Roses and Black Glass: a dark Cinderella tale

by Lenore, Lani

  Left alone, Rifter whistled briefly to himself. This night needed to be fruitful. He was like an unlucky fisherman, tired of coming back with empty nets. His pack might start doubting his skill if he kept returning without what he came for.

  Reclining lazily, the Rifter took out his flute – row of reeds lashed together – and blew into the end to produce a long, melancholy sound. The music flowed out over the dipping sea, disappearing into the further reaches of the universe. He paused, hearing the way the water carried the sound over it, passing it from one wave to the next. Yes, it was a good night for this.

  Closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the ocean to inspire him, he began to play a slow, haunting melody.

  Chapter One

  1873

  1

  Wren looked down at the tips of her shoes, closed her eyes and transported herself into her own past.

  She imagined the large, familiar house that she’d once called home, which had the notches in the doorframe marking the progress of her growth since she was a child. Her mother was in the other room, knitting mittens for the baby, and Henry was in the hall, making a mess with his jacks. The thump of the rubber ball resounded down the wooden corridor, so that even their servant, Agatha, could hear it in the kitchen, where she was preparing tea. Wren sought the smell of her father’s pipe that was still on the air, though he was away at work. The heady aroma never left. It saturated everything.

  Wren could almost recall it – only almost. She sniffed once as if she could catch a whiff of the memory, but it was just beyond the veil. When she couldn’t quite immerse herself in it, she had no choice but to come back.

  Taking in a deep breath as if to seal the images away – to place them back in a tidy corner of her mind where they had been preserved – she opened her eyes to see her reality. When she looked up, she hadn’t managed to deliver herself. No magic spell could take her back to her innocent youth.

  Miss Nora’s Home for Wayward Children was not anything more or less than what was expected. The gray walls, with their peeling paper, were patchy with water spots that started at the ceiling and spread out at the angles like an infection. There was always a pervading smell of the thick coal smoke that covered London, billowing out from the chimneys of the factories that had taken over the East End. As with all the other row houses and lofts, a thin layer of black dust covered every surface and never seemed to go away, no matter how much one wiped or fussed. It was the only thing that seemed constant and eternal to the ones who lived here.

  The Home wasn’t a palace, but it was a roof over the head and a bed to sleep in, as opposed to living on the streets with so many other unwanted children. Wren knew this, and not a day went by that she didn’t have to remind herself that she appreciated it.

  It was a Wednesday, but all of Miss Nora’s orphans – these forgotten children who seemed to be a class of society all their own – were dressed in their Sunday best. They were excused from their schooling for this event: adoption day. Wren had been through so many of these days before, and each time, she told herself that this might be the one that counted – the day that someone would want to take her home.

  Just remember to smile at the decent ones and keep your head down when the riffraff pass, she coached herself.

  Wren was in a simple dress that she had made herself, stitched by hand from basic cloth. It hung limply on her thin frame and the seams were a bit crooked, but it made her look innocent and young – at least she always hoped for that. There was no reason to draw attention to her nubile body or otherwise make herself look the whole of her fifteen years, for doing so might garner unwanted attention. She didn’t want the wrong visitors to notice that she was pretty. She was too close to marrying age to risk that.

  She was holding Maxwell’s small hand in hers, her callused fingers against his smooth palm. He was only four and needed her steady hand to keep him in place, but aside from that, she wanted to show the visitors that they were together. They were blood siblings and she needed that message to be clear.

  Henry was standing on the other side of her, looking sloppy as usual. His brown hair was a bit too long but he wouldn’t allow her to cut it. His clothes were too big – chosen from a collection that had been at the Home for years before they had come here. He’d agreed to stand next to her, but insisted on his independence by refusing to hold her hand. The idea of touching his own sister disgusted him like nothing else. Such was his thinking at twelve.

  There were at least twenty orphans at Miss Nora’s, all usually so covered in soot from the factories that their faces could not be distinguished one from another, but today they were clean enough that they could be recognized as children again. Their faces had been scrubbed and their shoes had been polished, all in line now as they waited to be examined by the visitors.

  Some of the callers were not specifically looking for children as sons and daughters. They were looking for apprentices, servants, older girls to serve as nannies. Wren was not unwilling to work for her room and board, but it was often that even these people would not want to take all three of them on, and she wanted them all to stay together. This was her one aspiration. She didn’t want to be separated from her brothers. They were all she had left.

  While she put on her best face for the visitors with softer expressions, some guests were not quite so scrupulous. She could tell by the gleam in their eyes that they were looking for something different – unsuspecting laborers for the workhouse, or they were thinking vile thoughts as they looked at her supple complexion.

  Wren tried her best to fend some of these off, and had so far managed to do it, finding that it worked well to claim that Max was her own son instead of her brother. The thought of an unwed mother so young tended to put people off. Or if the visitor was suspect for a factory workhouse, she would direct Henry to slouch or pretend that his legs were uneven so that he would look weak. Miss Nora already had them working in a factory to earn their keep at the Home. Wren did not want them living in one. There, they would be treated as nothing more than property and would no doubt suffer the mishandling that went with it.

  Wren felt she was a fairly good judge of character and she kept her eyes peeled for the genuine article – even if Henry couldn’t care less. He usually stared at his own shoes and the cracks between the floorboards rather than put on his best face.

  It would be nice if he would try sometime, she thought. I can’t do it all by myself.

  She looked out across the room with the thin drapes and the threadbare settee, looking toward a decently dressed pair that had caught her eye immediately. They were clearly married, and the woman had a warm smile as she pointed out a few of the younger children to her husband. He was, perhaps, a bit more stern-looking than Wren might have liked in a father figure, but the woman reminded Wren of her own mother, who she had not seen since she’d kissed her goodbye on the steps of Miss Nora’s nearly two years ago. These people at least looked clean and well-to-do, and that was enough reason for her to want them.

  The couple was moving in their direction now, and Wren felt her heart speeding up. She was the neglected girl at the party who was finally being asked to dance – but this was so much more important than that.

  This is it, she told herself. Make it count.

  “Stand up straight,” she whispered to Henry, but all he did was squirm and look up at her with defiant blue eyes. All the soap in the world couldn’t wash away that look of ill-temper that was constantly on his face, and Wren could only hope that her own smile and politeness would make up the difference.

  As the couple drew closer, Wren’s chest clenched with both fear and excitement. Her hand was trembling slightly against Max’s, and she hoped that her anxiety was not showing through to the outside.

  When the woman hesitated in front of them, she did not seem to see Wren at all. Her eyes settled on little Max instead as if she’d just spotted the most adorable puppy hiding in the bushes. She leaned down to address him immediately.<
br />
  “Hello, what’s your name, pet?” the woman asked him sweetly.

  Max turned against Wren’s leg and didn’t speak. He was one of the more attractive young children – his innocence unspoiled by a hard life, even though he’d cried his share of tears for their lost mother that he could no longer remember.

  The woman looked hopeful for an answer from him, but Wren knew that he wouldn’t talk to her now. As little help as she got from Henry, she got even less from Max, who was fine around the other children but had never felt comfortable in the presence of strange adults. She put her hand on his head to soothe him as he clenched her dress and hid his face in the folds.

  “His name is Maxwell,” Wren said for him.

  The woman was still looking at him anxiously, and Wren would have given anything to have that sort of attention.

  “Say hello,” she urged her brother, knowing that he was the ticket, and eventually Max looked sheepishly up at the woman.

  “Hullo,” he mumbled. He couldn’t have sounded more uninterested in her except if he’d been bawling, but the woman seemed delighted.

  “What a charming little boy,” she commented, her eyes shining. “I have so wanted a little one. I haven’t been able to have my own, you know. He even looks a bit like me, don’t you think?”

  Wren wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she only smiled. She supposed that if it went unquestioned, a resemblance might be seen, but as far as Wren herself was concerned, it was fairly obvious that she was not related to this woman. The lady’s eyes were blue, but small, and her nose was slightly crooked over her thin lips. Now that Wren was close enough to notice these things, she wondered how she could have been reminded of her own mother in the beginning.

  My mother was lovely. This woman is nothing like her.

  The woman now caught her eyes on Wren, who was not always overlooked for being pretty, especially when one was so close. Her eyes were blue and kind, her skin pale, and when her hair was not covered in soot, it was a lovely golden color that spiraled down her back. Her lips were sweet, and they always seemed able to find a smile to lift another’s spirits, even when she was unhappy herself. It was as if the core of her soul was visible on her face, revealing her inner beauty as a rare and perfect pearl.

  “Well, aren’t you lovely,” the woman commented to her. Wren put on her best disposition, telling herself that this was it – this was her chance to make a good impression.

  Show her that you’re smart and competent. If she’s not looking for a daughter, surely she might be interested in a nanny if she’d rather call Max her son. Henry could make himself useful through work.

  But before she had gotten the chance to speak further, the woman had looked over at her husband for approval, and Wren saw her downfall there in his eyes. He had been staring at her the whole while, gazing intently like a hungry wolf wanting to gobble her up. Wren had not even noticed, but his wife saw it now, and she did not like it one bit.

  That was the end of the encounter. The woman grabbed her husband’s arm and pulled him away from them. Wren was helpless against it. Her hope sank like a stone in the deep, cold well of despair.

  “That went beautifully,” Henry muttered as the couple passed by. “They usually have to see me first before they run away. Nice job on that one.”

  Wren didn’t respond to her brother’s chiding. She swallowed down that rejection; told herself to be brave. Beside her, Henry grew quiet again, looking sullen as usual, and eventually Max had hidden himself behind her dress fully so that he could not be seen by anyone. Still, Wren waited, glancing pleadingly at the others who had come to visit, trying to keep her smile even though she felt like crying.

  No one else gave them any attention.

  2

  The day went by with no result, just as so many days before. Afterward, it was back to chores at the Home – washing and cooking and wiping up coal dust. Soon enough, Wren was back in her bed, staring at the drab ceiling of the attic dormitory that housed all twenty of them – boys and girls alike – wondering once again if she would get out of here before she was old.

  Another day, that’s all, she thought. I’m not any worse or better for it. She had to think of it that way, or else she might eventually give up.

  She had succumbed to the curse of the fifteen-year-old girl – too pretty for her own good, caught between being a child and woman, and because of that, no one wanted to embrace her. The ones who did want to draw her in desired to for reasons that she wasn’t willing to lay down her dignity for.

  For thirteen years, she had been her mother’s daughter. She had been taught what was proper for a lady with morals and manners, was trained to be an efficient wife and mother, as society dictated. Her life hadn’t been all fun and games, but she had been comfortable and safe with her family. She’d expected her only trouble to be preparing herself for suitors in the coming years, but the family had fallen on hard times after Max was born.

  Her father had lost his job over an adulterous scandal that had sent them all reeling. The family name had been dragged through the mud. None of his old colleagues would risk associating with him after that, and months passed without income. Wren’s mother had grown cold and distant toward them all, slipping away into unhealthy bouts of depression. Some days, she couldn’t even remember her daughter’s name. She neglected her baby as much as the rest of them, and Wren had taken to raising the boy herself. Her father couldn’t find another position and turned to drinking. Eventually the accounts were wiped, the family money gone, and there was only one other option.

  Miss Nora paid a small price for the children, who would bring money in to her from the factory – unless she might sell them off for a higher price to someone willing to adopt. Wren’s mother had hugged her and kissed her goodbye on the steps, but Wren was convinced that her mother wasn’t really there inside that body. The woman had gone away a long time before that.

  Wren tried not to think of her parents too much anymore. She didn’t wonder where they were now or what had become of them – if they had stayed together or whether their marriage had fallen apart. There was too much to worry over in her life as it was, and all she knew was that she was not going to reverse it.

  She was stuck here. There was no way out.

  In the past, Wren had kept her mind busy by trying to think of a way that she and her brothers could leave the orphanage, maybe survive on their own somewhere that there was fresh water and green fields. Her mind would drift around like a bird flying in the heavens, circling to keep a watchful eye, but once it settled again, she always found that it was pointless to even consider. If they weren’t at the Home, they would be on the streets, among so many other children whose parents couldn’t afford to keep them fed. They would be forced into lives of crime – would be thieves, dirty and flea-ridden, starving and destitute. Henry might have actually preferred that sort of life, but not Wren, and she didn’t want it for her brothers either.

  Those ideas eventually became impossible fantasies that she created to soften her situation. In one instance, she had dreamed that their parents abruptly came back for them, shining and rich, to take them to an estate in the country where the air was clean. In another, a wealthy man would fall in love with her and take her to be his wife, and he would let her brothers come along to his castle by the sea. Her more fanciful side had often imagined doing something a bit more extreme, like sneaking on a train, or even a ship. It would take them far away, and somehow they would find a place to belong. Maybe there was some country across the ocean – or an island in the middle of it – where they could go, free of the smog and the poverty, and live their lives in the sun.

  But she had to remind herself that she was too old for fairytales like that.

  “Wren?” Max was calling for her attention from the bed next to hers. There were no babies at the Home anymore, and so all of the children were kept together in one large room that was full of echoes and damp smells. They were unsupervised through the ni
ght and left to care for one another.

  Max was among the youngest, but he had his own bed just as Wren did. The mattresses were stuffed with sharp down that often pricked them, and the metal frames creaked in the night, but it was better than sleeping on the ground, or outside in the gutter.

  “What is it?” She looked over at him, seeing how he was curled around his pillow. He had no toys, so he often adopted the pillow as a stuffed doll.

  “Are you sad?” he asked her. “I can’t sleep if you’re sad.”

  Wren hated herself for letting him notice, though she sometimes thought he was unnaturally perceptive. She didn’t like her personal feelings to bring any of them lower than they already were. She was one of the oldest here, and her brothers were not the only ones who looked to her for guidance.

  “I’m alright. Come here,” she invited, holding out her arm to welcome him in.

  Max and his pillow crawled into bed with her, as he did on many nights when he couldn’t sleep. She often wondered if it was a good idea to keep him so close, though she did feel he deserved to be coddled by someone. She feared that this made him look to her as if she was his mother. She had, after all, been the only one caring for him since he was old enough to remember, but she had never liked the idea of that. She was only a child herself and was unfit to raise one. What Max needed was a real mother. They all did, but it was almost too late for that – especially where she and Henry were concerned. They had seen far too much to go back to being petted again.

  “Everything is alright,” she told him. “It’s the same as it was yesterday. We’re all together and we’re safe.”

  “When are you going to stop pretending that you’re alright?” Henry asked abruptly from his bed on the other side of her.

  Judging by his intolerant tone, this burst had been welling up inside him for several minutes. His eyes were blazing in the dim light, and she would have to put out those flames.