The Glassblower

The Glassblower by Laurie Alice Eakes Page A

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Authors: Laurie Alice Eakes
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homes or visiting with friends and neighbors. She would pass by, too. He wanted her to see him and stop. He knew she shouldn’t.
    His hand throbbed, and he paused to soak it in a bucket of cold water, as Ilse Weber had told him he should. She was right. It wasn’t the first time he’d burned himself while learning to manipulate hot glass. But this was the first time the burn hadn’t been his fault. Not that he could prove that or do more than speculate how the accident occurred.
    The water diminishing the ache in his hand, he resumed his work with the window, fitting a pane into the frame and holding it with the uninjured half of his left hand, so he could apply the caulking with his right. The position proved awkward, and when he heard her voice, the glass slipped out of his hold.
    He caught it an instant before it struck the ground and broke. The sharp edge nicked his palm. He frowned, figuring it was what he deserved for not resting and worshipping on a Sunday.
    And for thinking of Meg Jordan instead of the Lord.
    “Mother would be ashamed of you, lad,” he muttered.
    “I should think she would be indeed.” Meg’s voice brimmed with laughter. “You should have been in church or home resting that hand.”
    “Ah, you sound like a schoolmistress.” He laughed, too, and turned to face her, his left hand outstretched. “I could not tie a proper cravat for attending the kirk, and I’m hoping the Lord will forgive my work if ‘tis for a good cause and not personal gain.”
    “Oh Colin.” She cradled his hand in both of hers, the silk of her gloves snagging on his rough skin. “I was distressed when Thad told us about your accident.” She touched the blisters on his palm and pinkie finger so gently she gave him no pain. “How did it happen?”
    “‘Tis what I’d like to ken myself.” He frowned at his hand.
    Her gaze flashed to his face. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean my grate—you ken where the pipe rests?—’twas hot enough to burn when it should have been as cool as this glass.”
    “Colin.” She curled her fingers around the uninjured part of his hand. “How? I mean, were you in the glassworks alone?”
    “I thought I was, but someone could have sneaked in while I was mixing the silica.”
    “Why? Why would anyone want to hurt you?”
    “‘Tis not unheard of in the glasshouses. Envy. Fear for their positions. Malice.” He set down the pane of glass he still held and smoothed the crease between her brows with the tip of his finger. “Do not fash yourself, lass. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
    “I’ll tell my father—”
    “Nay, do not. ‘Twill cause unnecessary trouble. I’ll heal.”
    “But, Colin—”
    “Go now.” He extracted his grip from hers. “You shouldn’t be here, you ken. You’re an engaged lady, and he’s likely wondering where you are.”
    “We’re not engaged yet.” She grimaced. “Father still wants me to marry Mr. Pyle, but nothing is official until after the first of the year. And I’m hopeful—never you mind about that. I’m concerned about your not coming to church.”
    “You needn’t concern yourself with me.” He injected as much coolness into his tone as he could manage with her close enough for him to catch her scent of apple blossoms. “The Lord knows the state of my soul.”
    “Would He be happy with it?”
    “Now that is a verra difficult question to answer. But I am thinking the Lord isn’t happy with me at all.” He turned his back on her and began to fit the glass into the window frame again.
    She puffed out a breath. “Colin, you didn’t cause your father’s death.”
    “Aye, but there you’re wrong. If I’d been with him—”
    “You likely would have died, too.”
    “I might have kept him from going out in a storm.”
    “So you got your stubbornness from your mother?”
    “Ah, Meg—Miss Jordan, you make me laugh, you do.” He did laugh, and his soul lightened. “Nay, I got my stubbornness from my father.

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