The Husband I Paid For

She decided, before the sun fully set behind the campanile of San Marco, that she would not wait for him to ask. She would not spend another year in this damp house, breathing in ash and silence, letting the guild count the days like coins on a table. If the contract demanded a husband, she would give him a wife who knew how to burn.

The air in the *bottega* still held the day’s weight, thick with the smell of soda ash and hot sand. Through the open door to the inner room, she saw Brandon. He stood by the *forno*, the great brick belly of the furnace, checking the temperature with a glance that was more instinct than sight. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, hanging loose to reveal the map of old burns and dark muscle across his chest. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a hand that was scarred, knuckles broad and permanently stained with the grit of the craft. He did not look at her. He never did, not really. He looked at the glass, at the fire, at the work that kept them alive.