Roses and Black Glass: a dark Cinderella tale (23 page)

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 night 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.

“I’m fine. 
I’m just tired,” she told him.

“You’re upset
about today!” he accused.

“I’m not,” she
insisted firmly, trying to calm him down before he got too loud and disturbed
the others.  “It’s been a long day, and we need our sleep for tomorrow.”

“That’s a lie,
and you know it.  You wish those people had wanted to take us home.”

Perhaps she
had – wolf eyes and all – but at the same time, she was glad to have avoided
that fate.  She did not, however, intend to explain all of this to Henry.  It
was beyond him.

“I never stop
wishing for that,” she admitted.  “But it hasn’t happened yet, and we have to
accept it.”

Henry twisted
onto his back, his movements swift and restless.  “We don’t have to be here,
you know.  We can leave whenever we want.  We can go find our
real
parents and make them take us back.”

They don’t
want us, Henry!
  Even if she had screamed it at him, she didn’t think that
he would have gotten it through his head.  Wren resolved not to think about
their parents, even though the subject had come up, but only promised herself
that she would be a better mother herself – someday.

“Life isn’t so
bad here, Henry,” she said instead.

“It gets worse
every day,” he complained for the sake of the argument.

At times like
this, Wren wasn’t sure of what to do with him.  It seemed like everything she
said made him angrier – made their situation worse.  No matter what she said,
she couldn’t win, and likewise he wouldn’t relent.

She did the
only thing she could do.

“You’re going
to upset the others,” she told him sternly.  It was avoiding the subject, but
it was true.  Some of the other children were already starting to stir in their
beds, wondering why he was raising his voice.

Henry and Wren
stared at each other in a silent battle, and then he gave up with an angry
huff.  She could practically see the smoke venting out his nose and ears like
he was a disgruntled dragon.

“Well, you’re
upsetting
me
,” he said sullenly, but he quieted down.  Henry rolled over
in his bed to ignore her, leaving her with a feeling of guilt in the pit of her
stomach.  It seemed that she couldn’t do right by both of her brothers at the
same time.

Wren sighed
into the cool air, wondering if anyone would ever be bothered to console her as
she tried to do for them.  Would she ever get back the effort that she put
forth?

“Tell me a
story,” Max requested, seeming to have already forgotten about Henry’s outburst
– or perhaps his existence altogether.

Wren began to
feel more discouraged at that.  She had once been full of stories for them and
the other orphans.  She’d thought that it would make their sad, lonely lives
more tolerable if they could imagine that their hum-drum activities had some
sort of fantastic significance – such as the coal dust being the scattered
remains of evil fairies, and if they did not clean it up quickly, then the
creatures would come back to life and curse them all.  She had also told them
stories of the adventures they might have if they left the orphanage, but had
stopped long ago because she thought Henry and some of the others were becoming
too deeply influenced by them.  She feared that they might actually try to run
away in search of a train that would take them to a mystical circus.  Now, she
kept all her fantasy ideas to herself.

She gathered
Max closer and rested her head against his, all the while staring up at the
ceiling to remind herself of where she was.  They only had this reality now. 
She could not afford to get lost.

“I don’t know
any stories,” she told him, and she recognized the defeated sound of her own
voice.  Before he could beg, she began to hum a quiet lullaby, and that seemed
to work well enough.  The boy was still.

Wren closed
her eyes and tried to shut down her swirling thoughts – to lose herself in the
melody of her own tune.  Tomorrow was a workday at the mill, and she knew she
needed to be rested for the long hours ahead of her.

Keeping her
eyes shut, Wren finally fell asleep to the distant sound of a flute which crept
in to mesh with her own song, calling her through the veil of a secret world.

1

That night,
Wren dreamed of flying.

It was fairly
common for her to visit the sky in her dreams, soaring freely across the heavens,
but this time was different.  Her venture was in the dead of night, beneath a
dark sky and over a black ocean.  She flew low over the water, which was deep
and endless, and the only light she could see was a small, dancing orb that
frequently darted away from her.

She had tried
to follow the light, but it always slipped away, as if purposefully trying to
lose her.  Eventually, she had lost it completely.  She was left alone in the
darkness.  After that, she could not find her way to wherever she was going,
and also had no memory of what she had been looking for.  She had gotten
nowhere before she had woken up in her bed, where the daylight was peeking in
through the window beyond the cloudy haze of morning.

After pulling
herself out of the thin blankets, she was still drowsy, the vivid dream having
drained the life from her.  It was as if she had indeed flown across the ocean
in a single night and returned to her bed only when she had not found what
she’d been looking for.  The sound of a song played on wooden reeds was
lingering in her ears, along with the notion of swirling whispers, and it left
her feeling muddled.

Once she had
embraced the day, she found that it began the same way as the one before it –
as if she had expected it to change because of a dream.  She was still an
orphan at Miss Nora’s, and as such, certain things were expected of her.  She
had to help usher the rest of the children out of bed and make sure they got
themselves ready.  Sometimes she had to help Nora with breakfast as well since
the woman didn’t believe in bringing in outside help for tasks like that.  All
of them, even the young children, had jobs at the Home.

Of everything
Wren had to do in the morning, including getting herself ready for the day, she
found that one of the most difficult was getting Henry to rise.  He was
particularly cranky, especially after a rude awakening, and everyone else had
refused to deal with him.  She was his sister.  It was somehow made her
obligation.

Today, she
waited until she had finished her duties in the kitchen before going after him.

“Henry, get
up,” she said before she’d reached the doorway.  The rest were already
downstairs, dressed and getting their rolls to eat on the way to the factory,
and if he didn’t rise now, there was no way he would get there on time. 
“Please don’t be difficult.  I don’t feel—”

She stopped
when she had come into the room, expecting to see him still asleep there in the
empty dormitory, but he wasn’t there.  The bed was vacant, the sheets
disheveled, and her brother was gone.

He’s
awake?  That’s a surprise.

She wondered
why she hadn’t seen him about, but was pleased that he’d taken some
initiative.  If she had hoped for perfection, however, he wasn’t quite there
yet.  He hadn’t made up his bed.  The sheets were twisted and his pillow was on
the floor.  This wasn’t something that mattered much, but she couldn’t allow
any of them to be so messy.  Miss Nora did keep an eye on things, whether or
not she associated with them much, and she would notice if they didn’t have
their room as neat as they should.

Wren went to
the untidy bed, knowing that Henry would give her one of his looks if she
hunted him down to complain about it.  She would just do it herself and spare
them both the argument.

As she folded
the sheets, she kept imagining how she might have nagged him –
Why can’t
you, for once, just try!
– but she would never say those things.  She was
practiced at keeping them inside.  She tucked the sheet back under the thin
mattress – but halted when she felt an unusual lump there.  Her brow creased as
she settled her hand over the mass and drew it out. 

It was a small
leather coin purse, and it was not Henry’s.  She shook it and heard the jingle
of a few shillings tapping against each other.  Her heart sank as disappointment
took over.

Stealing,
Henry?  How many times have I tried to tell you that we aren’t thieves?  We’re
better than this.

She squeezed
the purse in her hand, trying to decide what she should do with it when a voice
rose up behind her.

“I was going
to do that,” Henry said, speaking of the bed, and Wren froze.  “If you’d leave
things alone every once in a while…”

She hadn’t
been sure of how she wanted to approach this before he came into the room, but
she was suddenly so upset with him that she knew she had to confront him now. 
He started to approach the bed, possibly to take over the task, but dropped off
when she turned to him and held up the item she’d found.  His eyes widened and
he went as white as a ghost.

“What is
this?” she wanted to know, though she didn’t need him to tell her.  It was
clear enough.

“Gimme that!”
he shouted and snatched it out of her hand roughly.  It didn’t do much good for
him to take it from her.  She had already seen it and knew what it meant.

“Henry!  You
have to stop this!” she urged, trying to keep her voice low.  They were alone
in the room, but a loud argument might be heard downstairs.

Henry stared
at her with their father’s firm gaze – the one that was so commonly seen when
he was opposed.

“I’m trying to
help us!” he said, stuffing the purse in his pocket as he reached for his cap. 
“And you
won’t
say anything!”

She was
insulted that he thought she would rat him out to Miss Nora.  She had her
loyalty to her family first.

“You’re going
to get caught!” she tried to reason.  “What happens when the man you’re
stealing from notices and grabs you up?  Do you want to be
hanged
?”

“I’m careful,”
he insisted heatedly.  “Besides, I could get away.”

“Really,
Henry…”  She shook her head.  “It’s pointless!  Everyone will know that the money
isn’t ours if we try to spend it on anything!”

Henry’s lips
tightened like a fist, and she saw the truth in his eyes then.  She could not
control him forever.  The things she had told him – the rules she made and
advice she gave – didn’t matter much anymore.  He was getting old enough to
form his own opinions, and they were clearly different from hers.

“One of us has
to do something,” he accused.  “Since you won’t, it has to be me!”

Henry put his
cap on snuggly and stormed away from her.  Wren only hoped that her words had
sunk in at least a little bit, but she doubted they had.

He has gone
so far away.

Feeling
discouraged and tired, Wren sat down on the bed to collect her thoughts.  She
lowered her head and sighed out in defeat for the moment.  What was her family
coming to?

You can’t
give up on him
, she encouraged herself.

Yes, yes, I
know.

Wren sighed,
then sat up straight again and regained her composure.  Henry did not know how
he abused her, but she would roll with the punches.  She had no other option. 
She opened her eyes to go on with her life, knowing she could not live in the
darkness forever.

A flash of
light at the corner of her eye drew her attention to the window, but when she
turned toward it, there was nothing.  She was sure that she had seen a circle
of light there.

A spirit
light?  A will-o-wisp?
  Those were her first thoughts, but she decided she
was being too whimsical.  Perhaps it was a rare glimmer of sunlight shining in
against the glass, but it had reminded Wren of her dream – of the light that
had been trying to get away from her on the sea.

It slipped
from her mind after that.  Her real life was confusing enough.  There was no
reason for her to be chasing fantasies.

2

The line of
orphans dressed in gray ambled down the street in a line, off toward the large
buildings where the smoke billowed out over the Thames.  They knew the way by
heart, and knew also that they shouldn’t be wayward, for being late would
warrant a beating from the overseer.  They wordlessly fell in with the masses
that flooded the streets, marching to their jobs at the factories.

Since Wren and
Henry were of age as far as the labor laws were concerned, they were sent to
work at Winchester’s cotton mill with several of the others from the Home.  The
work was hard and tedious, but it was what they had to do if they were to stay
at Miss Nora’s, though Wren often wondered if it was a fair trade.

The mill was
hot and muggy inside, with no cool breeze for relief.  Dust in the air often
sent workers into coughing fits, and she had seen more than one or two carried
out because of it.  The machines were so loud that she often left with a dull
roar in her ears, but the worst thing about the mill was the overseer, Reynald
Worthy, who made the rounds on the floor, keeping an eye out for any who did
not seem to be working hard enough.

Worthy was a
large man, both in height and girth, with a shining bald head and a deep frown
set in his face beneath a black mustache.  He would often take heavy steps
behind them as they worked, waiting for one of them to slip up, fall out of
line or make a mistake.  It seemed to Wren that he was not only trying to keep
them alert, but silently hoping to make them nervous so that they would falter
– so that he would have an excuse to make them bleed.  He carried a club on his
belt, but sometimes he held it in his hand as he came close, reminding them of
what would come.

They were not
allowed to address the overseer, but most wouldn’t have dared.  He was a dark
shadow in their midst, and the workers referred to him amongst themselves as
The
Devil
.

Wren couldn’t
count the number of other children that she had seen beaten by him – especially
if they had come from the workhouse.  She was lucky that she was one of Nora’s,
who at least insisted that they come home in one piece at the end of the day. 
Nora’s arrangements with the factory owner made things a hair better for them,
though Wren often felt sorry for the ones who didn’t have those rules to
protect them.

In the past,
their days in the factory had provided a framework for some of Wren’s stories. 
She used to tell them that they were spinning threads for the bridal gowns of
princesses, and that every strand was important.  The minders and piecers were
descendants of leprechauns, who embedded each strand with gold.  The smaller
children who worked the dangerous job of scavengers beneath the running
machines were in fact from an ancient race of rat-people, and it was their job
to brush out the stray cotton because none could be wasted.  The overseer was a
wretched general who, if he had known about the gold, would want to use it for
himself.  They had to stay clear of him and make sure that he did not discover
their secret.

When a poor
little scavenger had gotten much of her hair – and part of her scalp – ripped
off by one of the machines, Wren couldn’t bring herself to tell those stories
anymore.

Wren and Henry
both worked at the mill at least four days out of the week, sometimes five, and
yet still they were among the lucky ones.  Miss Nora’s arrangement dictated
that they only worked half days because Wren was needed back at the home and
Henry was not yet fourteen.  It was an ease of burden that most of the factory
children didn’t get, some of them working from morning to night without rest.

Today was not
any different.  Wren’s machine was spinning rapidly beneath her and Henry was
across the oil-slicked floor in his bare feet, doing his job as piecer for one
of the other lines.  Nora’s children were often divided up over the span of the
room to discourage familiarity with one another, but also so they could be
easily replaced at the end of their shift and the lines would never have to be
shut down.

Standing there
now, Wren knew that she was not as rested as she should have been.  The dream
had drained her as if she had not slept at all.  She could feel her head
growing heavier, her knees getting weaker.  Even humming to herself didn’t seem
to work – as if she could hope to hear it over the mechanical roar.

I have to
stay awake
, she scolded herself as her eyes fluttered.  To slip up could
mean death if she fell into the machine. 
Just a few more hours…

She tried to
keep focused on her work, to keep herself alert, but the streams of white
sweeping by her were hypnotic.  Soothing whispers were drifting all around her,
and though she couldn’t understand the words, she knew that they were trying to
comfort her.  They said it was alright for her to be tired.  She could sleep if
she wanted to – right here, right now…

Wren felt
dizzy.  The room was spinning as rapidly as the cotton mules beneath her.  She
saw a flicker of light and then she was falling forward, straight down into the
machine that would tear her apart.

There was a
shriek, but not from her own mouth, and then Wren was jerked up by her apron
and thrown backward onto the floor.  Knowing she shouldn’t have fallen, she
tried to pull herself up quickly, but a hard blow across her face knocked her
back down.  This time, she stayed there.

Her cheek was
throbbing, and she could feel it filling with fever as it began to swell.  When
she dared to look up, the Devil was standing over her, his large hand still
raised from slapping her face.

“Fallin’
asleep, are ye?”  Worthy bellowed, and somehow his voice was louder than the
machines.

“N—no!” she
stammered.  Wren was already shielding herself, knowing what was to come.  She
had never been beaten before – was always much too careful for that – but she
had seen more than her share of children forced to continue work with broken
bones, or left to lie there on the floor with blood running out their ears.