Of Glass and Ashes: Magically Ever After, #3

By T.M. Franklin

A glass blower with a unique ability.

 

Ember Farrow breathes magic into every piece of glass she makes. It's a gift handed down through generations in her family of fire elementals-- all the way back to when her great-great-grandfather created Cinderella's slippers.

 

But then the slippers are stolen. . .  and Ember is the prime suspect.

 

An FBI agent determined to crack the case.

 

Every criminal claims to be innocent, and Agent Calder Ford isn't easily convinced.  Still, his gut tells him there's more to this case than meets the eye . . . and the same goes for the fiery woman who challenges him at every turn.

 

She may not be a crook, but she's definitely hiding something . . . and Ford's going to figure out what it is.

 

A family legacy that could set the world on fire.

 

Ember must clear her name while hiding a dangerous family secret: The slippers are more than a relic from a fairy tale. They have a dark history and a deadly power of their own. As she and Ford follow the clues to find them, she begins to fear the thief knows exactly what they have and how to use them.

If that's the case, they'll be coming for the only other person on earth with that knowledge.

 

Ember.

 

Of Glass and Ashes is a magical adventure inspired by the fairy tale, Cinderella. If you like contemporary fantasy with plenty of twists, turns, and a spark of romance, you'll love this modern spin on a classic. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.M. Franklin
• Release date: May 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223201519

Book preview

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Copyright © T.M. Franklin, 2023

The right of T.M. Franklin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by The Book Brander Boutique

Visit the Author’s web site at

www.TMFranklin.com

Contents

Late August, A Long Time Ago...

One

Two

Three

Early March, A Long Time Ago...

Four

April, A Long Time Ago...

Five

April, A Long Time Ago...

Six

Seven

Early May, A Long Time Ago...

Eight

Late July, A Long Time Ago...

Nine

Late August, A Long Time Ago…

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Epilogue

Also By T.M. Franklin

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Late August, A Long Time Ago...

Chamfort-su-Troix, France

The girl must be stopped at all costs.

Henri Farrow burst into his workshop, wide-eyed and frantic, unsure of what he was looking for but hoping—desperately hoping—that he would find it before it was too late. Antoinette had said it was impossible, that there was nothing for it now. The damage was done, and they needed to leave the village before all was lost.

Before they were lost. Because she would come for them—for both of them—and sooner, rather than later.

But Henri couldn’t give up without a fight.

He glanced at the open doorway, the moon high in the star-speckled sky. It would be midnight soon. He didn’t have much time.

Spying the worn leather book tucked under a pile of parchment, he yanked it free, anxiously flipping through pages as he muttered to himself.

Something to eradicate the enchantment? Is that even possible? He ran a finger down the scrawled entry, the ink faded with time. No, no, it’s too late for that.

Henri turned another page, his heart racing as he contemplated what he feared he must do.

What he knew he must do.

He slammed the book shut and picked up an iron rod off the forge, weighing it in his hand. Something to channel the power. It would suffice. He tucked it into his belt and hurried out of the shop, sliding the door closed behind him. He spared a moment to look toward his little cottage, to contemplate his wife, Anabel, sleeping in their bed, unaware of what was happening. The sin he was about to commit. He thought of their son, barely twelve years old. So strong and intelligent, but still so very young.

Henri longed to go into the cottage, to crawl back into his warm bed with Anabel. To continue to teach and train his son as he grew into a man.

But there was no time. The letter he left, just in case, would have to suffice.

"Je suis désolée. Adieu." He pressed his fingers to his lips and lifted them toward the cottage. Tears filled his eyes, but he blinked them away and shook his head to focus on the ordeal ahead.

If he was lucky, he would survive long enough for it to be considered an ordeal. If he wasn’t, he’d be dead before the sun rose.

Henri started to walk, murmuring strengthening spells under his breath as his steps quickened to a slow trot, then grew faster and faster until he was running, magical words escaping his lips between heavy breaths. Ancient words of desperation and need that made power burn within him until his skin glowed and sparks erupted from his fingertips.

He raced through town and up the hill toward the castle and prayed it would be enough.

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One

Heat licked at Ember’s face, flames reaching toward her—calling to her—as she rolled the pipe gently, picturing the final piece in her mind. It was getting close…almost there. She pulled the pipe out of the glory hole, moving quickly to rest it on the stand. Her grandfather always said blowing glass was like a dance, an intricate movement from crucible to marver to stand and back again. Time was as precious and fragile as the pieces they created—move too slowly and the glass would grow too cold to manipulate, too quickly and you could lose it all, broken pieces left to crumble into shards in the bottom of the water bucket.

But not this time.

With a deep inhale, Ember centered herself, feeling the magic inside her spark with excitement, almost a living thing in and of itself. It was as if it hungered to melt into the glass, weave its way into the twisting colors of blue and green and yellow and permeate the bottle she was creating with its very essence.

Good thing Ember and her magic were of the same mind.

She blew then, cheeks puffing out as she turned the pipe, magic curling along with her breath, the bottle blooming into the shape she’d pictured, round and full at the base with a tall, narrow neck.

Peace, she thought, pushing her will into the bottle, filling it up with her intent. She could feel the heat within her, the fire burning out from the very center of her being, and she knew if she saw her reflection at that moment, the glow of her fiery nature would be burning white-hot in her eyes.

Peace.

The bottle was a commission from a woman in Chicago, a wine decanter she planned to use at a family dinner. Her two sons hadn’t spoken in five years, and she’d asked Ember for something that would help mend the break in their relationship.

Peace. Ember breathed into the bottle. Let all who drink from you have peace.

Ember’s apprentice, Olivia, stood nearby, hands stuffed into her apron as she waited. Her streaky blonde hair was tied up in a bun, a few strands escaping to stick to her sweaty cheeks, blue eyes wide behind her glasses.

What do you think? Olivia asked, lifting a finger to scratch her neck absently.

One more, Ember replied, moving back to the furnace. That ought to do it.

Olivia nodded, popping her gum as Ember turned the bottle in the flames, mesmerized by the flickering heat. It would be easy for her to get lost in it, took years for her to learn to turn off that part of her nature and focus on the job at hand.

The fire was tempting, but Ember could resist.

She gave the pipe another blow, a last push of magic, and the bottle was ready.

Get the punty, she told Olivia, who moved quickly to grab the iron rod and gather another bit of molten glass. The transfer from the blow pipe to the punty was always tricky, but the two of them had developed a rhythm since Olivia came to work for Ember two years earlier. They moved together smoothly as Olivia attached the punty to the opposite side of the bottle, and Ember rapped the blow pipe, breaking her end free.

Good, Ember said as Olivia put the piece back into the fire and handed the punty off to her.

Then she cringed at a familiar voice coming into the gallery.

And here’s where all the magic happens! Ember’s mother, Diane, led a small group into the upper loft, and Ember could see them out of the corner of her eye, gathering at the railing to look down at her. The tours had been her mother’s idea. Ember had protested at first, but couldn’t deny the revenue they brought in, both in admittance fees, and in orders and gift shop purchases after the fact.

Still, being watched made Ember’s skin crawl. She moved to the table to shape the neck of the bottle and tried to ignore the conversation overhead.

Her mother, however, was not easily ignored. Is that piece almost complete, Ember? she called out.

Grinding her teeth, Ember forced a smile. Almost, she called back.

You’ll enjoy this, Diane said, turning her attention back to the tour group. Once the piece is complete, it’s a quick and coordinated effort to get it off the punty—that’s the rod she’s working with—and into the annealing oven to cool. The glass has to cool slowly, or it could all be ruined.

Is it true? a man asked, and Ember stiffened, knowing the question that was coming. I read that Cinderella’s slippers were created in this workshop?

She did not look up but could picture her mother’s beaming smile in her mind.

"Well, not in this workshop, she said, but in that very furnace. Ember’s great-great-few more greats-grandfather created the slippers and when his son came to America, he brought the furnace with him from France."

Low, impressed murmurs filtered down from above.

Again with the slippers, Olivia muttered.

Ember made one more trip to the furnace, the heat a welcome reprieve.

Are you saying the fairy tale is true, then? a woman asked, and Ember could hear the amusement in her voice. Pumpkins and fairy godmothers?

Oh, now I wouldn’t go that far, Diane replied with a laugh, and with that, Ember knew it was a group of non-magicals in this tour group. Her mother had a whole other spiel for witches and fae.

But a lot of our histories and mythologies do have at least a thread of fact woven in, Diane said. The story of Cinderella was based on a real-life woman who lived long ago. There was a ball. There was a prince. There was a love story…

Ember and Olivia shared a glance and mouthed the next, familiar words along with Diane.

And there were glass slippers.

Olivia snorted out a laugh.

I saw them in the Louvre when I visited Paris two years ago, someone said. But the plaque said nobody knows who they actually belonged to.

Another mystery of history, Diane replied with an enigmatic smile. If you’re interested, there’s a great book about the slippers in the gift shop…

And with that, they moved out of the room and Ember felt her shoulders relax. She returned to the table to finish the lip of the bottle, and Olivia grabbed the jacks.

Not yet, Ember murmured, rolling the pipe back and forth across the bench. Couple more seconds.

When Ember finally nodded, Olivia used the jacks to quickly score the glass off the end of the punty. Setting the tweezers aside, she slipped on a pair of well-worn asbestos gloves and caught the piece when it finally came free.

Hold it steady, Ember said, calling on the fire within. Her index finger started to glow and she quickly dragged her fingernail across the bottom of the bottle, burning a stylized E into the base, as she marked all her pieces. Olivia then carefully placed it into a blanket-lined box and carried it to the annealer to cool.

Ember pulled back her fire, feeling it settle in her chest, and let out a heavy breath, shoving back a stray piece of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. She grabbed a half-empty bottle of water from under the table and drained it in a long gulp, then studied the empty bottle for a moment. Fire was in her nature, but her body required water to survive. It wasn’t the first time she’d contemplated the contradiction. How could two such opposite things exist in harmony?

Ember shrugged and tossed the bottle into the trash. She guessed that’s why it was called magic.

So, what’s next? Olivia asked, hopping up on the table and blowing a bubble with her gum. A witch with a penchant for alchemy, Olivia had been an easy choice when Ember needed an apprentice. She was smart, quick on her feet, and willing to learn.

In fact, she’d learned so much that Ember doubted she’d be with her much longer. Olivia was almost ready to start on her own path.

You want to try a bowl? Ember asked. It needs to keep fruit from spoiling.

Olivia cocked a brow and jumped off the table. Do you want me to do the glass or magic?

Ember smirked. Both. You up for it?

I don’t know. Olivia licked her lips nervously. The last time…

The last time was the last time, Ember said, handing her the pipe. Remember, it’s all in your belief. It’s all in your—

—intent. Olivia nodded, gripping the pipe and rolling it between her hands a few times. Yeah, I know. Belief and intent. Got it.

At that moment, Diane re-entered the workshop, coming through the lower door beneath the viewing area. Well, that was a huge success, she said, brushing a bit of invisible lint off her dark blue suit. She insisted on dressing professionally, even though Ember herself worked in worn jeans and t-shirts.

Diane Farrow was a witch, but one of little power. She didn’t let that stop her, however. When she married Ember’s father, she’d taken on the running of the company, the marketing and advertising, and built it from a backyard hobby shop into the success it was today. She was a force to be reckoned with, and would fit flawlessly into a Wall Street board room with her upswept dark brown hair, impeccable makeup, and confident demeanor. Ember sometimes mourned the fact that confidence seemed to skip a generation, at least in her case.

In fact, little of Diane was evident in Ember, who was the image of her father in almost every way—tall and lanky with wild auburn hair, freckles over just about every bit of her skin, and brown eyes that glowed amber when she worked. Only her slightly tipped-up nose and sharp chin came from Diane, although Ember thought they looked out of place on her face. Too delicate for the rest of her body.

Of course, what she’d truly inherited from her father wouldn’t be evident to anyone who saw her on the street.

Diane pulled over a folding chair and sat down, crossing her legs. Every single member of that group bought the Cinderella book, and three booked parties for next month.

That’s great, Mom, Ember replied, and she was actually happy to hear it. Aside from creating her own pieces, the glass blowing parties were one of her favorite ways to spend an afternoon. She loved teaching her trade and guiding people to create their own art, even if it was only a small bauble or ornament.

But at the moment, she was focused on her apprentice. Just take it slow, she told Olivia as the younger woman blew into the pipe, the glass bulging slowly. You’re not in a hurry.

I think we should consider expanding the tour schedule. Diane pulled out her phone, swiping up. Maybe add Wednesday evenings— She glanced at the large clock hanging on the wall opposite the furnace. The clock is slow again. Olivia, did you change the battery?

Ember ground her teeth slightly. I’ll take care of it later, Mom. We’re kind of in the middle of something here.

I really don’t mind, Olivia offered, taking a deep breath as she continued to rotate the pipe.

It’s fine, Ember said.

Diane didn’t seem to hear them, still focused on her phone. Did you see the contact form on the website is throwing an error? she said. How long has that been going on?

I don’t know, Mom, Ember said, trying to stay calm, but admittedly doing a poor job of it. I’ll deal with it later.

I’m simply saying that—

Mom, she said sharply. Not. Now.

A crash drew her attention and she whirled to see a tearful Olivia holding a now-bare pipe, a pile of broken shards at her feet.

I’m sorry! Olivia exclaimed. I turned too fast and knocked the table.

Ember sighed, barely keeping from pinching the bridge of her nose. She gave her apprentice what she hoped was a reassuring smile and ignored her mother’s mutterings.

It’s okay, she said. It happens. I can’t count how many of my pieces have ended up in the scrap bucket over the years. Just clean it up and we’ll try again.

At that moment, the door burst open and a man walked in. Tall, blond, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a rumpled suit with the tie slightly askew, he glanced quickly around the room before focusing on Ember. He strode forward with purpose, and she felt a frisson of apprehension run up her spine.

Ember Farrow? he asked, pulling a wallet from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Yes, she replied. Can I help you?

He flipped the wallet open and held it toward her. I’m Agent Calder Ford with the FBI.

A clatter drew all their attention. Olivia had dropped the blow pipe in surprise.

Sorry, she murmured, moving to stand behind Diane.

Ember barely had time to register that the picture on the ID was the same man in front of her before he flipped the wallet closed and put it back into his pocket.

What’s this about? Diane asked, getting to her feet.

Agent Ford ignored her, focused entirely on Ember. I’m going to need you to come with me, he said.

What? Ember shook her head, confused. Why? What’s going on?

"You’re wanted for questioning in connection with a