Glass Collection: Storm Glass / Sea Glass / Spy Glass. Maria V. SnyderЧитать онлайн книгу.

      To my sister, Karen Philips, for all the

      advice, support and good times (BFF). This book has a definite sister vibe!

      Acknowledgements

      Thanks go to my husband, Rodney, and my children, Luke and Jenna. For being patient when I need to finish a book, and for not complaining (too much) when I travel to book signings and conventions. Without you three, there would be no books to write.

      A special thank-you goes out to my critique partner, Kimberley J. Howe. She rose to the challenge when I hit a dead end and dumped three hundred pages of this book on her, crying for help. Your encouragement, phone calls and comments helped pull this book together.

      Huge thanks go to all the hardworking people at MIRA Books. Your enthusiasm and love of books has made working with you a joy. Special kudos to my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, whose expert comments greatly improve my stories.

      Thanks to my agent, Robert Mecoy, whose help has been invaluable, and to his daughter, Dash, for her wonderful support.

      For this book I once again enrolled in a variety of glass classes at the Goggle Works. I would like to thank a quartet of teachers and artists who helped me: Helen Tegeler, Sandra Kaye, Karen Lesniak and Louise Mehaffey. I think I’m addicted to glass.

      And a continuing heartfelt thanks to my army of Book Commandos! Your efforts in the fIeld are deeply appreciated! Special mention to those who have gone well above and beyond the call of duty: Suzanne Ledford, Alethea Allarey, Patrice de Avila, Elizabeth Darrach, Jeff Young, Heather Tebbs, Megan Knight, Jamie Perry and Jen Runkle. The Commander would be proud.

      1

      THE HOT AIR pressed against my face as I entered the glass factory. The heat and the smell of burning coal surrounded me in a comforting embrace. I paused to breathe in the thick air. The roar of the kilns sounded as sweet as my mother’s voice.

      “Opal!” Aydan yelled above the noise. “Are you going to stand there all day? We have work to do.” He gestured with a thin gnarled hand.

      I hurried to join him. Working in the heat had turned his gray hair into a frizzy mop. Dirt streaked his hands. He grimaced in pain when he sat at his workbench, rubbing his lower back with a fist.

      “You’ve been shoveling coal again,” I admonished. He tried to look innocent, but before he could lie, I asked, “What happened to your apprentice?”

      “Ran off once he figured out how hard it is to turn fire into ice.” Aydan grunted.

      “Well, I’m here now.”

      “You’re late.”

      “Sorry, I had a … test.” I sighed. Another frustrating, fruitless endeavor. Not only had I failed to light the fire, but I knocked over the candles, spilling hot wax all over my classmate Pazia’s clothes and burning her skin. Her expensive silk tunic was ruined. She sneered in disdain when I offered to replace her shirt. Nothing new. Pazia’s hostility spanned my entire four years at the Keep. Why would I expect my last year to be any different?

      After starting my fifth year of lessons at the Magician’s Keep, I had hoped to be able to do more with my magic. Pazia’s abilities had grown so much since we sat next to each other during our very first session that the Master Magicians considered allowing her to take the Master-level test.

      I’d learned about Sitia’s history, politics, how to fight and about the uses for magic, but my ability to tap into the power source remained elusive. Doubts flared and the nagging feeling of being limited to one magical skill churned in my chest. And it didn’t help my confidence when I overheard my fellow students calling me the One-Trick Wonder.

      “Jealousy,” Aydan had said when I told him about my nickname. “You saved Sitia.”

      I thought of the day—over four years ago—when I helped Liaison Yelena capture those evil souls. She had done all the work, I was merely a conduit. I tried to downplay my involvement, but Aydan remained stubborn.

      “You’re a hero and those children can’t stand it.”

      Remembering his words made me smile. Calling fifteen to twenty-year-olds children was typical for Aydan, a proud curmudgeon.

      He tapped my arm with a blowpipe. “Stop daydreaming and gather me a slug.”

      I grabbed the hollow rod and opened the oven. Intense light burst from the furnace as if a piece of the sun was trapped inside. I spun the end of the rod in the molten glass and twisted it up and out, removing taffy like ball before my eyebrows and eyelashes could be singed off again.

      The cherry-red slug on the end of the iron pulsed as if alive. Aydan blew through the pipe then covered the hole. A small bubble appeared in the molten glass. Resting the pipe on the metal arms of his gaffer’s bench, Aydan rolled the pipe back and forth, shaping the glass.

      I helped him as he created an intricate vase with a twist at the bottom so the piece actually rested on its side yet could still hold water. In his hands, turning glass into art appeared to be an easy task. I loved the unique properties of molten glass which could be molded into such wonderful objects. We worked for hours, but the time flew.

      When he finished his artwork, Aydan stood on creaky legs and said the words that were the reason I came to help him after my Keep classes. “Your turn.”

      He exchanged places with me and grabbed a hollow pipe. While he gathered a slug, I made sure all the metal tools lying on the bench were in their proper places. All I needed was my annoying younger brother telling me to hurry, and my patient older sister helping me to complete the feeling of being in my family’s glass factory.

      Sitting at the bench was home—familiar and comfortable. Here and here alone, I was in control. The possibilities endless and no one could tell me otherwise.

      All thoughts fled when Aydan placed the pipe in front of me. Glass cooled quickly and I had no time to dwell on anything but shaping the molten