In a great walled city lived a glassblower and his wife, Sara. He was overworked and she was overdue, and so when the baby came at last both were in a position of considerable stress. She was in the back of the shop gathering supplies when the pains came, and there was no time to move her, barely time for the glassblower to shove out his customers and run to her side. By the time the midwife arrived, huffing and puffing and blowing, the birth was nearly through – a fast, hard, sharp one – and it was all too late.
The baby was weak, the mother was weaker, and wasting fast. “Let me hold him,” she told her husband, and well, what could he do but agree, even if he’d known the consequences?
So the new mother held her baby, back and forth, shush-shush, don’t cry (he wouldn’t stop), and she listened to him most carefully. And she saw what the midwife (who had already left, knowing there was nothing in her power to fix here) had missed. “His heart is weak,” she said. “Too weak. He’ll barely outlive me with that heart.” The glassblower nearly went into a frenzy at that, mad at the thought of losing wife and child both, but Sara was as calm as a lake on a breezeless day. Her mother had been a witch, her father, a butcher, and between the both of them she wasn’t frightened of anything anymore, not even now. She didn’t see her death, she saw a problem.
“We can fix this,” she told the glassblower, sitting propped up in their bed, small but strong-voiced, “but we need a heart. Can you make one?”
“How?” he asked.
“Like anything else you make. Carefully. Perfectly. Quickly. Very, very quickly, if you can.”
“But it’s glass! Hearts aren’t glass!”
“This one will have to be. Hurry.”
So the glassblower hurried. Unlike his wife, he was frightened of many things, and the thing he feared greatest was happening right in front of him. And as her lack of fear gave her strength, so his terror lent him wings; the heart was finished almost before it began, glowing-hot and perfect, smooth and clearer than a raindrop. It looked tidier than a heart of flesh, more polished, more perfect. But it couldn’t beat, and the glassblower didn’t understand why it needed to be made.
“Please,” he said. “What will happen?”
“I’ll give him all the love he’ll need. It’ll have to be enough. Now, go,” said Sara. “And don’t come back in until you hear him stop crying.”
It took almost an hour and all of the glassblower’s nails. And when he entered the bedroom again, he found a softly sleeping baby with a pale pink scar on its chest and no trace of that awful little swish-slosh heartbeat that had warned his wife so. A very quiet heartbeat now, but a very firm one.
She was gone, without so much as the warmth left in the sheets to tell that she’d been there.
The years went by for the glassblower and his son, one growing up, the other wearing down. The glassblower’s business still kept them fed and housed, but something had gone out of his craft the day his wife had gone. His pieces no longer gleamed so prettily, his hands were unsteadier on the blowpipe. The latter was helped along by his drinking, which although never heavy, was near-constant. The glassblower couldn’t face a day perfectly sober anymore.
Fortunately, the glassblower’s son was not a demanding child. He almost thrived off of what may not have been neglect but certainly was grand inattention, growing up raised by the cobbles of the city’s streets as much as his father. He was strong and broad, in many ways almost a throwback to his grandfather of his mother’s side (yet less heavy, with more of his father’s leanness), but he refused to take part in the popular neighbourhood pastime of quarrelling and fighting that his peers exulted in, something he was taunted and occasionally chased for.
The real trouble came when he was eight. As he walked down the street, he saw a girl around his age, one of the neighbour’s children, sitting on the stoop to her house. She was singing a song he didn’t recognize or care about, and she was doing something peculiar with a cloth and a glittering thing in her hands.
“What is that?” he asked her.
She followed his gaze. “A needle.”
“No,” he clarified. “What are you doing?”
“Sewing. What do you care?”
The glassblower’s son cared deeply, though he wasn’t sure why yet. “Can you teach me?” he asked.
The girl, whose name was Abigail, gave him a strange look, and for a moment the glassblower’s son was sure she would reject him. But instead she nodded, picked up needle and thread again, and began to show him. Both captivated him: one so small and delicate-seeming, yet strong as anything when placed perfectly, the other a deliberate sliver of sharpness in a blunt, clumsy world. The feel of the careful, repetitive stabbing demanded from it, each slipping of needle in cloth, was soothing.
After two weeks of this, one of the other boys of the street saw him practicing with Abigail, and he was ambushed on his way home, with taunting and worse. The other girls made fun of her, her parents admonished her for playing with “that rough boy,” and his lessons and time with her ended.
He didn’t seem to mind on the surface, but he remembered, and he would see to it that the torment was returned, very carefully. Things were broken around the victims that only they could have damaged, bringing parental wrath upon them; their pets would disappear; and sometimes worse. Repayment for his opponents was slow, but always sure. By the time he was fifteen, the last of them repaid it to the very end of his life, and had to be delicately placed somewhere unseen after dark. The glassblower’s son dug dutifully, as deep a hole as could be made in a broken old cellar, and he buried with care and thoroughness.
His father knew none of this, of course. The boy spoke little, and at home he busied himself in aiding the glassblower with orders. He as diligent in this as he was in covering his trail, which, by the time he’d reached the age of eighteen, he’d done three more times.
Carefully.
Just past his son’s nineteenth birthday, the glassblower began to pull himself together under the wing of one of the neighbours, the widow Lynn. They were both lonely, and for her sake, he stopped drinking for a while.
The widow’s son did not like the glassblower’s son. Fresh as he was to the city guard, he was already showing signs of a lawholder’s instincts, and didn’t like the other youth’s feel. The glassblower’s son disliked him as well, for more reasons than personality: there were things he wanted that could not be done with two more people working in and about the store.
One day, the widow Lynn failed to rise from her bed. It seemed she had confused several boxes of herbs and managed to give herself a fatal dose of wolfsbane in her evening tea. Forgetfulness was one of her few flaws, and although tragic, the event was accepted as it was. Her son sold the house and hurled himself headfirst into work to erase all thought, the glassblower turned back to drink, and the glassblower’s son continued to plan for the future.
Clearly.
When the glassblower’s son was twenty-one, a rich man entered the shop. He was surprised at the daze and glare that hung over the glassblower’s head like a shroud – the pieces the place produced were still so fine, too fine to be made by this walking, wasting malady. His eyes barely brightened at the mention of the piece, a fine vase to be gifted to a noble of the king’s court, but he nodded and mumbled small talk as well as could be expected. The rich man left no less puzzled, and a little worried for his commissioned piece.
When he returned for it, he found the glassblower’s son running the shop. He was calm, polite, and courteous. The parcel was dutifully handed over, its contents as promised, and when the rich man opened it later for proper packaging, he found that a small and elegant dish had been placed within it, a small note informing him that the glassblower’s soon had produced earlier during the day, and hoped it was not insulting to give it to him with the rest of the order.
The noble was delighted with both the gifts, and a recommendation was made. The glassblower was puzzled as to where the wealthier clients were coming back from, but he wasn’t displeased. He began to spend more of his time in the workshop, as his son handled the customers.
Smoothly.
When the glassblower’s son was twenty-five, his father (who had been drying out more and more again since their fortunes began to turn), in a moment of surprising chance, found where he’d been hiding over half their profits. He confronted his son, as angry as he was bemused, and for the first time in his life he demanded things directly of him.
The glass needle was very cold, and very brittle, and very thin. The slightest misplacement of its aim would’ve snapped it to pieces. But the glassblower’s son was very careful, and the small, quiet funeral to commemorate the unfortunate heart attack (what sort of attack was left unsaid) went ahead as steadily as the blade itself had.
The son conducted himself most composedly on the occasion, which was attended by many of their best clients. They remarked on his bravery, and did not fear for their custom. Even the widow Lynn’s son, now a captain in the city guard, gave him his sympathies – although he detested the son, he had liked the father when he was sober. He took the words of condolence and approval as he did all else.
Coldly.
The glasswork was better than ever, and the clients grew both more numerous and richer. For the former he hired apprentices, and for the latter he saved now his own two hands and personal attention, which became all the more acclaimed for its rarity. He remained a quiet conversationalist, but an excellent listener. He developed a reputation for discreteness in all things, and many a nobleman poured their troubles into his willing ears. And then one day, listening to a viscount complain of a brother-in-law who was blackmailing him for a little indiscretion – so little, and after all, the man’s sister was so ugly, how could he be blamed for it? – he mentioned that he might know a man who could solve problems of that sort, for some manner of a fee. Details were scarce, but the man with the glass heart’s word was as good as gold, and the viscount was more than willing to open his purse for it.
That night, he went out on the town. He took another long, thing glass needle with him, the finest he could make. And the next morning, the viscount’s troublesome brother-in-law was discovered to have succumbed in the night to some unknown malady. His heart had given out.
The viscount was pleased, and word of mouth took over once again, spreading tales of something in even more demand than fine glasswork. Clients came, shared tales of their troubles, and the man with the glass heart told them if he thought he knew a man that could solve them. And they rested their heads in peace, for as they all knew, the man with the glass heart was nothing if not discreet. Both his careers prospered, and he went about them both as he was expected to.
Sharply.
The man with the glass heart was careful, nearly invisible, and he took only the jobs that he was certain would go unnoticed, but still, the patterns were noted by those on high. Assassins and poisons were the tools of the upper class, and though his methods of killing were nigh-undetectable, the means were easily guessed at.
The panic was subtle, muted. It was Not Done to be fearful, overt wariness was a sign of weakness. The nobility remained defiantly devoted to excess, cheer, and power games, and the man with the glass heart was invited deeper into the fold every day. He owned a grand workshop, accounted all the finest among his clientele, and was invited to parties, where he was respected – if not lively – and gave short, sage advice to those who needed it. And maybe a quiet word or two of recommendation as to who might need to be silenced. His influence grew, his renown swelled, he began to think of how to replace the duke without causing a stir.
And then, five years from his father’s death, at a celebration of the birthday of the duke’s youngest daughter, the man with the glass heart glanced at something over the shoulder of a particularly dull and vengeful conversation partner, and blinked four times in a row without realizing it. His chest felt strange, tense, brittle.
There was a woman standing on the sidelines, speaking with the duchess. She was pretty, as many of the women at any of these dreary events always were. The man with the glass heart didn’t notice them. But he noticed her. In fact, he noticed her so clearly that he quite lost the thread of what his client was saying, and realized that he was staring at him in total puzzlement.
Now, what the man with the glass heart should’ve done, would’ve done at any other place and time, would have been to make an observation on the information he’d been given that clearly gave an impressive signal to the client that he had indeed been paying attention and in fact already seemed to know more than he did. Instead, he pointed at the woman at the fireplace, and asked who she was.
“Some commoner, someone’s fiancée,” the client said irritably. “Not a clue. Now, about my problem…” but his problem could wait and this couldn’t, and he found himself adrift as the man with the glass heart walked over to ask the woman to dance.
He had no knowledge of it, but was a fast learner, putting as much care and balance as he dropped into a vase for the duke, or the removal of a nobleman.
“Abigail,” he asked as the annoying music passed unheard, “what are you doing here?”
She laughed a little. “Teaching the birthday girl to sew, mostly. I’m her maid.”
The man with the glass heart knew the duke’s daughter. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s not all that bad. You just have to manage her moods, and it did lead me to my husband – oh look, here he is, here he is!”
The man with the glass heart turned about, and shook hands, and the introductions weren’t needed, for here was the widow Lynn’s son, now commander of the city watch. And somewhere in the back of those deep-set eyes, something was glaring out at him, recognizing him.
“You two know each other?” he asked.
“I taught him to sew,” said Abigail. “Never got very far, poor thing – all the neighbourhood boys made fun of him, and my parents forbid it once my friends told them.”
“Useful skill,” said the commander of the city watch. “No shame in it. Honest work.”
The man with the glass heart didn’t like the pointed meaning hiding behind the neutral tone. He wished with all the will in the world that there would be another dance with Abigail, but the night was winding down and the musicians were retiring; the duke was saying farewells and the nobility were all flocking home to their estates to roost.
The man with the glass heart thought all the way back home, back to the commander’s mother, the widow Lynn. He’d already stopped one marriage. He could stop two.
There was a customer who he’d promised to attend to tonight. There was a stained glass window for the new church he’d promised to oversee.
They could wait. This was important, so important that his chest hurt. It had to be done.
The man with the glass heart was quiet, oh so quiet, as he slipped in the upstairs window to the commander of the watch’s home, padded in dark fabrics that sapped the colour from his form and bled him into the night, dropping on a thin silk rope from the rooftops. He felt strange, hesitant. To kill without pay, for his own purposes, it was not something he’d done in many, many years. He pulled a glass needle from the little cushioned containers on his waist, and he moved through the house’s rooms, all simple, all straightforward, all safe. The commander had been practical as a youth, and that had not changed.
There were two bodies in the big, sturdy bed upstairs. One was Abigail (oh how his chest hurt), the other was not. It also was not living – there was no rise and fall of breath.
The man with the glass heart turned at the doorway to leave, and knew before the short sword hummed through the air at him that it was too late to run. He ducked, and felt cloth and flesh tear along his chest. A very shallow cut, but painful.
“Think I’m stupid, do you?” grunted the commander, pushing him back, into the room. “Think I’m going to sleep and die? I know you. And I know those deaths. Too many quiet ones. You like it quiet, don’t you? Heard about your father.” He was feinting now, dancing from foot to foot, thud-thud on the floorboards. A noise from the bed – was Abigail waking? She shouldn’t see this. “He was a good man. Better than you deserved.” He pushed forwards. Still back, boots nearly at the bedside. “Answer me, damnit. Answer or I’ll bleed you out here and now and we won’t have to waste money on rope.” He swung, and cursed as the man with the glass heart’s hand moved, leaving glass shimmering sweetly in the flesh of his swordarm. It snapped as their bodies clashed together, sword spinning away with a clang on the floor.
The man with the glass heart was smooth, his focus was clear, his head was quick, but the commander was tough, and he’d fought his way to his rank. Two fists to the gut in a space that couldn’t possibly let him punch, and then a knee to the groin. The man with the glass heart saw stars, one hand tightened ineffectually at the commander’s throat and the other wrapped around that wounded arm. His fingers brushed blood-sticky hairs and he squeezed, felt the crunch and slice of the needle as it came to pieces, an elegant weapon used brutally.
Even then, not a scream – a pained grunt, a groan, a weakening of purpose. The man with the glass heart threw him to the floor, spun to his feet. Hand at the belt, needle at the ready, a new one, one of the bigger ones, an emergency weapon that cut like a knife. He shifted his grip, raised his arm.
Abigail rushed past him, calling a name that wasn’t his.
Neither of them saw it– he was too blinded by pain, and she was crouched low over him, trying to see his hurts – but they heard it happen. There was a sob, a gasp, and a great tinkling splintering crash, all at once, like the world’s biggest picture window falling to pieces.
What they found there, after the fact, was not what they told the others. He had landed a blow in the dark, and it had taken the murderer a moment to realize it had killed him. It happened. It had happened before. Dangerous, but knowable.
But what they found on that floor was a man dead, a scar split open, with bloodless shards of smooth glass splitting open the skin from deep inside. They shone clearly in the moonlight through the window, and then they were gone. And not a drop of blood remained in the room that didn’t belong to the commander of the city watch.
“What was he like?” he asked her. “You knew him before I did.”
Abigail thought as she sewed the cuts. There were plenty of words that described him, but only one that she thought was proper.
“Fragile. Where it counted most.”