The Spider Queen

by Emma Slate

  But the night Herron and I had encountered one another, she’d followed me home. And when I’d left my apartment the following day, she’d been waiting for me on the sidewalk.

  She’d cornered me. Demanded to know how I’d made her feel lighter than she’d felt in years, and for some strange reason, I told her about my gift. I told her everything. About my parents’ deaths the year before. About their inability to understand me, yet how they’d loved me unconditionally.

  Instead of going out to release emotions that night, I chose to confide in someone for the first time in my life. And it had been everything I needed it to be.

  I pulled on a blue and white-checkered sundress that was old and faded. The back room of the shop was hot with poor circulation, but I needed to finish a project for a very handsome, Scottish hotel mogul. He’d overpaid to have it done in time for his wife’s birthday, and I would hand deliver it when it was finished.

  “Ready,” I said, coming out of the bedroom.

  Herron stood, her hand reaching for her to-go coffee. I locked up the apartment and we walked down the creaky stairs. I unlocked the gate and moments later, we were inside the shop. I set the keys down on the counter as Herron flipped on the lights.

  “Do you ever notice that when someone describes an apartment or a space as charming, they really mean tiny?” she asked.

  I grinned. “I’m not moving the shop.”

  “But it would do so well in Tribeca. No one can find us here.”

  “Enough people find us,” I said. “Most of my stuff is bought online anyway.”

  “So this is a glorified workspace, not really a shop.”

  Herron and I had been having this discussion on repeat. She was glitz and glam. She was in-your-face with beauty and magnetism. I preferred to hide in the shadows.

  “It’s so unique, Stella. What you do. You’re like the Fabergé of snow globes.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” I gestured to the back. “Are you ready to see the nearly finished project?”

  “Really? You never show me what you’re working on.”

  “I need to put the last coat of lacquer on the base so it won’t chip, but other than that, it’s finished.” I tried to stem my excitement, but this was the most impressive piece I’d ever created.

  I was just about to unveil my masterpiece when Herron’s cell phone rang.

  “It’s Blaze,” she said. “Hold on.”

  Herron sighed and hung up with her husband. “My mother-in-law stepped off a curb and broke her ankle.”

  I made a face. “Ouch.”

  “Osteoporosis. The struggle is real.” Herron shook her head. “She’s freaking out because the menu for her charity luncheon is still a mess. Blaze is begging for my help.”

  “I’m going to have to man the shop myself? Without your charming presence?”

  “I feel like you’re up to the challenge. Do you mind?”

  “No. Go help your mother-in-law.”

  “I’m going to need to spike this coffee with Baileys if I have any chance of getting out of this alive.”

  “Make Blaze take you out to dinner as a consolation prize.”

  “Good idea.” With a wave, Herron slipped through the door, the jingle of the bell quickly falling into silence.

  “What to do, what to do,” I murmured to myself. I should’ve locked the front door and gone to the back room to finish the snow globe music box, but I wasn’t ready to sit still.

  Instead, I took the feather duster and dusted the globes on the built-in wall shelves, lingering over each one. When they sold, it felt like I was giving away a piece of myself. Strange, perhaps. Like a painter who hated selling his finished canvases.

  When the store was swept and tidy, I finally got down to business. I pulled the laptop out of the safe, answered the few non-urgent emails I had received, and then removed the images from my website of the snow globes that had sold. Herron could handle shipping them out tomorrow.

  I appreciated every rudimentary, menial task she performed so I could focus on the thing I loved the most: creating new pieces. It was an odd hobby that had turned into a lucrative career. I had gone abroad to cultivate my skills. I had learned how to carve marble figurines from a Swiss hermit whose family had been master sculptors. I’d spent years searching for the perfect glass to use for my domes and discovered that Venetian glass made on the island of Murano was of the highest quality and still made by hand as it had been for centuries. The liquid inside the domes themselves was my own perfected recipe that could not be replicated.

  My shop also wasn’t a run-of-the mill tourist trap. You would never find the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty in any of my globes. I made unique, one of a kind pieces that could not be found anywhere else. No two creations were identical, either.

  There was no point in manning the front counter when I had a project that needed to be finished. I’d been working on the custom piece for three weeks, and it was one of my best designs—a purple Scottish thistle inside the dome, while the base resembled the craggy Highlands.

  I locked the front door, flipped the sign to closed, and then headed into the back room. I pulled out the lacquer and a small paintbrush and then got down to finishing the base of the dome. Two hours later, I set the paintbrush aside and stretched. It would take at least twenty-four hours for the veneer to dry.

  My stomach rumbled. Time for some fresh lo mein from my favorite Chinese restaurant. They’d even deliver it, despite the fact that I was only two doors down.

  I’d left my cell phone in the main room. When I went to retrieve it, I stopped. The back of my neck prickled with unease.

  On the counter was a box, wrapped in thick cream-colored paper with curled silver ribbons.

  I remembered locking the front door before heading to my workspace. I glanced at the sign hanging from the front door. Yep. Still read closed facing out to the street.

  Why hadn’t I heard anyone break into my shop, and why would anyone do that just to leave me a beautifully wrapped box?

  Unease turned to anxiety. But something about the box called to me.

  I tore off the wrapping paper, not caring that the edges of it slid underneath my nails. Grimacing in pain, I reached for the box cutter. I sliced the clear tape, moved aside the cream-colored tissue paper, and pulled out the most stunning snow globe I’d ever seen.

  The base was gilded with real gold, etched with intricate scrollwork. The glass dome was thin, as if one tap would crack it. It was expertly crafted. Only a master could create a globe so thin without faults or bubbles. But it was the scene inside the protected shell that had me in awe.

  A tall, young green tree sat in the center of a garden. Shiny red apples dotted the branches. I saw a tiny forked tongue sticking out between the leaves and recognized the Garden of Eden, but otherwise the slithering form of Satan was hidden within the tree. Two nude ceramic bodies were pressed together, clearly depicting that they were in the throes of passion.

  I couldn’t look away.

  The details of the Garden of Eden were mesmerizing. I lifted the dome and turned it upside down. There was a crank attached to the bottom of the globe. I twisted it, but no sound emerged from the music box. Frowning in disappointment, I turned it right side up, and delicate flakes of pure gold swirled instead of the usual snow.

  After setting the dome aside, I reached into the box, wondering if there was a note or a number. But there were neither.

  Who had left such a stunning gift on my counter? How had they gotten into my shop?

  My finger trailed over the curve of the glass. It rippled like a pebble tossed into a pond, and then was still.

  Surely that had been a trick of the light—or I was more exhausted than I realized.

  I took the globe to the back room, suddenly eager to pry open the music box and make it sing.

  Chapter 3

  Two nights later, my cab pulled to a stop outside The Rex Hotel. An attendant dressed in a perfectly pres
sed black suit opened the passenger door and waited as I paid the fare. He attempted to take the box from my hands, but I shook my head and smiled.

  The hotel lobby was old world and dramatic. It was beautiful, down to the marble floors, the gleaming wood, and the cream lobby furniture.

  My steps were quiet as I made my way to the waiting desk attendant. She greeted me with a smile. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Campbell. I have a delivery for him.” My eyes went to the box that I’d set on the counter.

  I’d called his cell phone before I left Chinatown, but he hadn’t picked up.

  “Mr. Campbell is in a business meeting and cannot be reached.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What kind of business meeting takes place at nine at night?”

  The woman’s smile didn’t falter. “The important kind. You’re welcome to sit at the bar.” She gestured to the restaurant. “Or catch the show.”

  “Show? What show?”

  “The burlesque show,” she said. “In the club.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to wait for anyone—hotel mogul who’d paid me a small fortune or not. Still, I had nothing to do for a few hours. I didn’t like to go out until at least eleven.

  “Thank you. I’ll be at the bar.”

  “Have dinner,” she said. “On Mr. Campbell.”

  I nodded, lifted the box, and then strolled into the bar and restaurant. It was dim and all the booths were filled with customers. The low din of conversations reached my ears as I looked to the bar, which had a few unoccupied seats. I perched on a stool in the corner, the box within reach.

  “Evening,” the bartender greeted. He was older, with gray hair at his temples, his eyes assessing but not flirtatious.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’ll have a Manhattan, please. Up.”

  He nodded as he filled a glass with water and set it down on a Rex Hotel coaster.

  “What’s in the box?” he asked, getting the ingredients for my drink.

  “A present.”

  “For?”

  I shrugged.

  “Not the chatty type?”

  “Not really.”

  He smiled. “My name is Charlie if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  Charlie moved away, and like all professional bartenders he found something to do. He wasn’t idle for even a moment, and it put me at ease. He wouldn’t be standing around and watching me.

  As I sipped on my perfect Manhattan, I studied the patrons. After a few minutes, a woman entered the room and immediately caught my attention. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. She was beautiful—I could tell even in the low lighting of the restaurant. Her hair was pulled up into a sleek bun, the sleeveless black dress dipped into a classy vee to reveal the creamy highlights of her skin. The pearls at her neck were expensive, but it was the slight limp that stood out the most.

  She walked like she didn’t have it.

  Her smile was wide as she greeted a few tables. Clearly she knew people, and she was known. She was charmingly regal. When she approached the bar, I expected her to sit on a stool, demure and proper.

  She surprised me when she greeted the bartender by name and wrapped him in a hug. Before she was even settled, he placed a glass of scotch in front of her.

  “Damn, that’s so good,” she said with a sigh after a quick sip of the amber liquid.

  “Of course it’s good,” Charlie said, laughing.

  She chuckled, her eyes meeting mine. But I wasn’t in on the joke. Clearly.

  The woman reminded me of a star. Her light was all encompassing, and yet…I detected the faintest trace of regret. Why? What did this woman have to regret? It wasn’t just regret I sensed but also a feeling of being incomplete.

  “Hello,” she greeted. The bar lighting was a bit brighter than that of the restaurant, and I was finally able to see the color of her hair. Auburn, with traces of copper.

  “Hi.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  “I already asked her and she wouldn’t tell me,” Charlie said.

  “Why not?” the woman queried.

  “I don’t know. Ask her.” Charlie gestured with his thumb and sent me a teasing grin.

  They acted like we were old friends. It was disconcerting. Herron was my only friend. I had neither the time nor the bandwidth to cultivate new friendships. Still, their easy camaraderie made me yearn for relationships that I’d never made the effort to develop.

  “It’s a gift,” I said.

  “For?” the woman pressed.

  “For you, hen,” Flynn Campbell said, his Scottish brogue thick and delicious. He glided next to the woman, his arm stealing around her waist.

  I hadn’t seen him walk across the restaurant and was a bit surprised by his sudden presence.

  The man was no less striking than the first time I’d seen him when he entered my shop. Bold, commanding features that didn’t belong to this era. He wore a suit, yet he looked like an ancient warrior, one who should’ve been wearing animal pelts and well-worn armor. Flynn Campbell belonged on a sensual, violent period TV show.

  “Stella, I’d like you to meet my wife, Barrett.”

  “Stella,” Barrett said, her smile wide, her hand reaching out. “A pleasure.”

  I looked at her outstretched palm. “Ah, sorry, I think I’m getting sick.” Fibbing about being unwell was easier than asking for personal space because people didn’t seem to understand my necessity for it. Thankfully, she didn’t think much about it and tucked her hand back down to her side.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Stella,” Flynn said.

  I shook my head. “Not a problem. I wasn’t waiting that long.”

  While Flynn ordered a drink from Charlie, I leaned closer to Barrett and whispered, “Ask him for what you really want. He’ll give it to you.”

  Startled, her hazel eyes widened as her shaking hand reached for her glass of scotch. She downed her drink in one long swallow and then set the crystal glass down with far too much force, drawing her husband’s attention.

  “You all right, love?” Flynn asked, his brows drawing into an expression of concern.

  “Right as rain.” Her smile was stilted, and something passed between the two of them. They spoke the language of two people who had been together long enough to know what was said in the silence.

  I wondered if I was destined to have that, or if I was doomed to being alone. Not only did I have an issue being touched, but I also had never met anyone that had interested me on a romantic level.

  Maybe I tried to fix others because I was the one who was broken.

  “Stella?” Flynn asked, his cobalt eyes questioning.

  “Sorry, what?” I blundered, realizing Flynn had said something and I’d been tuning him out.

  “We were wondering if you’d like to have a later dinner with us.”

  My eyes strayed to his wife. Barrett’s composure had returned. She still appeared slightly wary but intrigued, nonetheless.

  It was inevitable. When I unveiled anything and spoke like a soothsayer, it at first triggered feelings of alarm. But with some people, alarm quickly gave way to curiosity.

  “Please,” Barrett added. “We’d love for you to join us.”

  I wanted to refuse, but something about the two of them made me say yes.

  Three courses, four Manhattans, and two hours later, I was following Barrett and Flynn to their penthouse suite so I could finally show them what Flynn’s money had allowed me to create.

  “It was supposed to be a birthday surprise,” Flynn said with a feigned annoyed sigh.

  Barrett looked up at her husband and smiled softly. “You know I hate surprises.”

  “We’ve had enough surprises, that’s for sure.”

  Barrett’s smile slipped. I noticed because I was watching her. She was a vivacious woman, quick-tongued and even quicker to laugh. Sharp mind. I knew why Flynn was still enraptured with his wife even after their many years and three ch
ildren together. They’d shown me photos over dinner.

  Kids didn’t really do it for me, but it was hard not to be taken in by the mischievous smiles on their angelic faces. The Campbell genetics were strong, and each of them carried the stamp of their father. I detected traces of Barrett in them as well, but they were subtler.

  The penthouse was everything I thought it would be. Only the finest of everything, down to the antique liquor bar cart in the corner. It oozed wealth, but it wasn’t at all ostentatious.

  Barrett went to the curtains and pulled them back to reveal a view of Central Park.

  “Location, location, location,” I murmured.

  Barrett laughed. “Exactly. Stella, can I get you something to drink?”

  I shook my head. “No.” I set the box down. “I’d like you to open it.”

  Barrett’s fingers darted across the dark red bow. “All through dinner, you deflected. I’m curious as to what my husband paid you for.”

  Flynn snorted as he poured himself a glass of tawny liquid. They exchanged another look.

  “Open it, hen. Prepare to be amazed.”

  “You haven’t seen it either,” I reminded him.

  “You haven’t?” Barrett asked, shock in her voice. “Well, well, well.” She removed the lid of the box, pushed aside the tissue paper, and gasped.

  My heart swelled with joy and relief. I lived for these types of moments, when a globe found its true home, its owner’s eyes shining bright with tears of awe. I felt what Barrett felt and it swelled within me, completing my triumph.

  “Stella,” Barrett whispered. “Did you make this?”

  “Yes. If I may?” I asked. I took the snow globe and gently turned it over. I cranked the music key and a moment later, a song filled the air.

  Barrett’s brows furrowed. “I don’t recognize the melody.”

  “Of course you don’t, love,” Flynn said, his voice thick with emotion he was clearly unable to contain. “I had it composed just for you.”