. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mrs. Kayyali miss a market before. Do you think she’s okay?”

  Marcus gave a shifty look to his left and right, and leaned closer to Nalah’s stall.

  “I heard she went to visit her family in Ikhtiyan,” he said. “Only, Cassia was talking to the baker, and he says Mrs. Kayyali doesn’t have any family in Ikhtiyan. He says”—Marcus lowered his voice—“she carved a healing bracelet for a baby, and the enforcers came for her.”

  Nalah’s gaze was drawn across the market to a stall that was selling iced tea and coffee. The vendors were doing a roaring trade—it was hard to believe that only two weeks ago, Kiva Lang had been selling her glasswork from that same spot.

  What was it people had said about Miss Lang? Gone to take care of her sick mother somewhere far to the south. Or was it the east?

  Now the Bardaks were the only glassworkers left in the market. Trade had picked up, but Nalah’s father had seemed on edge ever since. New gray hairs were sprouting from his head every day.

  Was it Mrs. Kayyali who had him so worried this morning? Nalah wondered.

  “There’s something else, too,” Marcus said. “One of the other fabricworkers died last week. It was an accident,” he added hurriedly. “That is . . . that’s what we were told.”

  He left that hanging in the air, and Nalah shivered.

  “What do you think is really going on?” she whispered to Marcus.

  He shook his head. “Maybe just preventing the Thaumas from practicing isn’t enough anymore.”

  Nalah looked around the market again, horror creeping up her spine. Every Thauma who hadn’t gone underground was here, just trying to make an honest living. Could the market simply be the Hokmet’s way of flushing the remaining Thaumas into the open, so they could pick them off one by one?

  She felt her heart start to beat faster, and quickly stuffed her gloved hands into the pockets of her dress.

  If the Hokmet wanted us gone, they would just make a law and banish us from the city, she reasoned to herself. They wouldn’t resort to killing. There’s no need to panic.

  Not yet.

  Still . . . there were Ephraim and Nasrin at their woodwork stall with their young children playing underfoot, and there was Master Sinali’s metalwork gleaming in the sun. There were so few of them now, and here they all were, every Thauma family who hadn’t been driven onto the streets or into hiding. Were they all naive to think that working within the regulations was enough to keep them safe?

  Suddenly, as she stared at Master Sinali’s stall, she realized that someone there was staring back. It was a customer—a tall man in a cream linen suit. He was hefting a large metal box in his hands, and looking straight at Nalah.

  I know that man, she thought. She was certain that they’d met before, but she couldn’t think where or when. He had a perfectly trimmed beard that turned his chin into a sharp black point, and piercing eyes that gazed out from under the shade of his wide-brimmed fedora.

  “Hello, dear,” said a quavering voice, and Nalah tore her gaze away from the man to see an elderly woman approaching her stall.

  “Miss Masoud!” she said, smiling at the sight of her old nursery school teacher.

  Miss Masoud smiled back, but Nalah’s heart sank as she saw that her smile was strained, and her eyes looked cloudy.

  “How are you, Nalah?” Miss Masoud asked. “And how is your dear father?”

  “He’s very well, thank you,” said Nalah politely.

  Miss Masoud nodded and tucked a stray hair back inside her blue headscarf. “I’m so glad,” she
said. “I have some work for him. It’s . . . sensitive.”

  Nalah’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. “I’m sure my father will be happy to make anything you commission, as long as it’s permitted by the regulations.”

  The look on Miss Masoud’s face told Nalah this wasn’t going to be that simple. “I’m sick,” the old teacher whispered. “The doctor can’t help me, she says it’s too late. I’m—I’m going blind, Nalah.”

  Nalah’s heart sank. Tears welled up in her eyes but she tried to blink them away. “I’m so sorry,” she said, feeling like a monster for not saying more. For not doing more.

  Miss Masoud swallowed. “I know that your father . . . He’s a very talented man. Please, I know he could—”

  Something caught Nalah’s eye: a flash of gold and blue, moving through the crowd.

  Enforcers!

  “I promise you, madam,” she said, trying to mask her terror with false cheer, “you won’t find more well-crafted glasswork anywhere in New Hadar!” She scooped up a tiny rabbit from the display and held it out to Miss Masoud, shooting a meaningful glance over her shoulder. The old lady froze, spied the enforcers, and then turned back to Nalah, her face paler than before.

  Nalah babbled something about how each animal was made by hand, until the enforcers were gone. Her heart was racing, but she tried to keep her voice level as she looked into Miss Masoud’s cloudy eyes.

  “I wish I could help,” she said, her heart aching. “But I can’t. My father doesn’t make healing orbs anymore. It’s too dangerous.”

  Miss Masoud swayed unsteadily, as if she might faint. “You were my last hope,” she said.

  Nalah looked down at the rabbit in her gloved hand. “Take this,” she said. “Papa still puts a little moonstone in it for luck. It might—” But her teacher had already turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

  Nalah took a deep, shaky breath and placed the rabbit back on the table.

  It was so unfair. So unjust. How could the Hokmet allow this? How could they live with themselves, knowing that the Thaumas could heal the sick? Nalah clenched her fists, her pulse quickening, the anger rippling through her with a prickling energy. How could they force her to stand there powerless, when she could have helped? Just because some cowards had decided that it wasn’t permitted, that she was not permitted—

  She slammed her hands down on the table, and with a crash, all the trinkets shattered at once. They burst and fell in a million glittering pieces, scattering shards across the tablecloth like stars in a clear sky.

  Nalah gave a strangled sob and staggered back from the table.

  “Nalah, what the—?” Marcus gasped.

  Nalah stared down at her hands, panic rising in her throat. “But I’m wearing my gloves,” she said “I—I’m wearing my gloves—how could this happen?”

  “It’s all right.” Marcus held up his hands and approached her slowly, like she was a wild animal. “Just calm down.”

  “I can’t calm down. I can’t be here. The enforcers—”

  “Excuse me, miss,” said a voice, and Nalah nearly jumped out of her skin.

  She was certain the enforcers had come to take her away, but the man in front of her stall was wearing a cream suit, not a blue and gold-braided uniform. It was the same man who’d been looking at her from across the market earlier.

  She looked from him to the stall full of shattered glass. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I have no inventory right now, sir. There’s been an accident.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I just need to—”

  “You are Mr. Bardak’s daughter, yes?”

  Nalah stared at him. Was he from the Hokmet, after all?

  The man gave her a faint smile. He didn’t seem at all concerned to be standing right in front of the scene of a possibly dangerous magical accident. His bearing was upright, calm, and completely confident.

  “You seem troubled, young lady,” he said. “I’d like to help you. I wish to see your father about a job. I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Nalah was silent. She felt like every eye in the market was turned on her. Seeing her distress, Marcus stepped in and folded up the tablecloth around the broken glass. “His workshop’s on Paakesh Street, sir,” Marcus said crisply. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you with anything that’s within regulations. But Miss Bardak’s stall is closed now.”

  He turned to Nalah and nodded toward the backstreets behind them. “I’ll clear this up,” he hissed. “Get out of here!”

  Nalah nodded gratefully, grabbed her empty basket, and took off, leaving the strange man and the broken glass behind. She put her head down and ran for home, her vision blurred by tears.

  Nalah sat on her bed, wrapped in a blanket, staring at her hands.

  They seemed so ordinary. Soft, brown, with short and slightly dirty fingernails. There were a couple of scars on her palms—but her father said the best Thaumas always had a couple of scars.

  How could these be hands that shattered glass without even touching it?

  It had started when she was little. Even now she remembered the day that she had toddled into Papa’s workshop and got hold of one of his glass animals: a giraffe with a long, elegant neck. She had squealed with delight—and the giraffe cracked in half beneath her fingers, the sharp glass cutting into her flesh. Her mother and father thought it an accident. But then it happened again. And again. Finally, Papa brought her her first pair of gloves. That seemed to work, keeping her accidents to a minimum—until now.

  “What’s happening to me?” she asked the photograph beside her bed. “What do I do?” Her mother gazed back silently from within the frame. Rina was sitting on the seawall by the beach, her back to the waves and the bright sky, her black hair loose and flying in the wind. She was smiling, leaning back to enjoy the sun on her face.

  Sometimes, when Nalah asked her mother for advice, she could almost hear her reply. Wear your gloves for now, darling, she would say; or, You don’t want friends who treat you this way; or, Your father is only trying to protect you. But that only worked when the answer was somewhere deep inside Nalah’s mind already.

  “How can I live in this world if I break everything I touch?”

  There was no answer to that.

  “I miss you,” she said, the words catching in her throat. “I wish you were here.” The answer came back clear enough from Nalah’s imagination: I wish that too, love.

  Rina had always been the one who would talk to her about magic, even when Nalah was too small to really understand it. Nalah’s father tended to shut down after a little while, as if he thought it was bad luck to talk about it for too long.

  There was a knock, and Nalah looked up to see her father at the door. He gave her a sad smile. “Hello,” he said. His eyes traced Nalah’s gaze to the photo of his wife, and he sighed.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” he said softly. “May I come in?”

  Nalah nodded and shifted along the bed. Her father stepped into the little room and sat down beside her.

  “Look, baba, I know I might seem like I’m being overly cautious,” he said. “Maybe even paranoid. But it’s just that I can’t lose you. You’re my life. You know that, don’t you?”

  Nalah nodded, and then steeled herself for what was coming next. “Papa, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said. If he was going to be angry with her, she wanted to get it over with now. “Today, at the stall, I—I broke the glass. I broke all of it. I was wearing my gloves, but I was so angry. I just put my hands down on the table and it . . .” She swallowed back tears and forced herself to meet her father’s gaze.

  He sat perfectly still for a long moment, fear flashing in his eyes. But then he took a deep breath and reached out to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have been there. I shouldn’t have let you go to the market alone after we arg
ued like that. You were upset—”

  “It’s not just that,” Nalah said, pulling away, shaking her head. “Something’s happening to me. It’s getting worse.”

  Her father looked up at the ceiling for a moment, and then took her hands in his. “Nalah . . . you know we’re on the Hokmet’s watch list, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Nalah quietly. “Because of the fire.”

  It had been years since she’d dreamed of that terrible night, but the memories were still clear—too clear. Nalah remembered the smoke billowing through the house, the flickering flames, and her father screaming. The last images of her mother, who had started the fire in a magical attempt to cure Nalah’s illness. There one moment, gone the next.

  Mr. Bardak sighed. “We will never truly be free in New Hadar. Perhaps we should try to leave the city. I heard things weren’t so bad in the Anong Provinces. Perhaps if we save up some money . . .” He looked around the sparsely furnished room, and Nalah knew he was thinking of what else they could sell. But they had already sold so much. “For now, I don’t know if you should return to the market—”

  “No!” Nalah exclaimed. “It’s the only time I get to go out of the house. This won’t happen again. I promise.”

  “Nalah, it’s for your own safety!”

  “Papa,” Nalah whispered. “Please.”

  Her father looked pained. “All right. For now. But the minute you feel upset or unwell—you come right home. Understand?”

  Nalah nodded, relieved.

  “Oh—I brought you something.” He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small blue object.

  “My falcon!” Nalah trembled as Mr. Bardak laid it in her palm, but it didn’t shatter.

  “I put it through the furnace to seal the break,” he said.

  Nalah ran a finger gingerly over the bird’s chest. She could still see the crack, a faint white line running through the center of the glass, but the surface was perfectly smooth.

  “Let it bring you luck,” her father said.

  Nalah carefully set down the falcon on the table, beside the photograph of her mother. “I hope it will,” she said.