The Glassblower(133)

“What you forget to mention is that many of the old masters reportedly starved to death,” Marie said dryly. “You’re also forgetting that neither Ruth nor Johanna has a job . . .”

Magnus nodded. “I know. You have a great deal resting on your shoulders. But all the same—whenever you have a moment free from working for Heimer, you should make some sketches, read your books, have a look at the illustrations. Oh, I envy you what’s ahead.”

Marie felt her excitement grow. Magnus was right! She could hardly wait to resume her studies, which she had neglected ever since Johanna and Ruth had moved in. All the same she cocked her head and looked at him critically.

“The way you talk, anyone might think you gave advice to self-proclaimed artists every day of the week. Why do you think you know so much about what’s right for me?”

He beamed back at her. “Didn’t you just say yourself that there are no certainties in art? But there’s one thing I do know for sure: there’s more to you than you even know yourself. You just have to bring it out.”

Tears pricked at the inside of Marie’s eyelids, and she had to swallow hard. “That’s the first time anyone’s had so much faith in me,” she whispered. “You know what everyone else in the village says about a woman blowing glass.”

“It makes sense that people need time to get used to something new,” Magnus responded. “You and your sisters are a good way ahead of our time. But I’ll tell you this: in a few years there’ll be a great many more women blowing glass. And who knows—perhaps they’ll even be allowed to enroll in the trade school.”

Marie sighed. It did her good to hear Magnus’s words. “That would be wonderful! Then at last I’d have somebody I could talk to about . . . all this.”

“What do you mean? You’ve got me,” he answered boldly.

She looked at Magnus as though seeing him for the first time: his even features; his dark brown eyes that seemed slightly lost; his dark eyebrows, just a shade too close together; his long, rather unkempt hair. Griseldis’s son wasn’t much to look at. His eyes didn’t twinkle roguishly; his lips were rather narrow and didn’t seem sensual or invite kisses.

And for all that Magnus was unusual. The way he had taken care of Johanna after her . . . misfortune had proved then and there that he was trustworthy. And he was a helpful soul with a gift for knowing what others were thinking . . .

Marie smiled at him. “I still think that most of your compliments are nothing but flattery, but they do me good all the same. Thank you,” she added softly. “Do you know what? My first attempts at blowing glass were hard work, but now I’m ready to spread my wings. I’d like to make the most beautiful Christmas ornaments imaginable! I want children’s eyes to light up with happiness when they see my Saint Nicholas on their trees. I want my baubles to bring a glow to even the poorest parlor. I want them to catch the light and cast it back a thousandfold; I want them to glitter like the stars on a clear night sky. Old and young, man and woman—I’d like everyone to find their own little paradise in my baubles!”





25

The farmer tried several times to start up a conversation with his pretty young passenger, but to no avail. Ruth simply stared straight ahead and smiled absentmindedly. Her mouth was dry, and she was so excited that she felt as if she kept forgetting to breathe. Her stomach was churning, and it took all her concentration to try to calm the collywobbles. All in vain—to her great embarrassment, she had to ask the driver to stop his wagon. Her panic grew when she saw that there was nowhere nearby she could decently take shelter in the woods. At last she scurried behind a little copse of pines, but no sooner had she got there than the churning in her guts suddenly stopped.

When the first houses of Sonneberg came into view, Ruth was a bundle of nerves.

She was about to see Steven again at last!

When the farmer asked where he should direct his wagon, she had trouble concentrating. She swallowed several times and finally managed to tell him to go to the Sonneberg railway station. He shook his head and gave her an odd look.

On the way to the station, Ruth was already looking up and down the road for Steven, but she didn’t see him anywhere. She would have known his head in any crowd, the way his hair sprang up.

Once they reached the station, the farmer turned his horses and brought the wagon up alongside the platform. Instead of dismounting, Ruth sat where she was on the bench.

How were they ever to find each other here?

She couldn’t imagine a worse meeting place than this madhouse. Crates and cartons were piled high, people were coming and going, and men were conducting business, handing over sheaves of money or bills of lading. Tempers were short, and here on the crowded platform patience was not to be had at any price. Their cargo wobbled dangerously as wagons shoved and jockeyed for the best position to unload, and Ruth feared that the farmer’s horses would shy at the loud shouts and crack of whips all around. Fortunately, they stood their ground without getting skittish.