Perhaps it was fae magic as well, that she was able to sleep at all, but her sleep was not a peaceful one.

In the night, Katherine dreamed of glass and glowing figurines, green wings, and men in blue and golden threads stretching across time and over mountains. All wrapped around herself and her sister, pulling tight until she awoke sweating in bed in the early hours of the morning, long before she was set to awake and just before the sun was to rise.

Her heart raced and the still and stale air of her loft room felt drier than was normal for their usually rainy spring but tasted of dust and spices. In the half-darkness, her eyesight blurred at the edges, but she sat up anyway. The stars had long gone to sleep, and the pre-dawn light filtered in through her window which— she did a double take— was open.

It wasn't much, but it was enough that a slight gust of wind brought it in and out, as if the window and its hinges breathed with the night.

Stumbling from her bed, Katherine pulled back her blankets, surprised to feel that the room held none of the cold that would be expected of the time of year. She was halfway to the window when her bare feet brushed against a peculiar grittiness.

Looking down, she lifted her right foot inspecting it with squinted eyes. She expected to see garden soil or maybe wood grain. Instead, her fingers came away shimmering, lustered with golden dust. 

She tried in vain to wipe it off on her nightgown, but the gold winked at her where it stained her hands, catching the dawn light. She scratched at a spec with a fingernail but found it unmovable. Ink would've had less permanence.

Not for the first time, a rush of emotion overwhelmed her senses. Anxiety, frustration, and grief swirled in a noxious poison in her veins, and her breaths came heavily. She had to escape from this, whatever it was, but the world outside was still before daylight, and the town gates had yet to open.

Where would she go?

She had been nowhere in the span of her twenty years of life. She had ventured to a forest lake and to the cemetery to visit her sister, but the faraway shores of the rest of the world lay unknown to her. Cairn was all she'd ever known, even if tales of the seaside Ecrivenia, the desert-filled Aclus, and the cold but beautiful country of Marenta sometimes made it over the mountains and through the trees.

She did not place much stake in surviving deserts or freezing climates, but even Ecrivenia would be too far. She had no clue how to navigate deep woods or ford rivers, let alone what it would take to get past the guards that stood at the Cairn border.

Katherine felt suffocated as if through no fault of her own, her life's course had always been taken out of her hands. She was now realizing how very little agency she truly had. Even without the fae and the glass girl with her grass-green wings, her life never was her own. She would be here, either picking up after her father or trying to salvage their glass forge, until she died or married someone who she'd then have to do the same for.

She went to the window, her lungs begging for fresh air. The warped panes of the glass distorted the street below and the green space across from her home. Her breaths heaved, her hands shaking, but even now she noticed the trail of golden, glittering specs going from her window down to the street. She followed the path with her eyes until it disappeared into the bushes of the park, underneath a blossoming apple tree.

Would the trail dissipate? Or would every person who walked by her home on their way to the spring celebrations see the dust and see how it led straight to her?

If she wasn't going to be persecuted for magic before, she certainly might be now. She took a moment to steady her heart, trying not to get too ahead of herself. She didn't know if what the man— Samuel— said was even true.

Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps it was not her doing that brought him to that exact time and that place, and instead some other foul magic was at play. Maybe a different creature, maybe Samuel himself, watched her come to the cemetery all those months. Maybe it watched her cry to and talk to a cold headstone and thought she deserved to have her life flipped on its head, because maybe then, she would find something better to do.

Life was cruel, this she'd known for a long time, but she'd never thought it would be personally vindictive.

She grabbed the rickety chair from the corner, pulled it up close to the window, and slumped against the wall. Resting her chin on her forearms and looking out into the town, she watched as the world awoke. Shudders and windows opened to let out stale night air and morning linens. Children rushed out of their front doors and into the alleys, playing with street dogs and getting their boots muddy before their daily activities. Men kissed their wives goodbye, and mothers gossiped on street corners, pointing to the pennants and the blooming trees with smiles on their faces.

No one noticed the trail of golden glitter. No one bothered to look up at Katherine as she watched from above. Her own mother left the house, linking arms with a group of women dressed more finely than Katherine had ever managed. Katherine peered after her and her immaculate skirts, dressed in pale pink for spring. Unfolding herself from her perch, Katherine closed her eyes in weariness.

No one cared about the gold in the street, and though it still stained her fingertips, her day had to begin.

Shrugging out of her nightgown and combing her snarled red hair until the comb went through smoothly, Katherine couldn't ignore the fact that gold now intertwined with her strands of hair. On closer inspection, the gold ensconced entire strands of hair, from root to end.

By the end, would she be nothing but a girl made golden, a strange cousin to her glass figures?

She shook her head, pushing herself from her bedside and the thought away. She didn't have time for this anymore. If none of the townsfolk had seen the gold, then it must be purely for her eyes. For what purpose, she was not sure, but in the space of a day, she wasn't sure of much anymore.

Continuing down the ladder from her loft, Katherine spied her father still asleep where she'd left him, although he had sprawled out on the floor with half the pillow beneath his head. He slept with his mouth open, but he didn't snore. His barrel chest rose and fell, and Katherine crinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of him while bending to readjust his blanket. Today, she'd leave him there.

"Sleep well, Father," she whispered, but she was positive he didn't hear her.

Grabbing a small hunk of bread from the weathered cupboards, Katherine bit into the stale slab as she left her home, continuing next door to the forge and shop. She swallowed with a cough, wishing for water or milk, but grimaced at the sight of the forge's fire fallen low. It would be untrue to say she slept too long, but her mind had allowed her to wander too far away, although she'd remained in the chair for much of the early morning. The fire needed stoking.

She bent to pick up an iron poker but gasped dropping it. Katherine brought her hand close to her, eyes smarting as her skin stung and turned red. Her mouth fell open as the gold specs peeled away, shedding off of her in translucent fragments.

The skin beneath blazed an angry red, but as she flipped her hand over, she startled at the lack of gold. Her other hand made golden from the windowsill, remained speckled and shimmering.

She had heard tales, told in the same breath as the ones that warned of all things enchanted, that magic did not mix with iron, but she'd always imagined it was less dramatic than this. Katherine hadn't imagined anything about it at all. They'd just been stories, they weren't supposed to be true. Gritting her teeth, she bent to retrieve the poker, using the same hand as before, and did not drop it this time.

The poker felt eerily cold in her hand, colder than the metal often did. She ignored it, going over to stoke the fire and then adding kindling and additional logs into the hearth. She worked in constant motion, bringing the heart of the flames back to life, albeit one-handed. By mid-morning, the fire blazed bright and hot, warming her face and hands as she began to melt the wax from the blossom molds she'd made earlier in the week.

Formed in river clay, the molds first cradled a model of wax, cementing their form. After setting, she would remove the wax from the molds, either by peeling them out or by melting the wax from within. Now, she calculated the necessary amount of glass, using simple equations and years of experience to estimate how much she would need. In years past, she would've instead ensconced a bloom in glass, making small marbles and paperweights for decoration, but contrary to first thought, these were more costly to make.

The quantity of glass needed for a flower versus an orb was much less, and any way to cut costs would be preferred. While the molds themselves were time-consuming, these flowers were to be for after the spring celebration, for when girls at the festival saw glass blooms in others' hair and wanted ones of their own but different.

Those same women and girls, and lovers who thought it a good gift, had bought a number earlier in the week, but the business had gone mostly unnoticed by the rest of the town. That was the downside of a forge run mostly by a woman— no one paid attention to her designs until every girl and their mother decided they were worthy. It wasn't the best business strategy, nor was it sustainable, but the flowers sold well and would no doubt end up in the hair, on the bracelets, and in the bouquets of summer brides.

Katherine continued to work with her right hand only touching the iron tools, undergoing a careful balancing act. She lost herself in the work, not stopping even to grab lunch and hardly to wipe her brow. The sun arched through the sky, and she made sure to make an appearance in the glass shop as well. The simple one-roomed store held little else besides shelves of glass, displays of more practical glass tools, and a table for her to stand behind, but the flow of customers was steadier than usual.

Dare she say it, it may even verge on crowded.

She wrapped up orders, discussed trinkets, and wished shop-goers well, trying not to marvel at the surprising turn of events. Perhaps her father's boasting the night before amounted to quite literal word-of-mouth advertising? Another shock was still in store for her but from her reflection. What her eyes saw, the gold speckles, the streaks in her hair— the expensive Venalen mirrors they sold didn't capture. She had no reflection at all.

It was another thing to ignore.

Now she stood with a town elder, Mrs. Moore, attempting to hide her exhaustion and to nod receptively to descriptions of what the women wanted for her daughter's upcoming engagement party.

"Those glass poppies you made last year, the ones with the open petals, would be perfect to match my finest tablecloth, and if you could manage the dye—"

"Pink, red, white, or orange?"

"Red, of course, but white for the stem. If you manage that, those would match the fine rouge we have coming over the mountain for Eliza." The woman clapped her hands, her cheeks pink with excitement. "This will be so perfect, you are truly such a talent."

"Thank you," Katherine replied, unused to praise but accepting it with a thin smile. "Now when would be a good time for you to pick them up?"

"Would a month from today work?" Katherine nodded in response, jotting down the date next to her copious notes. "Excellent! Now, I should be going. I'd imagine you're going to the festival yourself?"

"Ah, no. I have still so much to do," Katherine replied, her smile turning forced.

"But dear, you must! Surely, you have a young fellow of your own who'd be happy to dance a whirl with you. My Eliza had her first dance with Gregory just last year at the spring dance!"

"Well, Eliza is a very lucky girl."

"She is! And any man would be lucky to dance with someone of your talents, and beauty, too."

Katherine tried valiantly, although not valiantly enough, to hide her disdain at the comment. Her talents, again, it was her talents. It was nicer than the men yesterday, but must it truly be that she only held worth from the objects she could create? Mrs. Moore continued unaware of Katherine's inner turmoil.

"You really must go, you know." A sly smile of her own formed on her full mouth, showing off crooked teeth. "Your creations will no doubt be the talk of the dance. Every girl will have one, I'm sure. Wouldn't you want to see them?"

Katherine wracked her brain for why Mrs. Moore would be so insistent. Did she have a son Katherine didn't remember or a forgotten nephew?

"I—"

"You must! You always used to enjoy them." Mrs. Moore eyed her, her face taking on a familiar, pitying form. Katherine braced herself. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I completely forgot. Your sister so loved them too."

"Yes, she did."

A moment passed, but it was interrupted all too soon. "All the more reason to go to honor her."

The statement hung in the air, and Katherine refused to dignify it with a response. She wasn't sure what got Mrs. Moore to finally leave, but the older woman saw herself out shortly after and Katherine closed the shop with a sigh of relief, locking the door. She was in the process of putting away her things when she noticed a window ever so slightly ajar.

A pit of dread formed in her stomach, and further inspection revealed a windowsill in much the same state as her window last night. Covered in golden dust, the window revealed a path leading from the sill to the street, winding in the direction of the spring festival.

Anger and dread pooled together but cooled as if they were glass plunged into river water. She shut the window with a slam and brought a newly golden hand to her eyes with a huff.

She would go to the spring festival, but not for Mrs. Moore's son, or for her sister, or even to see her flowers in the torchlight. She would follow the path laid out to her and track the fae good for nothing that kept messing with her life and her mind.

Katherine didn't bother to dress for the occasion, nor did she grab a cloak. After all, she was but the glass maker's daughter, no one would care what she wore.

If she'd slowed her steps or looked at her dress hem, perhaps she would've noticed, that much like her hands and hair, the golden dust made itself home on the fabric of her skirts and was steadily creeping upwards.

-o-0-o-

Happy Friday! Surprise, I have an early update with more magic and world-building! What did you think of the chapter? What do you think will happen at the Spring festival? Thoughts on Katherine's character so far? Let me know in the comments!

Thanks so much for reading and you can expect a chapter this coming Tuesday!