Chapter 3

The day after Linnea moved in, Elias hosted a small reception for potential sponsors at the flat.

He was trying to secure a digital archive grant for the traditional crafts of northern Indigenous communities. The guest list included university professors, museum curators, foundation representatives, and a handful of cultural journalists.

He had rearranged the living room to suit the shoot.

Woven bands, leather pouches, traditional knife sheaths, and silverwork lined the windowsill. The walls displayed his photographs from Inari: snow-covered plains, reindeer herds, artisans at work. Linnea wore a traditional ceremonial dress she had redesigned herself and demonstrated her silversmithing for the guests.

I hadn't planned on being there.

I still had a final batch of transfer paperwork to process before I left. Working through the dull, persistent ache in my abdomen that had lingered since the miscarriage, I sat on the guest room floor sorting documents.

Then, through the door, a chorus of admiring voices reached me.

"Elias, the craftsmanship on this silver set is stunning. And that glass plate underneath, the color is just like the northern lights on a winter night."

"That blue-violet really brings the silver to life. Where did you get it?"

My hands froze on the laptop.

A glass plate?

There was only one piece of glassware in this flat with a color like the aurora.

It was the last art glass plate my mother, Miriam, had fired before she died.

She had been a studio glass artist in her youth, spending her entire life trying to achieve a color she called "twilight after rain." That plate was the closest she had ever come, and the last piece she left me.

I had always kept it locked in the top shelf of the study cabinet, wrapped in three layers of soft cloth.

I threw the door open and rushed out.

At the display table in the center of the living room, Linnea was smiling, presenting a silver collar necklace she had made to the guests.

And that heavy ring of silver plates and pendants sat on top of my mother's glass plate, the one as thin and delicate as a sheet of ice.

No padding had been placed beneath the silver. Its edges had already scratched several harsh white lines into the blue-violet surface.

"Stop! Who told you to touch that?"

I lunged forward, reaching for the plate.

Linnea flinched as though startled and jerked back a step. The silver collar slipped from her hands.

Clang.

The heavy silver piece crashed down onto the center of the glass plate.

First, a faint, brittle sound.

Then a white fracture raced from the center to the edge like a bolt of lightning, tearing that aurora of color in two.

The room went silent.

I was shaking all over. My eyes burned, and I reached for the cracked plate.

"Mara, what the hell is wrong with you!"

Elias stormed over, grabbed my wrist, and threw me aside.

I was already weak. The force sent my lower back slamming into the edge of the coffee table, and I crashed to the floor.

My abdomen felt as though it had been ripped open with a dull blade.

I curled into myself, my forehead instantly slick with cold sweat.

The guests backed away. Some looked shocked, some frowned, and a few whispered to each other, asking who the glass plate actually belonged to.

Linnea stood by the display table, her face white. A second later she darted behind Elias, clutching his sleeve. "I didn't mean to. I was just showing the silver to everyone. She came out of nowhere..."

Elias immediately stepped in front of her. The look he turned on me was pure fury and disgust.

"This is the most important reception of my career. Did you have to humiliate me in front of all these people?"

I pressed my hand to my abdomen and stared at the fracture, my voice trembling so badly it was barely audible. "That was my mother's. You know that... You know exactly what it was."

"Enough!"

He cut me off without an ounce of mercy.

"It's an old glass plate, that's all. What's the point of letting it collect dust in a cabinet? At least tonight it served a purpose, letting this many people see it. Your mother spent her whole life making glass and never made it into any major collection. Now something she left behind can actually contribute to a living artist's career. What are you screaming about?"

It felt as if someone had punched me square in the face. I couldn't breathe.

Six years.

He had stood at my mother's funeral, held my hand, and promised we would protect everything she had left behind.

And yet now, in his eyes, my mother's life's work was nothing more than a tray for another woman's silver.

I clenched my teeth, fighting through the searing pain as I dragged myself up from the floor, reaching for the plate.

Elias blocked me again, his voice stripped of all warmth. "Haven't you made enough of a scene? You've already terrified Linnea. Go back to your room and stay there."

"That's mine."

"This flat is my home too!" He kept his voice low, but the words came through gritted teeth. "I have every right to decide what's used to entertain guests. If you have any sense left, stop ruining my work today."

He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the guest room.

Every pair of eyes in the room followed me.

Some pitied me. Some looked away in embarrassment. Others, not wanting to offend Elias, pretended they hadn't seen a thing.

Linnea stood beside the cracked plate, her eyes red, apologizing to the guests. She never once bent down to pick up a single shard for me.

The guest room door slammed shut behind me.