A Wish Made Of Glass by Ashlee Willis Read Free Book Online Page A

new moon.
    I close my eyes on the panic that rushes upon me, giving myself a moment to think. The house is west of the wood. At least, I think it is. And the sun has just set at my back. That is, if I have not turned slightly since then. I should not have ventured so far, so late. I square my shoulders, prepared to choose a direction and take my chances.
    When I turn, my outstretched fingers meet solid warmth. It is the touch of another’s hand.
    I give a little scream and jump back. The sapphire glow of a lantern makes a hazy sphere of light on the ground. A fey man is standing within it. He is beautiful as a forest night, and his dark gaze and sad smile are as warm as breath across my skin. For a single moment I think I have seen those eyes before, but the thought vanishes when I notice he has succeeded in capturing one of my hands within his own. I snatch it away before I know what I am doing, startled into blurting a bold question.
    “Why do you stare at me that way?”
    The young fey man is not bothered by it. He tilts his dark head to contemplate an answer. “You are beautiful, I think,” he says slowly. “I was merely pondering the irony of lovely eyes with such sorrowful thoughts behind them.”
    I am not sure whether to be offended or embarrassed or glad that he has seen straight to my heart so easily. Settling for pride, I lift my chin a fraction and give a swift tug to my cloak.
    “What do you know of my thoughts?” I mean for the words to sound haughty and am mortified when they come out sounding more like a plea.
    “I know more of you than you think.”
    I draw my brows together. His words are perplexing, yet something deep within me wakes at the sound of them. I shake my head to clear it.
    “I am late for home,” I say by way of answer. “They will wonder where I am.”
    I take a step and my foot catches on something invisible upon the ground. I lurch forward, unable to catch myself. But the fey man’s hand is already on my elbow, steadying me. In an instant, my head snaps up. His touch sends a shock through me. A muddle of memories collide in my mind.
    I bend back to search the fey man’s face for anything familiar. After some moments he laughs, as if my sharp gaze is amusing, and merely guides me into the trees without another word. I must trust that he knows the way, for I have nothing but the circle of blue lantern light to guide me through the dark, one faltering step at a time.
    At the edge of the garden he stops and withdraws his arm from mine. My pride slinks away and falls between the cracks in the ground, and I find I am on the edge of begging for his hand again. Everything about him is familiar, even the warmth of our arms twined together.
    One corner of his mouth quirks upward and I remember, too late, that he can read my thoughts. This time I refuse to be ashamed. I force myself to hold his gaze. For all I know, years could be passing while we stare at one another. His eyes jar me. They seem to hold more than the world in them. In the end, it is my gaze that drops first.
    “I am home,” I mumble, releasing him from any obligation he may feel to accompany me farther.
    “Not your home, really,” is his rather surprising reply. When he sees my small frown, he smiles. “I know you live here,” he assures me. “But I think this place is not your true home.”
    I nod slowly. “It isn’t. I was raised in the midlands, and came to the North but three years ago.” But then, the fey folk followed me here, so he must know this already.
    His brows lower a moment, as if my answer is not what he expects. But he says no more. He takes one of my hands in his, his touch as light as cobweb, and bows over it. As he bows, helooks up beneath his lashes at me and flashes that fey smile which makes my breath catch. Then he melts into the wood as if he is more a part of it than its own shadows.
    * * *
    The sound is so soft I barely hear it. In an instant I am sitting up in bed, straight as a poker.