She reached for the misshapen icicle, but a moment later she stood up abruptly and went out to the hall. She fetched a small bag from her coat pocket.
Even in a well-run workshop there were always breakages and failures. A glassblower might stop paying attention for a moment and the glass would run like honey. Or it fell off the painting bench, or shattered as it was being packed. Anything with only a minor crack was taken to the wholesaler to be sold at a discount, but whatever was too badly broken went into the waste bin.
A couple of days before, Marie had asked Wilhelm Heimer whether she could take some glass home from the waste. Though he had shrugged and allowed her request, he had also peered over her shoulder as she sorted through the bin, to be quite sure that a usable piece hadn’t slipped through. “Old skinflint!” Marie muttered to herself now.
Instead of taking the shards of glass out of the bag, she broke them up with a hammer wrapped in old rags, pounding away until there was not a sharp edge left anywhere. Then, smiling, she sifted the glittering powder from the bag into the palm of her hand.
Stardust! The glitter of snow!
She poured the tiny particles back into the bag as carefully as if they were gold dust. She dipped a wide brush into the white paint and then put a layer all along the icicle she had blown. Before the paint could dry she sifted the powdered glass onto it until there was an even layer all around. Now her icicle was perfect.
After that she picked out a few globes that had only the black outlines of stars on them. She filled in the shapes with white paint and sifted the powdered glass onto these as well.
As if on cue, it had begun to snow outside—thick fluffy flakes that tumbled down through the night air. Marie gazed out the window with concern. She hoped it wouldn’t snow for days on end. If it did, the roads would be impassable and Johanna would not be able to get home. Marie bit her lip. She didn’t want to think about that. Instead she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what the Christmas tree would look like in its full glory. She wished she could afford a few more candles, but she had only had enough money for half a dozen from the store.
“A tree!” she suddenly yelped. “Marie Steinmann, just how stupid can you be?”
In her eagerness she thought she had taken care of every detail, but she hadn’t asked Ugly Paul to cut a Christmas tree for her. She would have to stop by and ask the firewood man the very next morning.
Thank heavens there were still six days until Christmas Eve.
36
Johanna had thought that Strobel’s shop would be bustling with visitors on Christmas Eve. But by ten o’clock, the shop bell hadn’t rung even once, and Johanna went to the door to check that she had actually unlocked it. They hadn’t had a single customer by noon.
At twelve o’clock sharp, Strobel turned the key in the lock.
“So, that was that,” he said. He walked over to the sales counter and produced a bottle of champagne. He opened it with a flourish, poured two glasses, and handed one to Johanna.
“Champagne at noon? Does that mean you were pleased with the Christmas orders?” she asked mockingly.
“We will each be going our own ways shortly, so let’s drink to the season!” Although their glasses barely touched, the crystalline chime hung in the air for a long time.
“And as for your second question, yes, I’m pleased. More than pleased, in fact.” Strobel raised his glass to Johanna once more.
After taking a few sips from her glass, she said, “If there will be nothing else . . . then I wish you a pleasant journey and . . .”
She was just about to fetch her coat—her traveling bag with the presents was ready and waiting in the hall—when the wholesaler blocked her path.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, my dear! You haven’t gotten your Christmas present yet.”
“Oh, but I have!” She smiled, confused. “Or was the extra five marks in my wage packet not a present?”
Strobel waved it away. “Money! A small token of my appreciation, nothing more. But a real present is worth more than money alone. It can be a symbol, it has a power of its own—or can give you power. It can open the way to new worlds, or destroy an old one—it all depends.”
Chuckling, he handed her a packet that unmistakably contained a book. “I see that my words mean nothing to you. But I think that my present will speak for itself once you look at it. By the way, this is the book that I promised you some time ago. You will remember our conversation about dominant women and the men who adore them.”
Johanna remembered nothing of the kind.
“Allow me to say just a few more words . . .”
What a lot of fuss about a book, Johanna thought ungraciously.