House of Glass by Jen Christie Page B

already far too late.
    The torches were still lit all the way down the stairs, except for the last, the one closest to the house. I recalled the first time I met her, when she was carrying the torch and told me of her reluctance to light the bottom torch. I wondered if she had fallen before she lit it? Or had she refused, and fallen on her return to the manor? I suppose it didn’t matter, but somehow her fear, her aversion of the glass house weighed on my mind.
    The glass house. It was brilliant that morning, in the soft light of the rising sun. Pinks and gold colors spun through its walls and blazed in an ecstasy of color. It was almost vulgar against the backdrop of human suffering. But still it blazed on, without regard to poor Annie’s plight. Indeed, I had never seen it lit by the morning light, and it was pristine, more beautiful than I had ever seen it before.
    I hung there, suspended, transfixed, watching the men as they descended the stairs in a single file. The sheriff was at the lead, his uniform and hat a commanding sight. Two of the men waded into the knee-deep water, climbing over the rocks, and when they reached her body they hesitated before lifting her.
    It was a relief to see how gentle they were when lifting her body. It was then that I looked away, overcome with emotion and grief, and a new memory, of my jealous thought when she and I had heated words. What was it that I had thought? I had wished she were out of my life. Out of his life. How awful.
    It was a perfect morning, the sky a thin, high color of blue, only a few strands of clouds that would be brushed away by the wind. I felt a hand at my elbow, and I looked to see Mr. St. Claire beside me.
    “It is an unthinkable tragedy,” he said. His face was impassive as stone, and yet I saw the lines between his brows were deepened by his sleepless night of worry.
    “I did not know her very well,” I said in an almost apologetic tone. “Not yet, at least.”
    “Now that opportunity is taken forever.”
    “Just like that,” I continued. “It seems horrible how quickly a life can be snatched away.”
    His lips drew together, his whole face tightened.
    “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, realizing too late the error of my impulsive words. “How thoughtless of me.”
    “Nonsense,” he replied coolly, dismissively. “One tragedy has nothing whatsoever to do with the other.” His words were so certain, said with complete authority, and yet I sensed doubt in his words.
    One simple fact lay unspoken between us and it burned brighter than any torch. I had wished her gone. I choked back a sob, a confusing mixture of guilt and sorrow, and Lucas patted my back. I peered again at his face, searching for any signs of grief that pointed to something deeper than that of an employer. There was none, only his firm bearing and impassive gaze, staring straight ahead into the wind.
    The sheriff and his men had strapped Annie’s body to a stretcher, and had begun the arduous task of carrying her lifeless form up the staircase. I noticed Mrs. Amber at the top of the staircase, standing resolutely with her hands folded over her waist.
    When the men reached her, she moved aside, and reached out gently to touch a lock of Annie’s dark hair that had slipped out from beneath the sheet. Such a simple gesture, and yet it seemed so extreme to come from such a harsh woman. I warmed a bit to Mrs. Amber in that moment.
    Lucas had left my side and gone to walk beside the sheriff. The sheriff handed Mr. St. Claire the torch, now darkened with seawater, and Lucas walked with his usual stiff gait, looking thoughtfully at the torch as he talked to the sheriff.
    Mrs. Amber approached me. “Mr. St. Claire has given the staff the day off,” she said. “There will be an inquest, of course, though it seems to be a formality. It looks like a true accident.”
    My heart felt black as night. “I prefer to work, Mrs. Amber. To keep busy.”
    She nodded and said absently, “Idle